Total pages in book: 45
Estimated words: 41327 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 207(@200wpm)___ 165(@250wpm)___ 138(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 41327 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 207(@200wpm)___ 165(@250wpm)___ 138(@300wpm)
She nods as I withdraw my fingers, taking her hand and pushing her own inside her before lifting her into my arms, carrying her back down the path to the truck, her hand between her legs…smiling.
Nine
Delaney
The realization hits me like a truck as I sit here on the porch swing. All the fantasy and pushing away reality melts away like chocolate in the sunshine.
Every time Jack’s emptied himself deep inside me there’s been no condom. Just all in.
And I've let him. Begged for it, even.
My fingers drift to my stomach. I could be pregnant right now. His seed could be taking root inside me as I sit here. The thought should terrify me—I'm eighteen, broke, running from my past. But instead, a strange warmth spreads through my chest.
Mother. A word I barely remember connecting to anyone. My own disappeared before I had memories to keep. But now...
The wooden porch swing creaks beneath my bare thighs, the morning sun warming my skin. Jack's flannel barely covers me, the scent of him wrapped around me like his arms. I never thought about having children before. Never had a reason to imagine it. But Jack talks about it like it's inevitable, like he's already seen our future written in stone.
I'm wearing nothing but his flannel, the sleeves rolled up six times and still covering my hands. The buttons strain across my chest. A breeze lifts the hem, cooling the wetness between my thighs. Just thinking about him makes me slick.
He's out back, splitting more logs. Each swing of the axe makes the muscles in his back bunch and release. Sweat rolls down his spine in rivulets I want to trace with my tongue. Forty-two and built like the mountain itself—solid, immovable, mine.
My fingers toy with the stuffed wolf he gave me, tracing its singed edges. It's never far from me now, a physical reminder that I belong somewhere. To someone.
He hasn't let me out of his sight for more than minutes since he pulled me from the river.
"Can't be away from you, baby girl," he growled this morning, pressing me against the kitchen counter, his cock already hard against my ass. The way he needs me—constant, consuming—is still something I'm getting used to. I've never been anyone's obsession before.
"I might be carrying his baby," I whisper to myself, testing how the words feel in my mouth. Strange. Terrifying. Wonderful. Jack would be over the fucking moon. He's been talking about filling me up, breeding me, putting his baby in me since the first night. Words that should have sent me running instead make me press my thighs together.
I should be resting. He told me to stay on the porch, drink the tea he made, keep my legs up. Said I looked tired. Too pale. A command wrapped in concern.
Instead, I'm slipping back into the cabin, bare feet silent on the wooden floor, drawn to his laptop like a magnet. It feels wrong, opening it without permission. But I need... something. A connection to the world outside. A reminder that it still exists.
The password he keeps taped to the bottom is a string of numbers and letters that make no sense to me. Military thing, probably. The screen flickers to life, opening to an order form for wood stains. I minimize it, open the browser.
My finger hovers over the Instagram icon before I type my login with shaking hands.
It loads instantly. Red notifications everywhere. Messages I never answered. Tagged photos I never approved.
His name jumps out first. David. Thirty-seven unread messages, timestamps showing he's been sending them daily. The most recent from just hours ago.
I know where you are, Laney. You can't hide forever.
My stomach lurches. I click through to the messages.
You think you can just leave? Take what's mine and run?
Those recordings won't save you, sweetheart. No one will believe you over me.
I've spoken with the hospital board. They're very concerned about your mental state since your father's death.
I found your little mountain man. Jack Boone, right? Discharged Army Ranger with PTSD. I've already spoken to the sheriff about your mental state. I've started legal proceedings to have you placed under my care, Laney. As your doctor, I'm uniquely qualified to manage your "grief-induced psychosis." One call is all it takes.
My blood turns to ice. Photos appear in the thread. My car, abandoned at the bus station. Jack's cabin, taken from the road with a zoom lens. Me on the porch in Jack's shirt, clearly unaware of the camera.
He's been here. Been watching. While I've been safe in Jack's arms, David's been circling, getting closer.
The newest message contains a single attachment. I click, even though every instinct screams not to.
It's me. In the shower. At David's apartment, months ago. I didn't know he was filming. Didn't consent to this violation that he's now weaponizing.