by Lana Sky
He brews a storm inside me, too fierce for a weak rib cage and paper flesh to contain. With a cry, something breaks free, spills out.
I’m a puddle of gasoline.
He’s a lit match…
Until he wrenches himself free, leaving me on the edge of igniting: tense limbs and rigid muscles.
Through a heavy-lidded gaze, I watch him palm his cock. His fingers grip the shaft, stroking until they find a steady rhythm that has him rocking against a quickly tightening fist. Only when he starts to groan does he finally look down, meeting my gaze. Then it’s over. Hot spurts of scalding liquid lash my stomach. My chest heaves as my body registers the substance for what it is: his release.
He stands, shaking some of it from his hands. Then he turns on his heel and leaves, slamming the door behind him.
Fifteen
God, I need it to have been a dream. A nightmare. I pray for that reality with every fiber of my soul. But no amount of whispered words ease the wetness between my legs or the throbbing burn inside me.
“I own you now,” he told me. “I fucking own you.”
His possession is a chain, wrapped around my throat, tugging and pulling at his discretion. No matter how tight it becomes, he’ll never cut my air off completely. All the better to watch me struggle not to choke.
I don’t know how long I stay in bed before I force myself from twisted sheets and into the shower. Beneath the scalding spray, I scrub between my legs, watching the water run red. The moment I feel some semblance of cleanliness, a knock jars the door.
“Where the hell is my breakfast?” He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t even sound angry—just resigned: a master rattling off orders to his slave.
“I-I’m coming.”
I wait until his steps retreat beyond my bedroom before I climb onto a towel and wipe myself dry. The thought of being naked now has me considering wasting the day, hiding in here for as long as I can. Pale skin reveals too many secrets. Reddened fingerprints on my breasts, handprints on my thighs. Swollen lips, bitten and flushed.
I cringe at who I find looking at me in the mirror. Wild brown hair, haunted blue eyes. The strangest thing of all? Blake Lorenz called her beautiful.
I shiver at the memory as I creep into my bedroom. My eyes go to the rack as my growling stomach takes its cue to grumble at full force. One of them must fit.
Then I see it. Spread across the least rumpled section of my bed is a shift dress like the kind I wore in grade school. In fact…
I tiptoe closer, surprised to find the same worn badge Mama herself sewed onto my sleeve years ago. It still fits, hanging so much looser on my frame than it did back then, a shapeless mass of gray fabric with starched white sleeves and a round collar. It’s only once I’m fully dressed that I allow myself to process what this simple gesture means: He doesn’t want me naked, either.
My feet, however, are another matter, it seems. I don’t find any shoes or even socks to match my outfit, which forces me to tread barefoot down to the kitchen.
I cook the same breakfast I did the other day. This time, I have better luck with brewing actual coffee and creating a mixture of egg and toast a few shades lighter than char black. Like before, I find him in the study, hunched over the desk, papers spread before him.
“Put it there,” he commands, gesturing to the corner of the desk.
I obey, setting the tray down after creeping as close to him as I dare. Then I turn on the balls of my feet, intending to scurry out of sight.
“Wait.” A thud echoes, the result of a book being slammed down, and he turns, meeting my gaze from over his shoulder. A shiver wracks my spine at what I find. A cold mask has replaced the tension from last night, making him impossible to decipher. “Read,” he says before turning to his paperwork again.
Read. It’s my book he placed on the desk’s farthest edge, its battered cover catching the faint daylight. Too soon. The reminder of Brandt strikes a deep, crushing wound. My eyes blink rapidly as my breathing deepens. Somehow, I regain control.
Ignoring his untouched breakfast, I circle the desk without facing him. I fixate on the beautiful day unfolding beyond one of the windows as I perch myself on the desk’s very edge. When the scratching of a pen over paper picks up, I grab the book and deliberately open it to a different page than before: the story of Cinderella.
He says nothing as I read aloud. In this study, the whimsical words of a fairy tale clash with dark paneled walls and Papa’s clinical furniture. Cinderella’s tale is as out of place here as War and Peace being read at one of our flashy Hollings galas. But he listens as my voice breaks, and I stutter words. He’s testing me.
Finally, I finish, cradling the book against my lap. I don’t dare ask to keep it. Eventually, the shuffling of papers cuts the silence.
“You can leave.”
I’m already in the hall when he calls after me.
“Lunch at twelve. Coffee and toast. Bring it to the boathouse.”
The boathouse. “Okay,” I croak without revealing a hint of the significance that place holds for me. Or maybe I do; it’s all in my tone of voice. Hollow.
Alone, I return to my room, my mind spinning. None of his clothing fits, even now. Will he test me later?
Leaving my shift on a hanger, I run and stretch until sweat mists my skin, and in the grueling exertion, I can almost overlook the twinge in my core whenever I bend too quickly.
Until I can’t anymore.
Blake Lorenz kept his promise. He broke me open. He got his money’s worth.
But will I ever see a dime? One year was his demand, and some deep-seated part of me questions that timeline. A few days have been an ordeal. Now, I understand his phrasing: if you survive.
Pacing my room is my only hope of distraction. Beneath my panting breaths, I notice an oddity that takes minutes to register: silence from below. There’s no one in Papa’s study.
My steps falter as a dangerous plan unfurls in my mind. Do I dare?
Biting my lower lip, I shimmy into my shift without letting myself decide on an answer. Minutes later, I’m inching down the secluded hallway off the foyer, straining my ears for any hint of Blake Lorenz lurking in the shadows.
My nerves lurch at every creak of wood and thud of my footfall, but I reach the study unmolested. Then I linger in the doorway, trying desperately to rationalize the act. Considering that this is my home and my father’s study, entering this room can’t be considered trespassing. Not even when it reeks of masculine strength and the scent of the forest.
His smell alone acts as an invisible barrier, keeping me out no matter how many steps I attempt to take. The only way to counter him is to hold my breath and scuttle for the desk. My shaking fingers latch onto the topmost drawer and wrench it open. Pages unfold, a neat stack of blank parchment. I try another drawer and find pens organized in neat rows. The remaining one contains the only item of interest: a book, small and leather-bound. But it isn’t mine. A peek beneath the cover reveals that the pages are handwritten. A journal?
Or a ledger.
I tuck the knowledge away inside myself as I replace everything. After returning to my room, I linger until the relentless march of the clock forces me into the kitchen.
Lunch for Blake Lorenz is a drab affair of not-nearly-burnt toast and lukewarm coffee. I arrange the meager offerings on a tray and balance it carefully as I head down the back hallway toward the gardens.
Our estate boasts a waterfront feature Mama always touted: a small, private lake with its own dock and detached boathouse. It lies paces from the main house, nestled amongst a small thicket of trees. The house itself is a one-story brick structure draped in creeping ivy and what Mama called rustic charm. The gentle waters of the lake form a fitting backdrop.
The farther I travel down the stone path, the more my stomach churns. Nostalgia is a bitter pill to swallow in this context. Next to Papa’s study, it was my safest hiding place. Our hiding place and retreat from the rest of the world.
The Lloyd Estate once claimed the other side of these waters, but I always found the youngest member here, curled up on the windowsill with his nose in a book and a can of soda propped between his legs. Somehow, he could sense me coming a mile away, no matter how engrossed he was or how much I aimed for stealth. He always knew the exact moment to lift his head, meeting my gaze through the windowpanes. A simple shrug would be his greeting, the only invitation I ever needed to join him.
For ten years, that sill has gone unclaimed.
Until now. Déjà vu descends as I spot the figure hunched in Brandt’s old place.
The last time I ever saw him here, I was alarmed. A purple bruise covered his right eye, and his lip had been split.
“It’s nothing,” he insisted when I’d demanded an explanation. But that wasn’t the first time I’d found him sporting a bruise of some kind, and he never had to tell me the cause.
That day sticks out now for only one reason. He looked so hopeful then, even bloodied and battered. I worried about his father coming after him, but he shook his head and laughed at my concern.
“Father?” He smiled then, taking my breath away, along with my common sense. “No… That bastard’s no father. He’s no father.”
He seemed so happy despite the morbid statement, and like a fool, I was swept away by the sheer presence of his joy. It was infectious in those days.
His happiness was my poison.
It tempted me to commit a foolish act that ruined everything.
A sudden noise snaps me to the present. I look up and find Blake Lorenz, still hunched before the window. He’s consumed by something in his hands, manipulating it as I mount the small, wooden porch. He doesn’t look up to see me.
So I’m forced to knock, carefully balancing my tray on one hand. A grunt is his response, resonating through the old wood.
Inside, I find that the main house isn’t the only interior he sought to change. My father used this place for storage, keeping old boating equipment and spare toys my brothers and I had outgrown. Empty bookshelves. A pool table. Tons of Hunter’s old exercise equipment. Only the latter remains, strewn across an otherwise empty room at random intervals. A few pieces of equipment I don’t recognize and must be his own: more dumbbells than Hunter could ever amass during his short stint playing rugby.
Blake Lorenz himself is already hard at work with one of the formidable metal weights, crouched near the window, flexing his forearm back and forth, the heavy weight in hand.
“Put it down,” he says, nodding toward a small, wooden table strewn with newspapers and a glistening water bottle.
Instinct tells me to leave the moment I set the tray down as requested. Memory, however, keeps me rooted.
God, this place even smells the same beneath the newer stench of crisp sweat. Like secrets, and spilled soft drinks, and loose bits of popcorn the maids hadn’t bothered to clean up. This was one of the few places we could truly be alone. Be ourselves.
It’s like being inside a crypt, only the body’s missing, desecrated long ago. Just dust and pain remain, cloying in my lungs.
“You can go,” Blake says. He never stopped his workout, but he’s no less intimidating from this angle than he can seem when towering over me. Yellow sunlight spills over his dark hair, highlighting the ridge of muscle straining against his gray tee shirt and black sweatpants.
“Brandt…”
He stiffens, his knuckles cracking ominously as his grip tightens over the weight.
“Did you know him?”
No response, not that his silence can keep my curiosity at bay. Or my stupidity.
“If you did—did he ever talk about this place?” I add in a rush. Though why? Maybe the masochistic pain mentioning that name out loud brings is what I need to distract from everything else. This tiny room is too damn enclosed, but the manor seems so far away. I close my eyes, and for a split second, I remember the old days. How it felt to be safe, and happy, and…loved?
“No.” A callous tone cuts into my fantasy, leaving a bitter sting. “He didn’t mention this house. He barely mentioned you. In fact…”
The dumbbell lands with a thud as he stands, rubbing his hands together to brush the sweat off them. Cold blue eyes meet mine without flinching. It’s as if last night never happened.
“The only time he ever mentioned you was out of pity, to be honest. The chubby, awkward little liar who ruined his life. Though,” he adds, heedless of how I flinched, my eyes welling. His footsteps rattle the old structure to its foundation, jolting me onto the balls of my feet. “There was one thing he did say. That you had a silly, pathetic crush on him. Like a lost, little puppy. You even kissed him once, I think. Hmm? You threw yourself at him, a stupid whore, even then.”
Hot fingers trace a path down my cheek and pull away wet with tears. He chuckles at the sight and rubs the moisture between his fingers.
“Your emotions sure are fickle, Snow,” he murmurs. “Tell me, were you really so fucking wet for my cock, or was it the blood?”
Slapped. That’s what it feels like. I stagger back, almost wishing he had struck me. At least I’d have an injury to nurse. But this… Old agony rips me open, yet there’s no way to staunch the bleeding.
“S-stop—”
“You want to know what Brandt Lloyd thought of you?” He cups my chin, forcing my face mere inches from his. Hot breath scalds my jaw and creeps between my parted lips. “You disgusted him. But it wasn’t because you were fat, or pathetic—oh no you don’t.” He tightens his grip when I try to turn away, forcing me to meet his gaze. “He hated you because, underneath the repulsive exterior, you were nothing inside. Just a hollow, little whore.”
Tears fall, impossible to hide as he lets me go, but I don’t even try to wipe them away. There’s no point in hiding the pain.
It’s what he craves.
“Shhh,” he murmurs, running his fingers along my jaw. His sneer rips any kindness away from the gesture. Instead, an empty gaze swallows me whole, feeding off the shuddering gasps that rip from me. “You think it hurts me to see you like this, Snow? Oh, no.” He brings his hand to his mouth, letting his tongue whisk away a glistening tear. At the taste, a grunt rips from his throat. For a split second, his gaze softens and something raw and unreadable peeks beneath the cracks. “You look beautiful only like this. Without that fucking fake bullshit. You can only ever look beautiful like this.” He touches me again, clasping my face in both hands to the point of pain. “I’ll only ever want you when you’re a broken, little shell.”
He frowns at the admission, hating it even as he utters it out loud. He’ll only want me like this: a shell of the woman claimed by Brandt Lloyd. Glowing with renewed interest, his gaze flicks over me, narrowing at the sight of my shift. He fingers it as if realizing I’m wearing it for the first time, trailing his thumb along the worn collar and brushing the crest of East Mayfield Prep. Then a scowl replaces the hate and my stomach tenses in foreboding.
“Take off the dress,” he tells me, hissing the words between us.
My limbs contort woodenly, working to bunch the material at my waist and lift it over my head. The moment I do, he snatches the dress from me and throws it onto the floor.
“Fuck.”
The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end at the heat in his tone. It’s like gasoline being dripped over an open fire, crackling to life.
His gaze roves me shamelessly before settling between my legs. “I did this,” he says, running his hand along my thigh, ignoring how I jump at the coarse contact. Something pink streaks his fingers as he pulls them away. Seeing it, he groans, shuddering with the force of a ragged inhale. “I fucking did this. I own you. Can you feel it?” Bloodied fingers grip my chin, forcing my head back, leaving my gaze in the prime position for him to meet it and pierce through me. “I fucking own you. No one else can take from you what I just did.”
A cry catches in my throat. Another hand finds its way between my legs, brushing my sore flesh. Something enters m
e: his thumb? So big… He splits me open, relishing the way I groan through clenched teeth.
“Fuck, it’s like your entire goddamn body knows it,” he bites out, sounding pained. His hand thrusts, sliding that penetrating digit deeper. Too deep.
“H-hurts,” I hear myself whisper.
Sighing, he brings his face close to mine, resting his cheek against the bridge of my nose with surprising gentleness. He lets the contact linger for a terrifying second, holding my chin captive all the while. As he pulls back, his finger slides again, twisting inside me.
“It should hurt.” Harsher thrust. I can’t smother a high-pitched whine. Too sharp. “It should fucking burn. I split you open.” He’s breathing raggedly now, dragging me closer so that his knee can occupy the space against my core as his hand withdraws. “I came twice in my fucking fist last night, remembering how you bled all over me…”
My eyes shut against the admission, but nothing can block out the twisted imagery: him hunched over in some shadowed room, pleasuring himself to my pain. Cursing my name, even as his seed floods from him. It’s disgusting. It’s…
“I loved knowing that I hurt you,” he tells me, slicing into my thoughts. “But I’m not the sick one. You are. Why? Because you’re already so goddamn wet.” He rubs me with his knee, creating dangerous friction. “You’re seeping through my fucking pants, and I’ve barely even touched you.”
He must hate that fact, because he shoves me back so suddenly that I stagger into the wall.
“Get on your knees.”
I drop down without a second thought, chafing my flesh against old wood as he paces the length of the floor just beyond my reach. Tense, I watch his shadow flicker, his hand ever moving, tearing through his hair. He’s contemplating. Talking himself out of something. Or into it. Whatever his final decision, my heart stutters with dread when he finally directs his attention to me again.
“Get up.”
I’m halfway upright when his hand falls over my shoulder and shoves me right back down.
