35. Lola
LOLA
Night in the woods is a cruel, suffocating thing. No moon. No stars, just the dead black pressing every window, cold wind rattling the cabin out of its bones.
The forest is alive. Not with animals, not with life, but with something waiting. Breathing heavy. Shadows pool in the corners, licking the edge of every wall, waiting to swallow us whole. Inside, it’s just me and him.
My nightmare, my shadow, my last hope.
We don’t talk. Not for a while. His eyes track the darkness beyond the glass, restless, always calculating. The same way he used to study me. Like I was the only thing that mattered.
Now, he looks at the door. The windows. Anywhere but my face.
Everything’s been said already. The secrets, the sick bloodlines, all of it spilled on the table and left to rot. Marcus. Richard. The night that broke everything. My complicity. His violence. All the things no one wanted to admit out loud.
Brody sits in the chair by the window, barely moving. Arms crossed, chest rising slow, steady, like a panther waiting to pounce or run. His mask is back on. Black, bone-white, stretched over his face, hiding what’s left of the man underneath.
He isn’t looking at me. He won’t. Not after the way everything exploded. Not after what I confessed.
I shiver, curling my knees up on the cushion, arms locked around myself. The cold is real now. In my joints, in my teeth. My lips have gone numb. But I can’t bring myself to ask him for a blanket. I can barely speak.
If I talk, I’ll scream.
Minutes drag. The wind gets louder, smashing itself against the old wooden frame. A loose shutter knocks, over and over, begging for entry. I try to breathe but my throat feels tight, strange, like something’s twisting inside as my heart batters its wings against my ribs.
Everything is wrong, every cell knows it. The house is too quiet. Brody is too far away. Even sitting ten feet off, he might as well be on another planet.
I whisper, “Are you…are you okay?” No answer. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move. Just keeps glaring out the glass, like he’s expecting monsters to come out of the snow. I try again, lower. “I’m sorry.”
“You said what you needed to say.”
Is that all I am now?
He’s locked down tight, every muscle clenched, knuckles white. Protective, yeah. But cold, unreachable. If I touched him, he’d break me in half. If I left, he wouldn’t follow. Not tonight. Or, maybe he would.
I let the silence eat at me, picking at old wounds. The wind moans outside like a lonely animal. My throat aches with words I can’t say, apologies too small for the damage done.
After a while, I try again. “Brody, I… I didn’t know everything. About Marcus. About what he did to your mother. About what Richard was doing to you. I swear I didn’t—”
He cuts me off, voice cracking through the dark.
“It doesn’t matter if you knew. What matters is you didn’t run.
You didn’t fucking leave, Lola. You stayed there.
You looked away, just like everyone else.
” His eyes finally flick to mine—ice behind the mask, desperate and wild. “You let him use you.”
I flinch, shame overwhelming me. “I was a kid. I was scared. I thought if I played along, he’d… I don’t know. Maybe he’d go easier on me. Maybe I could save you, or my mom, or—”
He shakes his head, jaw clenched so hard I can hear his teeth grind. “That’s the problem. You decided everything for yourself. You could’ve talked to me.”
The words punch the breath out of me. For a moment, I can’t speak, heart thundering in my ears. “I couldn’t. He wouldn’t let me.” He doesn’t answer. I wipe at my eyes, blinking back the bite of old tears. “I never wanted to hurt you. Not ever.”
He laughs again, but it’s hollow, a sound filled with years of loss.
“Fuck, Lola! I know, okay? I fucking know. You think I wanted to end up like this? You think I wanted to be the guy who hurts everyone who ever touched him? Or who hurts the one woman who he thought he would spend the rest of his life with? I never wanted to hurt you, Bambi. I’m so fucking sorry. ”
I look down, fingers twisting in the threadbare cushion. “So much has changed now. I don’t know who I am anymore,” I say, voice small. “All I know is I don’t want to be alone. Not right now.”
Brody finally looks at me. His pain is a storm shifting under the surface, but for a second, something soft flickers there. He sees me shivering.
He stands, all at once. Too sudden. Like he can’t sit still with the poison in his veins. He stalks across the room, fingers drumming on the old wood as he passes.
His voice gets softer. “You’re freezing.” He’s right. I can’t hide the shivers now. I wrap my arms tighter, squeezing so hard it hurts. “There’s clothes in the bedroom,” he grunts. “Top drawer, bag next to the bed. Like I said, I planned ahead. Go before you turn blue.”
I nod, numb. Stand up on shaking knees.
The hallway is darker than I remember. The boards under my feet groan and twitch, warped by years, by cold, by solitude. The door at the end hangs open, black inside, as if the night’s already seeped through the walls.
Go. Don’t look back.
I step in. The bedroom stinks of dust, old wood, and him. The window’s a rectangle of misery, thick frost webbing across the glass. My hands fumble with the hem of my shirt. I peel it off, bra, pants, everything. Skin exposed. Nipples pebbled, thighs shaking, sweat already chilling on my back.
Digging through the bag with clumsy fingers, I pull out a thermal shirt.
Soft, gray, too big for me. There are sweatpants too, and wool socks that scratch my palms. I hesitate.
Something in me wants to delay, to stretch out this half-second of being nothing.
My reflection glints in the frosted mirror.
Then I feel it. Pressure. The prickle up my spine, down the backs of my thighs.
I whirl around.
He’s there. Leaning against the frame, shoulders filling the doorway, mask gleaming in the dark. Skulled, monstrous, silent.
Brody’s chest moves faster than before. His eyes—fuck—his eyes blaze through the mask’s holes, locked on every inch of me. Not blinking. Not looking away. Wild, starved, almost murderous. Like he wants to devour me or drag me straight to hell.
For a long time, nothing. Air buzzes with want, my knees threaten to give out, but I fight it. This is wrong. He kidnapped me. I should be spitting fire.
“Fuck,” he murmurs. “Look at you.” Brody crosses the room in three strides.
I don’t retreat. I just wait, shaking, mouth gone dry, pulse jackhammering.
He doesn’t kiss my lips. He drops straight to my throat, burying his mouth at the base of my neck, biting hard.
His hands dig into my waist, greedy, bruising, hungry.
Fingers splay, covering the small of my back, pulling me flush against him.
I feel how hard he is, already, through his jeans, pressing at my stomach.
The mask stays on. It grinds against my cheek, cold and unyielding. He mutters, “Mine.”
His hand claws at my ass, yanking me closer. His mouth traces down my neck, over my collar, biting, sucking. He palms my breast, squeezing, fingers pinching cruelly at my nipple.
I gasp but don’t recoil. My cunt aches. I’m already soaking, shame and hunger twined tight.
Brody pushes me down, flat palm at the top of my head. I drop, knees crashing to the floor. The boards bite into my skin, rough and splintery. He stares down at me, mask like death. His cock is out, veins bulging, tip flushed and leaking.
No commands. Just expectation. I wrap my lips around him, swallow deep. He fists my hair, dragging me deeper. His hips snap, bucking into my mouth. Merciless.
I gag, choke, spit leaking down my chin. Tears sting at the corners of my eyes. The mask stares down, unfeeling, but the heat behind his eyes says everything.
Every time he slams into my throat, I feel myself clench. I want this. I want the way he uses me, the way he can’t fucking control himself.
I stare up as he fucks my mouth. “Good girl,” he rasps. “That’s it. Take it. I want you to touch yourself for me.”
Slipping my hand between my thighs, my finger finds my clit and rubs circles, fast and relentless. I arch against my touch, whimpering around his cock. Every twist of my fingers sends sparks everywhere.
My cheeks hollow out and I tighten my lips around his cock.
That earns me a groan from him. I use my tongue to lick the underside, the way he likes it.
He pulls out and shoves me onto my back on the bed, cock already glistening with spit.
He grabs my tits, wraps his shaft between them, and thrusts between them, wet and messy, sliding up to my mouth.
He shoves in deep. I gag again, spit bubbling down my chin. His hand’s in my hair, fucking my face, ruthless and demanding.
My head snaps back from the force. I can barely breathe. Then, he slides down, pinning my hips before lining up his cock and pushes himself inside. No warning.
I cry out. Not in fear. In shock, in relief, in fucking ecstasy.
He fucks me hard, slamming me into the mattress, every thrust threatening to split me in half. The mask never slides. His eyes burn holes in my soul. Angry, needy, desperate.
I claw at his back, hips bucking for more. His breath is ragged. “Mine,” he keeps saying. “Mine, Lola. All fucking mine.”
We’re animals. No, something deeper. Something ruined and perfect and built for this.
He pounds into me, wild, savage, nothing gentle left. My back hits the mattress, legs open, his hips driving me down, hard, again and again. The bed thumps. The old headboard cracks against the wall. Every thrust knocks the air from my lungs. I can’t think. Can’t breathe.
His hand grabs my thigh, yanks it higher, forcing me open for him. I arch, desperate, a moan torn out of my throat.
He’s relentless. His cock fills me, splits me, the pain perfect, the stretch just right.
The mask stares down, cold and merciless, but his eyes are fire—mad, starved, dangerous. His breath is hot on my neck, every growl vibrating through my skin.
He fucks me faster. The world narrows to the wet slide of him inside me, the smack of our bodies, the sweat dripping between us. Shame, want, fury. Every twisted part of me burns for him. I buck against him, chasing the bruises, chasing the hurt.
“Mine,” he snarls, voice rough, voice wrecked. “You’re fucking mine.”
“Yes—” I can barely get the word out. All I can do is take it. All I can do is shatter for him.
He slaps my thigh. I gasp. He’s ruthless, pounding, driving, using me up. My cunt clenches, greedy, hungry, no space left for anything but him.
He grabs my jaw, squeezes, forces my mouth open. “Say it,” he hisses. “Say who you belong to.”
“You,” I pant. “You, Brody. Only you.”
He groans, loses control, and thrusts rougher, deeper. The headboard cracks. The mattress creaks. My body shakes.
I’m close, God, I’m so close. My clit throbs, every nerve ending screaming. He sees it, feels it, fucks me harder, his hand slipping down, thumb circling my clit. Fast. Brutal.
I can feel myself about to…about to—
Then, there’s a noise outside.
Crunching on snow, heavy boots outside. Voices, muffled but urgent. Maybe five, six, more.
Brody freezes. The tension snaps like a whip. He’s off me in a second, grabs my arm, shoves clothes at me. “Dress. Now. Don’t talk.”
I yank on the shirt, the pants, socks barely making it over my frozen feet. He’s already out in the hall. Low to the ground, scanning, eyes in every direction. He grabs something from under the couch.
Lights off, he moves like a shadow, near-silent. “Stay behind me,” he whispers, dragging me back from the doorway. “Don’t make a sound, Bambi. Not one.”
I nod, heart in my throat.
Another crunch, closer. Window rattling. Voices, louder now.
A heartbeat of silence.
Then, the glass shatters. Windows on opposite sides of the cabin explode inwards. Flashlights slash through the dark, white beams everywhere.
The front door blows open, ripped off its hinges, slamming into the wall behind. Black figures flood in. Masks, boots, rifles. Men, maybe six, maybe eight, moving in formation.
I scream. I can’t help it.
Brody launches himself at them. He barrels into the first man, takes him down hard, slamming the back of his head into the floor. Blood splatters the wall. Next guy, Brody’s on him before he can aim. Fist to the throat, crack, another knife to the gut. Screaming.
But it’s too many. They swarm him. Three, four piling onto his back, battering him down, fists and boots and gun stocks.
Hands grab me. I thrash, bite, scream Brody’s name. A bag is yanked over my head. Darkness, suffocating and wild. Hands on my arms, pinning them behind my back. My feet leave the floor as I’m carried, helpless.
Somewhere behind me, Brody howls my name. “Don’t you stop fighting, Lola! I’ll come for you! You hear me? I will fucking find you, Bambi.”
I hear fighting, bodies slamming into walls. Another scream, then nothing, just savage grunting, boots, chaos.
“Brody!” I scream until my throat tears.
A brutal punch to my ribs silences me. My breath vanishes. The bag tightens. Someone’s dragging me, fast. I don’t know where.
The last thing I hear—Brody’s voice, savage, muffled. Then another bag, maybe over his own head. His shouting stops. Then the hard slam of flesh and boots and silence.
I’m thrown into something. It feels hard, metal, cold as the grave.
Hands grope, bind, tape my wrists and ankles.
I can barely breathe. Through it all, my ears ring.
My heart tries to break free from my chest. The world squeezes in.
Boots thudding on the wood, shouts in the distance, Brody’s name on my lips.
They split us apart. He’s gone.
My world shrinks to darkness and fear.
I try not to panic. Try not to cry. I think of Brody. I pray he survives, even if I don't. I curse Marcus. I curse my own weakness.
I promise myself: you don’t break. Not for them. Not for anyone.
Noise fades, swallowed by black. I count my breaths. One. Two. Three. Praying he’s alive. Swearing revenge.
Even as the world goes dark, I don’t let go of him.