Chapter 14
My wrists burn and bloody gashes from the rope ring them like cuffs.
“Stupid fucker,” I mutter, jamming more clothes into my suitcase. The shitty apartment is a wreck—clothes, wrappers, open drawers, everything scattered from my frantic attempt to pack fast and vanish faster.
I swipe at my face, then wipe my hands on my jeans, scanning the floor again.
Still no sign of my father's burner phone. Shit. It’s probably buried under a pile of laundry I dig through a few shirts, halfheartedly—time to get the hell out of New Orleans.
I never should’ve come back. Getting this close to home was a mistake.
Just thinking the word home burns. Tears sting, but I blink them back and force another hoodie into the bag. As soon as I’ve got everything, I’m gone. The cash I got from selling that bastard’s truck and guns will be enough to disappear. Again.
My phone pings. Another text from Roxy. I ignore it.
A heavy and familiar ache lingers in my chest. I won’t tell her goodbye. I’ve never said goodbye to anyone, and I’m sure as hell not starting now.
This is why it’s better to be alone.
I sink into the old sofa. My body screams in protest—every inch bruised, stitched, broken, or worse. In the past few weeks, I’ve been shot, stabbed, dragged, assaulted… used.
I press my palms to my eyes, trying to scrape the memory of him out of my skull.
That arrogant, sadistic piece of shit.
I still can’t believe I came for him. The humiliation is a slow, burning crawl under my skin.
Rage and shame are easier to swallow. But the guilt…that’s the part that chokes.
Come for me.
I grab my phone, gripping it so tight my knuckles ache.
That voice, deep and commanding.
It won’t leave. No matter how hard I try to silence it, it slithers back in, curling around my spine. And with it—my body. Remembering. Bucking. Shaking. Climaxing.
For him.
A broken sob tries to claw up my throat, but I bite it back. I didn’t want it. I didn’t want him. But I came anyway. I came so hard I saw stars. I moaned. I liked it.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
Turning my phone over, I type slowly, hesitating before hitting enter.
Why do I like forced sex? Why did I enjoy being used? Am I messed up?
The results load too fast.
My eyes scan the screen, hundreds of articles, blogs, and discussions. Words leap out at me: fantasy, trauma response, control, CNC, consensual non-consent.
I tap on one. Then another. But every answer feels hollow. Neat little boxes explaining away something that doesn’t feel right. It doesn’t feel like a kink. It feels like I’ve been gutted.
My fingers tremble as I scroll until I see the words:
“It’s not about wanting to be hurt. It’s about surrendering without guilt. About letting go of control in a world that demands you hold onto it.”
I throw my phone across the room.
No. No. That’s not me.
I don’t want to be used. I’m not some sick masochist who gets off on being degraded, humiliated, and manhandled. Treated like a fucking toy. I don’t want to surrender.
But my body did.
And that’s worse.
I pull my knees to my chest. My leg aches, the stitches on my thigh pulling. A reminder of just how fucked up all of this is. His voice echoes again. I’ll split you in two.
He’s a monster.
And yet…my pulse still kicks when I think of his mouth on my throat, his hand between my legs, his cock sliding against my body.
I claw at my skin, wishing I could peel away the memory. Wishing I could scrape his touch off my body.
But it’s not going anywhere.
Because the sickest part of all of this…I still want to know what it would feel like again.
I lean my head back against the couch, tears streaming down my cheeks, a slow, pulsing ache between my thighs. Closing my eyes, I try to disappear into the silence. Into the past few weeks. Into nothing.
The floorboards creak, jolting me awake.
My eyes snap open.
I lunge for my knife. Gone.
“You sleep like someone who doesn’t value their life.”
I whip around. He’s nothing but shadow at first. A dark shape in the windowsill, the curtain fluttering around him, city neon bleeding through the cracks.
“Planning a little trip?” He flips my knife between his fingers. His gaze drops to the half-zipped bags on the floor.
My stomach twists. The scream lodges halfway up my throat before his weight slams into me.
“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”
I hit the wall hard, his body crushing mine, the air torn from my lungs. I claw at him, panic screaming through every nerve.
“Let go of me! I’m leaving!” I thrash.
His arms tighten around my waist as he lifts me clean off the ground and hauls me down the hall. I twist, kick, bite. Nothing slows him.
“Stop fighting,” he snaps, dragging me into the bedroom. “You’ll hurt yourself. And I want to be the one to hurt you.”
He throws me onto the bed.
I scramble across the mattress for my gun—gone. He’s already cleared the room. Of course he fucking has.
“You had a lot of firepower for a bartender. What else are you lying about?”
I press against the headboard, trembling as he steps closer, a rope coiled in one hand.
“Get the hell away from me!”
I lash out, one solid kick to his chest. He barely staggers. His hand finds my throat, slamming me flat, and in seconds he’s got my wrists bound and tied to the headboard.
“You just want me to hurt you,” he snarls, yanking the knots tighter. “That’s what gets you wet, right?”
“Fuck you.” I thrash beneath him.
He straddles my hips, pinning me with his massive body and unnatural strength. “There she is. My little fighter.”
The knife flashes—a single clean slice through my shirt, then my bra. Cold air kisses my bare skin. He stares, then grabs a breast in one rough hand, squeezing until I gasp.
“You fucking bastard—”
I try to buck him off, but he leans in and bites my throat—hard. I cry out, tears flooding my vision.
“Why are you doing this?” I rasp.
He presses the flat of the blade between my breasts. “Because I can.”
The knife drags lower until he’s unfastening my jeans, and then the blade is slicing them open, peeling everything away. He spreads my thighs and presses the metal between them, laying it flat against my pussy.
“You’re wet already. Pathetic.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
Chuckling, he drags his mouth over my chest. Tongue swirling over my nipple before he bites me. I moan without meaning to. Hating myself instantly.
He shifts against me, his cock hard and heavy through his pants. “I’ve been thinking about you.” I turn my face away, but my body burns anyway. “Thinking about ruining this cunt.”
Flipping me onto my stomach, he yanks me down by the hips and shoves my knees under me.
“Priest—”
He grips my hair and wrenches my head back. “You’re going to remember every second of this. For the rest of your fucking miserable life.”
My face is shoved into the mattress.
I hear the belt. The zipper. My heart stops.
His cock presses against my slit. He rocks his hips, dragging it through my slickness, spreading me open.
I squeeze my thighs together, but it’s no use.
And the worst part?
I’m soaked.
I want to deny it. Want to scream that I don’t want this. That I’m not this fucked-up girl who gets off on being forced. But my body’s already told him the truth. And as he pushes in, splitting me open with a slow, agonizing stretch, I know I’m a fucking liar.
“Fuck, Priest!” she screams as I force myself inside her cunt. Her tight little pussy’s not ready for me. I push her open, making her feel every inch. Every ridge.
My palm flies over her mouth as I near her resistance, my hips jerking as I force myself through her virgin barrier.
Her scream is muffled by my hand. Her body stiffens, and she fights against the pain, her nails digging into her palms, her hips trying to twist away.
But there’s nowhere for her to go. She’s pinned beneath my weight, and I’m not stopping.
She’s mine to use.
I keep thrusting until I’m buried, my balls flush against her thighs, her pussy clamped tight around my cock.
Releasing her mouth, she sucks a half-sobbed breath.
Jesus. She’s fucking tight. Hot. Slick as fuck. Her body shakes, and she takes quick, panting breaths. I pull back and slam. Again. Again. Until the sound of slapping skin fills the room, her cries mixing with my grunts as I fuck her.
Every thrust jolting her forward. Her head thrashes side to side.
“Priest—it hurts!”
I look down at my cock, and smile. Her blood is smeared on my cock, and there’s nothing more fucking beautiful.
“Then fucking cry.” I grunt, driving into her again, my fingers curling over her hips. “Bleed for me.”
Her body tenses, and I know I’m rubbing against her swollen g-spot, her body betraying her as the arousal slicks the way.
I groan, my head rolling back, the pressure of release already building.
Doesn’t matter how soon I come, I’m not stopping until she’s fucking broken.
I grab her ponytail and yank her back. Her body arches painfully, her spine bowing beneath the pressure of my thrusts. I keep her there—locked, exposed—while I fuck her harder. The pain forces her face to screw up, and she screams in agony. Her thighs trembling, her breath catching on every stroke.
And then—
Her body spasms. Her pussy grips me.
I don’t even touch her clit, and she comes like a goddamn whore.
I laugh. “Didn’t even need my hands. Look at you—fucking coming for me.”
“Fuck you, I didn’t want to.”
“Such a filthy liar.” I slam my hand down on her ass, leaving a red print, then press her face into the mattress. I bend over her, my mouth grazing her neck.
“You hate this, don’t you? Hate how your body gives you away. Your pussy is weeping on my cock.”
She sobs, her voice muffled in the sheets, but I feel her hips twitch—already betraying her again.
I force her head back again, my teeth nipping her throat, my cock swelling as the need to come becomes unbearable. I thrust twice before I bury myself, flooding her with my release.
“No! Don’t come inside me!”