I pull Raven up to his feet, swing him around and wrap my hands around him so that his back is pressed to me. At first he makes a half-surprised, half-pleased sound, and rubs against me, but as I begin to drag him towards the door, he realizes my intentions and begins to struggle. He tries to unclench my fingers and digs his heels into the floor, but I make it to the door and open it with my elbow.

"Let go," he hisses once we're in the corridor.

"Shut up," I whisper.

"What are you doing?" he whispers back. It’s almost funny how we keep our voices down and our struggle as quiet as possible, both of us unwilling to wake Catherine up, although for different reasons. He doesn’t want to face the consequences of his actions, while I just want to save her the heartache of finding out the boy she hoped was on his way to recovery is secretly taking drugs. As ridiculous as her trust in people is, I don’t have the heart to let her go through such a disappointment.

Despite his resistance, I drag him all the way to the bathroom which is thankfully situated in the farthest end of the corridor from Catherine's room. I kick the door open and push him in, then turn on the light and lock the door behind us.

"What the hell are you doing?" He whirls around and faces me, his hands on his hips. He is wearing only his boxers, just like me. So much for Catherine's attempts to make him—or me, for that matter—sleep in pajamas.

It's strange to see him without his make-up. He must have washed if off before going to bed. His face seems more open and vulnerable this way, but his drug-affected eyes with their dilated pupils still give him a crazy look.

"Get into the tub," I say, walking past him and opening the tap.

"What?" That's all he has time say before I grab him again and throw him over the edge of the bathtub. He lands with a thud and hisses in pain.

"Shit, my elbow! James, what the…oh shit, it's cold!"

"Sure, it's cold." I point the shower head at him. He gasps and tries to get to his feet, but slips repeatedly, grabbing at the sides of the tub, turning his face away from the stream. Whatever he has taken, it seems to have made him fairly disoriented. He ends up cowering in the corner of the bathtub, hiding his face in his hands.

"Stop it!" His voice comes out muffled.

"Not yet," I say, spraying the water up and down his body.

"It won't help! This stuff won’t get out of my system because of cold water!"

"It will clear up your head," I say. "And it will help with that 'feeling horny as fuck' problem."

He moans something indistinguishable. I reach out and turn the water off. Slowly, he removes his hands and gives me a spiteful look. Strands of dripping black hair stick to his cheeks and forehead.

"Don’t get up just yet." I gesture at him with the shower head. "You'll sit there and think about your behavior until you're better."

"G-great," he says, shaking. "D-do you always t-torture the foster children you took in?"

"Nope, only you." I grab a towel from the rack. "But you can complain to Catherine tomorrow, if you want. Don't forget to mention the drugs you took. What was it, by the way?" I throw the towel at him.

"N-none of your business." He catches the towel and begins to rub himself dry, shaking violently. I lean with my back on the sink and watch him as he wraps the towel around his shoulders.

"May I get out now?"

"Not just yet," I say. "Still horny?"

"I hate you," he says.

I chuckle. "Yeah, that was good. Is that what you did in all of your foster homes? Climbed into people's beds and begged them to fuck you?" Then, another thought strikes me. "That guy, that foster father they say have molested you—is that what you did to him?"

He scowls at me. "Good old Morgan? Nope, I was subtler with him." He hugs his knees to his chest under the towel. "He was just such a sad type. A middle aged teacher, wife busy with children, ignoring him completely, no fun, no fucks. Boring. And then there I was, smiling, flirting, wagging my butt around the house."

I frown. "He didn't molest you. You've seduced him."

He shrugs. "From the law's point of view, my behavior was irrelevant. He was an adult, I was a vulnerable minor in his care. I didn’t force him to do anything. He could have kept his dick to himself." He hums thoughtfully. "Perhaps it was still worth it for him. He had more fun with me than he had in his whole life."

"You're disgusting."

He gives me a smug half-smile. "I still gave you a hard on."

"It wasn’t you. I had a dream about a girl before you came."

"You still had a hard on when you realized it was me." He grins. "You liked me."

"I don’t like anything about you."

"Even better," he says. "You hate me but can’t get rid of me—isn’t it going to be fun?"