Chapter 18
Woodrow—aged seventeen
Teena didn’t move, and now that I could, it fucking riled me. I clutched at his wrist, pulling him out from Jolie’s body.
Seeing blood between her legs and the little curls that no one should see, not even me—because she wasn’t fucking ready—made my blood boil, becoming uncomfortable as it traveled through my veins.
I enjoyed the feeling of his skin breaking beneath my short nails. Enjoyed watching him suffering greatly from such a small injury, squirming in my grip, making noises I’d never heard a man make.
I shoved him away, pushing him from the table. I dipped my hands into the full sink. Water rose past my wrists as I washed away any grime of his I may have had on me.
“I don’t need a fucking audience!” I snapped, knowing they’d grant no privacy.
“No, just supervisors.” My father’s face was smug, asking for a fist to drive straight into it.
I ignored him, saving my energy.
My stare landed on the man—whatever his fucking name was—holding her down.
I didn’t recognize him. Unlike the scum he traveled with, he hadn’t been here before.
I didn’t have to ask him to step back, he did it with raised hands, retreating to a corner.
The look in my eye wasn’t the reason for his agreement.
But the knife in my hand swayed his motives. Fucking coward.
I shifted back to the table, half tempted to drive the blade through my father’s chest, Sylvia’s throat, and every part of Teena’s body, starting with the rotting dick that had gotten hard off Jolie’s displeasure.
But I knew I was outnumbered, and the creeps in this room were happy to remind me, by hinting at the outlines of the guns tucked into their pants.
I cut the beloved rosary beads from my wrist, letting them fall to the floor. God couldn’t be with me for what came next.
I put the knife on the table, my hand dwelling above it, flattening it into the wood.
I leaned over Jolie, my entire body hurting with the abuse it had endured today. Abuse, I deserved for what I was about to do.
I descended close enough to smell the scent of her skin, fresh like the daisies outside. I pressed my lips to her ear. I played with her hair, and she nuzzled against my touch, not shying away or loathing it. It was still comfort.
“It’s better that it’s me.” I blinked twice, hoping to convince her. Hoping I had the fucking strength to do this, and hoping that she wouldn’t hate me for it. “I’m so sorry, but it’s better that it’s me.”
This time, she was the one blinking.
I placed a single kiss on her wet cheek, the table abused the other.
Fuck, I hated seeing her like this.
My legs almost gave out, as thoughts began speeding around my mixed-up brain.
Can I do this?
Will I be able to live with myself?
I didn’t have those answers, and deep down, I knew the possibility of me living up to the horror my father wanted Jolie to face was slim. . . and then what?
They’d hurt her anyway.
A single tear dropped from my face to hers.
“I love you, Woodrow. I love you,” she stuttered, causing my heart to do the same.
More of my tears fell on her.
“Hopefully, you’ll still love me tomorrow.”
“I will.” She smiled, but it was sad. Sad enough to break my crippled heart. “Always.”
And I almost found myself backing out. The only thing dragging me back was the idea of someone else doing worse.
“Me, too. Always. You’re mine, and not in the way he says. You’re just mine.”
She nodded, accepting my words and the awful situation.
My father dragged me up by my collar, granting a warning, “Enough. That kind of talk isn’t getting anything wet but your eyes.”
He let go, and I stepped back, stumbling out of my clothes, feeling too exposed under watchful glares. I didn’t look away from Jolie, from the way her body trembled, to the way her touch replaced my phantom caress in her hair.
“No wonder you thought he’d be good for this.” Sylvia snorted, his eyes on my cock.
I ignored him, too. Kicking off my shoes, pants, and underwear.
Back at the table, I wrapped my fingers around Jolie’s wrists. I didn’t want anyone else dragging them above her head or to her sides, holding her down for me to violate, touching her during this moment.
“Keep these here,” I requested.
I placed her hands behind her back, arching her body on the wood. I kept her floral dress low, hiding her modesty.
I eyed the cross on the floor, broken and ruined, like so many other things would be today. My hands traced her legs, stopping at her ankles. Her bare feet were cold, toes curling with dread as silent tears continued to fall.
“Remember how this should be. She’s no different from any other whore.” My father moved closer.
He was wrong. She was a victim.
And I was a monster.
My fingers tightened, and I schlepped Jolie’s body down the table. She let out a whimper, the wood burning her exposed flesh. I pulled her fast and hard, not wanting her near my father, who was standing way too fucking close.
“Don’t feel bad about hurting her, she wouldn’t—”
“Shut. Up,” I warned, my eyes scouting out my father, leaving Jolie for only a second. “I don’t want to hear it.”
I took my cock in my hand, hating that I had to touch myself in front of these people. But I wasn’t fucking hard, and I couldn’t get hard, even as I pumped myself.
I closed my eyes, envisioning Jolie in a totally different position. Bent between my legs like she was last night.
But I was still fucking flaccid.
Frustration was growing on me, making my awareness of the situation raise with each passing second.
I kept my eyes closed. Picturing her on me. Picturing me with her. Touching, kissing, caressing.
But images weren’t enough. My fingers moved up her leg, trailing her soft skin.
I stretched over to reach her pussy, my fingers dipping between her folds. She wasn’t excited—hating every minute of this, like me. But it wasn’t long after I touched her that my fingers became wet.
Her breathing picked up, my own, too.
My body twitched. I feared what was coming, but I’d felt this way all day, and I was still at the front. Still in control.
I blinked slowly, confusion clouding my vision, my senses, and abilities. I felt like I was zoning out, my memory slipping away. My body stiffened, trying to focus on what I was doing while I still had any sense of it.
Pumping myself again, my other hand moved to her clit, and I pinched.
Everything went black. I forced my eyes to open.
“No,” I mumbled to myself—to someone inside myself.
I didn’t want him here. I didn’t want the extra trauma he’d bring to Jolie, even if he’d spare me.
Which he would. He’d do this for me. Step to the front and take over. So, I wouldn’t be the one to hurt her.
Removing my fingers, she was wet enough now. I couldn’t delay this further, or I wouldn’t be the one to do this.
Tears rolled from my eyes as I lined up my hips with hers, pressing the tip of my cock to her opening.
“Do what you have to,” Jolie responded to the quickening of my breath. “You can’t save me right now. Save yourself.”
“Shut up, whore!” Her talking was all it took for my father to wrap his fist around her hair and use it to direct her face into the table with a violet slam. And that was what it took for me to finally fucking snap.
A silent thought moved around my head, I need her to be safe.
And then, there was nothing.
Hell
My body stiffened; memories of the situation disappeared instantly. I had no idea what Woodrow had been doing to be standing naked in the kitchen with a fucking audience of men.
I looked over to my father, standing with his hands in my gift’s hair. And I heard a voice, so similar to mine, whisper, “I need her to be safe.”
“Who said you could fucking touch her?” fury barrelled through my mouth.
I listened to her gasp of relief, finding it cute that she believed my words were in her best interests. Maybe in a way, they were. But a lot of it was pure fucking jealousy. No one should touch, breathe near or even fucking look at what belonged to me. It ignited rage. Made me feel fucking evil.
“I’m doing it for you, Son.”
Here he was—the perfect father—trying to get into my head, again.
“I’m helping you.”
“No,” I said, barely thinking it over. “This is a one-man job.”
Sniggers darted ‘round the room. Unwarranted comments over the fact that I, myself, wasn’t one man.
All mouths shut as I gripped the handle of the blade.
“I understand that. Do you know why we’re doing this?”
“To release my frustrations?” I questioned sardonically.
“No. That wasn’t my authentic reason. I wanted you to get your own back. I know you remember. . .”
I did. I remembered what Woodrow wouldn’t allow to exist in his memories, forcing them to exist only in mine.
I remembered my coming to existence, through the grief of confusion from a small child, who didn’t understand the way a strange woman was touching him. Didn’t understand why his mother—our mother—not only stood there and watched but got off on it. The woman was fucking broken.
And I’d inherited that quality.
“It can feel good for you, or good for her. Not both.”
“He’s lying to you,” Jolie spoke before her head was slammed into the wood. She kept her groan concealed.
But she was right. . . he was lying to me.
“I’m trying to help you, Son. I’m subduing her for you. I protected you last time. You think I hate you, that’s not true. I killed that girl for you. I’d do the same to this one, but why bother if you can enjoy her? Use her to heal.”
“He’s trying to get into your head!”
“Shut up.” I didn’t want to hear Jolie talk. I wanted to see what other bullshit my father would sprout.
“Don’t let him control your mind. He’s trying to worm his way in there because he knows he can’t control your body. He’s playing you!”