"Why...?"
She wrapped both arms around her body as she lay on the bed, curling into a ball with her knees drawn to her chest, her body folded into the position of a fetus in the womb. Ever since then, the disgust had not stopped. It was as though her entire being was rejecting the fact that Djibril had touched her. The nausea seeped into her bones, ran through her veins, and circulated through her body with every heartbeat. She fiercely rubbed her hair—the strand Djibril had touched—trying to scrub away that sensation.
To repeat, Flay had absolutely not willingly allowed Djibril to do as he pleased.
If she could, she wanted not merely to push him away, but to physically make that disgusting face even more twisted with her own hands. She wanted to rake her nails across that face that always wore a false smile and break that man's nose beneath her fist.
The disgust and impulse she had suppressed with reason could no longer be contained the instant she recalled that voice. That voice was like some kind of catalyst, detonating all the revulsion she had accumulated over the past few months.
The phenomenon itself was certainly strange, but there was something else Flay found even more questionable.
Now, Flay felt no disgust toward this phenomenon. Having her will and choices twisted by someone else should have been an unbearable humiliation, a disgrace she could never permit. Her hands clenched into fists beneath the covers. For revenge, Flay had chosen to follow Djibril, deciding that so long as he did not cross the line she had set for herself, she would let him manipulate her.
That choice had been twisted by the voice of the Unicorn's pilot—yet Flay felt no disgust over it. If anything, she felt