Chapter 26
“Is this your house?” I ask, following Sandman into a spacious foyer.
It smells woodsy inside, like pine with citrus undertones. Sandman closes the front door, then secures the top and bottom locks.
“Zeus’s, but I live here,” he replies, tossing his keys into a bowl centered on a two-tier glass table. A bronze abstract statue is positioned directly below it, and beside it on the floor is a tall houseplant.
“Wh-where are the dogs?” I ask, remembering how the beautiful beasts chased me down in the woods.
He smirks at me. “Backyard.”
Sandman wouldn’t say where he was taking me when we left the bar.
Just ordered me to get on the back of his motorcycle.
I was a nervous wreck on the entire ride, terrified he was going to take me back to the crematorium.
I’m not going to count my blessings just yet, though.
He brought me here for a reason, and that reason, whatever it is, won’t bode well for me.
“Come on.” Sandman saunters through an archway, bypassing the winding staircase.
I scurry after him, the sound of my high heels sharp on the black marble floor. “Where are we going?”
For all I know, he could be planning to keep me prisoner in the basement. I’m not being melodramatic. He would definitely do some fucked up shit like that. If he says basement, I’m making a run for it. Fuck the consequences. I’m not sleeping on a dirty mattress and doing my business in a bucket.
Sandman peers at me over his shoulder. “Kitchen.”
We enter the opulent space, featuring matte black cabinets, stainless-steel appliances, and concrete countertops.
Sandman goes straight to the double glass doors and lets the dogs inside.
I plaster my back against the refrigerator, watching as the rambunctious animals jump all over their master, nearly knocking him to the floor.
They’re almost as tall as he is when standing on their hind legs.
“All right, enough,” he grumbles. “I wasn’t gone that long. Go on and don’t make any messes.”
To my complete horror, their inquisitive gazes zero in on me.
“Sandman,” I call out in alarm as they pad toward me. “Please help.” I’m too scared to move, but to my relief, they don’t attack. Wet noses greet me instead, as they investigate the new human in their domain.
I nervously pat both on the head. “What are their names?”
“That’s Harley on your left, and the other hound is her brother, Mayhem.”
I smile. “They’re not so bad.” When they’re not chasing people through the woods, that is.
“I didn’t bring you here to make friends with my dogs,” Sandman growls at me.
“Why am I here?” I ask him, fearing the answer.
“To bake me a strawberry shortcake,” he announces, sitting at the island. “Everything you need is in the fridge and pantry.”
My eyebrows stretch to my forehead. I expected shouting, violence, even some bloodshed, but not this.
“Extra strawberries and whipped cream,” we say at the same time.
Sandman gives a clipped nod, staring at me with those mesmerizing blue orbs. Anger and lust lurk in their depths. He wants to destroy me just as much as he wants to devour me. It’s a losing battle.
I slip out of my heels and set to work, first washing my hands before preheating the oven and gathering the ingredients.
Flour, baking powder, baking soda, sugar, salt…
To the outside world, strawberry shortcake is simply a sweet indulgence, but for us, it’s much more.
We bonded over the sugary confection on countless nights while ensconced in the tree house.
Ultimately, that universe crumbled to dust and scattered in the wind.
Sandman’s gaze stalks me through the kitchen like a predator—slow, burning, unrelenting.
It coils around me, dragging goose bumps across my skin, lighting every nerve on edge.
My hands tremble as I dump the ingredients into the mixer, the roar of the machine barely drowning out the thud of my pulse.
I keep my eyes down and try to block him out, letting the rhythm of baking pull me in. When the batter’s smooth, I pour it into three buttered pans with unsteady hands, then slide each one into the oven. Even with my back to him, his presence is suffocating. Like the walls are closing in.
A resounding crash rings out, and I whirl around. Sandman is on his feet, barreling straight toward me, the stool he was sitting on toppled over behind him. He locks onto my shoulders and shakes me so hard my head whips back and forth.
“Was it easy for you to walk over my unconscious body?” Sandman thunders, slamming me against the refrigerator.
“My brother had to drag me out of that classroom. I fought him. I really did. Please believe me,” I sob, a hitch in my voice. “I wouldn’t have left you like that. I’m sorry for everything. For lying. Your hearing loss. I hate myself for hurting you.”
He laughs derisively. “Not as much as I do.”
“If I could go back—”
“But you can’t go back! What’s done is done!” Sandman shouts in my face, ripping my dress down the center.
My breasts spill free, rising and falling with each breath.
He seeks out a nipple, suckling my flesh to a taut peak.
Then he licks his way to my other nipple, tongue lashing and teeth nipping.
I hold myself rigid and brace for the pain that’s sure to come.
My thong is destroyed with a sharp tug, then his rough fingers explore my velvet folds.
“You shaved?” Sandman murmurs huskily, straightening above me.
“Meela waxed me,” I answer him, ensnared in his blue irises.
“Keep your pussy just like this,” he orders, raw hunger simmering in his heated gaze.
“Okay,” I whisper, tears leaving glistening paths down my cheeks.
Sandman masterfully strokes the heartbeat between my thighs—firm, teasing, relentless.
My body becomes a furnace, his unwanted touch stoking a fire within me.
A fire that rapidly spreads to my belly and below.
It strengthens, wild and unconstrained, evolving from spark to sweltering blaze in minutes.
I’m almost there… just a little more. He abruptly pulls his hand away, promptly extinguishing the conflagration.
“You don’t get to orgasm tonight,” Sandman sneers and brandishes a lighter. “Tonight, we play a game.”
“W-what game?”
“I’m going to hold the flame close to your pretty brown nipple for ten seconds,” he explains, rubbing the lighter around my areola. “If you can’t handle the heat, just say so, but then you lose.”
“What happens if I lose?” I question, dreading his response.
“Then tomorrow you get liar tattooed here.” Sandman slides his index finger across my throat. “It’s fitting, considering what you did. Wouldn’t you say?” He rolls his thumb down the spark wheel, expelling the flame. “One, two, three…” he counts, pausing between each number.
Though the flame isn’t touching skin, I still feel the burn. I bite down on my bottom lip, attempting to counteract the pain.
Don’t give in, don’t give in, don’t give in.
I can’t let him win… not this game. He counts more slowly, one second equivalent to two. More tears come. I’m on the verge of caving in when he reaches the magic number. The air swooshes from my lungs. I fucking did it.
“Don’t celebrate just yet,” Sandman announces, moving the lighter to my other nipple. “The game isn’t over.”
“What? No,” I say, panicked. “You didn’t say both.”
“That was a test run,” he replies, starting the torture all over again. “The real game begins now.”
Sandman counts even slower, one second now equivalent to three.
There’s no question that he wants me to lose his twisted game.
His dick is rock hard, my suffering giving him sexual gratification.
It’s beyond sick. He’s beyond sick. I wail my agony, the harsh sound reverberating through the kitchen until the game is over.
“See, that wasn’t so bad,” he croons, palming my drenched cheek. “Round two, or do you prefer a different game?”
“Different game,” I choke out.
He smiles and quickly swaps the lighter for the handgun tucked into his waistband at the small of his back.
I inhale a sharp breath. Out of the frying pan and into the fire.
“This is a Smith & Wesson. Zeus gave me this beauty for my birthday last year.”
“What game is this?”
A sinister gleam shines in his cerulean depths. “Russian roulette.”
“No, no, no.” I frantically shake my head from side to side. “I don’t want to play this game.”
“One bullet,” he states, pointing the muzzle against my forehead. “Six chambers.”
Only one bullet… he already had this planned. Sandman pulls the trigger, and I scream hysterically. He’s really going to kill me this time.
“Please stop!”
Click. Again, he pulls the trigger.
“I can’t take it anymore!” I heave, debilitating shudders racking my body. “Please. Mercy.”
“Mercy?” he mocks, a scowl darkening his features. “Sam had mercy, but Sandman is a fucking animal.”
He’s exceptionally methodical in his mental terrorism of me. I feel insane, emotionally drained, and mindfucked to the point of no return.
“Here,” Sandman says, holding out the gun to me. “Take it.”
“W-what?”
This could be a trick. I touch that gun, and who knows what he’ll do.
“This is your chance to get rid of me,” Sandman explains. “Just aim at my heart and shoot.”
“No,” I weep, embracing myself in a tight hug. “I can’t.”
“Take it!” he bellows, shoving the gun into my hand. “Or I’ll splatter your brain all over this goddamn kitchen!”
I wrap my fingers around the handle and level the muzzle at his chest. “Don’t make me do this.”
Despite everything he’s done, I can’t kill him. He’s still Sam deep down inside. Still the abused boy who sought sanctuary in my tree house on that rainy night. My best friend. My protector.
“Pull the fucking trigger, Zilphia!”
I let the gun slip from my fingers. “I can’t.”
He tilts his head, studying me like an insect under a microscope before picking it up and aiming the barrel at my forehead again. “Now you die.”
I clamp my eyes shut and hold my breath, bracing for the end.
The click of the gun pounds through my ears. Empty. I sag against the refrigerator, lightheaded from the adrenaline racing through my bloodstream.
“No bullets.” Sandman opens the cylinder for me to see. “Did you really think I’d give you a loaded weapon to fire at me?” He tsks under his breath. “You disobeyed me and now you have to pay.”
“I’m not a murderer like you!” I cry out, exhausted from his mind games. “You need psychiatric help!”
“Making you bleed is my therapy.” Sandman grasps my chin and lifts my face toward his. “Run.” His eyes bore into mine. “I’ll give you a five-second head start. You make it out the front door before I catch you, and you’re free to go, but if you—”
I bolt out of the kitchen, running as fast as my feet will carry me. Sandman doesn’t wait the five seconds he promised. I hear his pounding footsteps right behind me, but I’m too afraid to look back. With no time to spare, I dart up the staircase instead of making a play for the front door.
“Where you going?” Sandman jeers. “There’s nowhere for you to run.”
I choke down the raw fear clogging my throat, and it settles heavily in my belly. A window is my only chance of escaping. I just need to get to a bedroom. I reach the landing and my heart drops.
Every door in sight is closed. Any one of them could be locked or lead to a linen closet.
I’m caught in either case. My head is violently yanked back, then I’m on the floor, gasping for air.
Sandman looms above me, several passion twists clenched in his fist. He drags me into a bedroom and flings me onto the bed.
“No!” I yell, frantically kicking out at him.
He seizes my ankles and flips me onto my stomach, then his full weight crashes down on me.
“I’m going to fuck this tight little ass hard and fast all night long,” he rasps, pinning my arms above my head with one hand. “There will be no sleep for you.”
“Please don’t.” I weep into the pillow. “I’m so sore.”
I need to heal. Day after day he brutalizes my body, never allowing me a moment’s respite.
“No rest for the wicked,” Sandman whispers in my ear.
I hear the clank of his belt buckle and the hiss of his zipper, then he’s driving into me with battering-ram force. He brings his threat to fruition, relentlessly jackhammering in and out of my rear passage.
The bed shakes and shudders under his ruthless thrusts.
My tears soak the pillowcase, creating a damp circle beneath my cheek.
For Sandman, fucking me isn’t just about achieving orgasm.
It’s about power and control. He needs me to suffer.
My betrayal cut him deep, and he’s reciprocating tenfold, severing me to the marrow.
“Tell me how bad it hurts,” he demands.
“It hurts so much,” I croak, my throat raw from crying.
I’ll say whatever he wants me to say. Do whatever he wants me to do. I just want him to be done and this night to be over.
“Your pain is like a heroin addiction,” he murmurs against my neck. “I wish I could inject it into my veins.”
Sandman moves to his knees, pulling me with him. His large hand spans the middle of my back and pushes down, accentuating my arch.
“Stay,” he orders, his steel fingers digging into my hips.
He drives deeper into my tight hole, callously pummeling my rectum. Each thrust feels like a bomb exploding inside my body. I scream into the pillow until he finally curls over me, groaning in my ear.
“Take every last drop,” he growls, undulating his hips against me.
After a brief pause, he slips out of me and falls onto his back. “Check on the cake.”
I can barely move, and he wants me to check on the cake! Fuck the cake! I want to rant at him, damn him to hell, but I clamber to my feet instead and hobble to the door. I’m an utter mess—half naked, bruised and burned, with his semen leaking from my ass.
“Zilphia,” he calls out to me.
I squeeze my eyes shut for several seconds before turning around to face him. “Yes?”
I fucking despise how relaxed he looks with his back propped against the headboard and his hands folded behind his golden mane. He spent the last thirty minutes terrorizing me, and he’s completely remorseless.
“Don’t run.”
“Like you said, there’s nowhere for me to run.”