CHAPTER 204: CHAPTER 204: THE PRICE OF MISUNDERSTANDING

~Evric’s POV~

I shifted carefully, moving closer to him. I intended to whisper another apology, to soften him up with affection, but the drug had different plans. As I drew near, my erection, rock-hard and throbbing, brushed against his thigh.

Zayn instantly exploded, flying upright in the bed.

"Don’t even dare!" he spat, his voice sharp with anger. "Don’t come closer to me with that thing of yours touching me!" He looked down at my barely concealed erection with sheer disgust. "Seriously, Evric? That’s all you know how to do? Sex? Didn’t we have sex this morning, and you’re already hard again? Is your brain wired only to function below the belt?"

The insults hit me like physical blows, sinking deep into my weakened state. He didn’t understand the terror, the fight, or the chemicals coursing through my system. All he saw was my ceaseless sexual demand.

"Zayn, please," I managed, the plea shaking. I fought to control my breathing, trying to get past the furious mask he wore and gently tell him my desperate need. "It’s not... It’s not what you think. I need you. Please."

"Need me?" Zayn spat. "Stop your nonsense! Instead of apologizing, you just press that thing against me. All you ever want is to shove yourself inside me!"

The insults were nothing compared to what he did next. He grabbed his phone, a pillow, and a blanket from the foot of the bed, clearly intending to leave the room.

The sight of him walking away, the final, concrete act of rejection, snapped the last thread of my fragile control. I sprang from the bed and reached the door before he could open it, blocking his exit.

"No, you are not going anywhere!" I shouted, the volume of my voice startling even me. "I need you, baby!" I couldn’t articulate the drug-induced panic; all that came out was raw, possessive demand.

"Get out of my way, Evric! I’m done with your controlling jealousy and this constant need for sex!" he yelled back.

I lost it. The drug’s influence, combined with the crushing fear of abandonment, overwhelmed my senses. I grabbed him, pulling him back against the door, and locked it with a sharp click

.

I forced my mouth onto his, desperate to silence the rage and replace it with sensation, but Zayn refused me, struggling and turning his head. I was begging, muttering apologies and pleas against his neck, but he wouldn’t yield.

I scooped him up abruptly and landed him roughly onto the bed, the mattress protesting loudly. Zayn, still believing this was just my normal, overwhelming urge for sex, fought with every ounce of his strength.

I wrestled with the fastenings of his sleepwear, tearing at the buttons of his shirt. "Leave me alone!" he yelled, thrashing beneath me.

I ignored his struggles, driven solely by the primal, chemical necessity to feel his skin against mine. I ripped open his shirt, exposing his chest, and lowered my head, ready to put my mouth on his nipple.

That’s when it happened.

A blinding sting erupted across my cheek, followed by a sharp, cracking sound. Zayn slapped me, hard.

"LEAVE ME ALONE, YOU SEX ADDICT!" he screamed, his voice thick with pure hatred and violation.

That was the end. The single word—addict—cut through the drug haze, the pain of the slap instantly replaced by a devastating, sober humiliation. I stopped dead. I stared at him, my hand instinctively raised to my stinging cheek, my erection collapsing instantly under the shock.

I slowly lifted myself off him, giving him space, defeated beyond measure. The tears returned, hot and heavy, a torrent of guilt and self-loathing.

Zayn didn’t look back. He scrambled off the bed, snatched his pillow, and rushed to unlock the door. He didn’t spare a glance for my ruined, weeping body before he disappeared from the room, leaving me alone in the wreckage of the fight.

The pain from the slap was nothing compared to the devastation of his words: "sex addict."

He hadn’t just insulted me; he had voiced the worst fear that had always lingered in my subconscious. He might have shouted it in anger, but it was clear that the label, the belief that my constant need for him was pathological, was what he truly had in his mind. The thought was a physical weight, pressing the air from my lungs.

The combination of the insult, the chemical-induced sexual agony, and the sheer terror of having almost been violated and now abandoned was too much. I collapsed back onto the bed, the tears that had started in the restroom now becoming deep, gut-wrenching sobs.

I pulled the duvet over my body, seeking darkness and shelter. I curled in on myself, holding my throbbing, chemically rigid cock, a reminder of the very sickness Zayn had just accused me of. The pain of the desire was excruciating, but the emotional pain was worse.

I didn’t try to touch myself to find relief; I just held it, letting the humiliation and the desperate need wash over me until, finally, exhaustion claimed me. I cried myself to sleep, the last coherent thought being that I had lost everything.

~Zayn’s POV~

I slumped onto the sofa downstairs, the quiet of the empty living room amplifying the noise in my head. The raw fury that had propelled me from the room began to drain away, replaced by a hollow, sickening regret.

You sex addict. The words I’d screamed at Evric, cruel and unfiltered, tasted like ash in my mouth. I hated that I’d said them, but how dare he try to force me? Our morning was intense; surely that should have been enough. Why was he always demanding more? Still, the image of his stunned, tear-streaked face after the slap made my stomach clench. He had looked truly wounded.

I spent an hour staring at the ceiling, unable to calm my mind enough to sleep. Eventually, I grabbed my phone, intending to scroll and distract myself.

That was when I noticed the cascade of missed calls and the three urgent texts from Karl, sent two hours earlier. The messages detailed everything: the food delivery, the drug, Nicki’s entry, and my timely arrival.

The words swam before my eyes. Drugs... aphrodisiac... Nicki... attempted violation.

The true, horrifying reality of the scene in the office slammed into me. The manic urgency, the desperation, the hard cock pressing against me, it wasn’t lust for me. It was a chemical terror, a desperate battle for control, and my reaction had only made his ordeal worse. I had mistaken his plea for help as a typical sexual demand, and in response, I had shattered him with the most cutting insult imaginable.

Overwhelming guilt seized me. I jumped up from the sofa, the blanket falling unheeded to the floor.

I rushed back upstairs, my heart pounding in a rhythm of self-condemnation. I found him curled on the bed, buried beneath the duvet.

The sight of his raw, vulnerable state tore at me. Even in the faint light, I could see the distinct, dry tracks of tears streaking his face. He was clutching the blanket tight, his hand visibly clenching himself beneath the fabric. He looked small, defeated, and utterly broken. My eyes immediately welled up, burning with shame.

I climbed onto the bed gently, careful not to jostle him. I reached out a hesitant hand, intending to brush the hair from his forehead, to apologize, to tell him I knew everything, to finally offer the comfort he had begged for.

Just as my fingers made contact with his skin, Evric’s eyes snapped open. They were bloodshot and vacant, reflecting only a deep, wounded emptiness.

He stopped my hand, his grip on my wrist surprisingly firm, yet devoid of passion. He then slowly turned his back to me, pulling the covers higher to shield himself entirely.

"You should sleep, Zayn," he mumbled into the pillow.

It was a rejection colder and heavier than any shout or insult, dismissing me entirely.