Total pages in book: 218
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
I see you, Son. I’ll never stop wanting you.
His hand clamps over my mouth. His weight crushes me. And that sickening part of him, it jabs and tears and invades, and oh, hateful God, it hurts. I hear his husky Good boy on repeat and feel his calloused fingers in places they should never touch.
The shame burns hot, and I curl in tighter, trying to disappear, trying to dissolve. The world fractures. My chest cracks open. Nothing exists but him and his hurt and his hurt and his hurt and his hurt and…
I’m back.
Back in Sitka, crouched under the pier, hunched against the concrete embankment where it meets the water. My arms wrap around my knees, my forehead pressed to my soaked trousers. Rain drips through the cracks above me. My body shakes, from the cold, from the memory, from the haunting pain.
How long have I been here? Minutes? Hours? No one noticed me. No one stopped.
I drag in a breath, shallow and searing, but it’s air. I’m here. Not in the hills. My fingers flex against my pants, proving I exist. I didn’t die. I’m not a child. The pain is old pain. I escaped.
Swiping rain and tears from my face, I swallow down the acid in my throat and push to my feet.
I fucking hate this. Hiding under the dock like a sewer rat. Falling apart where anyone can watch me sob. Pathetic. Broken. I need the island, just until I can patch myself back together and be normal.
As if I know how to be normal.
The pier thrums with bodies, umbrellas stabbing the air, and boots slapping against wet wood. I cut through them too fast, head down, tunnel vision on the yacht. Just a few more steps. Just a few—
A shoulder collides with mine, and a man’s hand clamps on my arm to steady me.
I detonate.
White-hot panic knifes through my stomach, flays away skin and muscle, and exposes the child trapped inside my rib cage. Denver’s hand cinches around my arm. My throat rips open, and a raw, ear-splitting wail spills out before I register that I’m screaming.
I careen sideways, knees cracking against the boards, palms scraping slick planks. People crowd in, hands reaching, voices clanging, too close, too many.
Don’t touch me. Don’t fucking touch me.
Another hand grazes my shoulder, and I lose it, thrashing and kicking and biting at the air.
“Get off me! Get the fuck away!” Spit flies, and rain streaks my face, salt from my tears. My body folds in on itself, wild and shaking, trapped in a nightmare with no exit.
The crowd recoils, their revulsion giving me space to crawl, to shove, to claw my way through legs and umbrellas.
Dragging myself upright, I wheeze, shove out of the shadows, and break into a run. Across the gangway and aboard the yacht, I don’t stop, desperate for the lock of the door and the distance that will put the mainland behind me.
Fading in and out of a mouth-breathing meltdown, I steer into the Sound. My hands shake on the wheel, but I don’t let go. I can’t. If I stop moving, I’ll implode.
Somehow, I manage to hammer out a message to Dove’s security team, instructing them to bring her home when she’s finished. Straight to the island. Tell her I need her now.
My thumb hovers over that last demand. That’s not fair. She doesn’t need my shit. Delete. Send. Done.
As I reach the island, I remember my family is still in Sitka. No witnesses. It’s for the best.
I don’t remember docking or walking to the guest house.
All I remember is Jag.
His name hits like a fist. Jag, the asshole. Jag, the fever-burned sex god, stretched out beneath me. I can’t stop replaying it. Trying to line it up in my head. Line it up with Denver’s hands on me, the way he pinned me and hurt me. And today, Jesus Christ, me on top of Jag, my body betraying me, straddling him like I was the predator. Like I was Denver.
Bile scorches my throat.
Jag didn’t touch me. Didn’t force me. He kept his word. He fucking let me. And that’s worse. That’s what’s killing me. Because it wasn’t him. It was me. My body, my hunger, my sickness clawing to the surface like it never left.
Who’s the villain now?
My chest constricts, breath cutting short, eyes going blurry. I stumble into my bedroom and drop face down on the mattress. My brain slams against the same wall over and over, sparks flying in the cracks.
I gave him a hand job. I made him come. Made us both come. Then I licked up our seed like a depraved, unhinged animal.
And I want to do it again.
“No.” I gnash my teeth. “No, fuck you. That’s not me.”
But it is. I’m fucking hard just thinking about it. Hard and grinding my aching dick against the mattress.