I take my plate into the kitchen and rinse it before putting it into the dishwasher. What pisses me off the most, I think, is that Killian is right. Seeing the picture of Delilah, and now seeing they’ve vanished, has me in a bad place mentally. A dark fucking place. This is all my fault. Gripping the edge of the counter, I close my eyes and remember the day I had the opportunity to kill the man I refuse to call my father.
“Daddy, please don’t. It hurts.”
He doesn’t stop, he keeps driving forward, with a gross grunt every time. Sweat pours off his head as he chants the sex prayer.
“Thank you, Lord, for blessing me with this gift of physical love.”
The Prophet has his pants on, but yanked down to his knees. I push his chest, trying to get him off me. Reaching behind him, he grabs a knife and quickly holds it to my throat.
“Take it as the Lord has ordered, or die and burn in Hell.”
The threat of hell works every time, because we have been taught how terrible Hell is. And it’s not temporary. It’s forever. ‘Eternity,’ he frequently reminds me. I do not want to burn for all of time, so I do what he says, and lie here taking it.
He tosses the knife on the side of the bed, it bounces off my fingers, and lands beside my hand.
It’s so close. I could pick it up and stab him, before he could stop me. It would end this torture for me, for all of us. The Prophet isn’t the only one having sex with young girls. It’s most of the men over the age of sixteen.
I want to take the knife, but I don’t. If not obeying him will get me sent to Hell, killing him surely will. There’s probably a special place in Hell for anyone that would kill a man appointed by God himself. So I lie here, with tears streaming down my cheeks, as I imagine myself running away.
It’s beautiful here. There are fields of flowers, and I inhale the faint, sweet scent in the air. Freedom is mine, even if it’s just a fantasy.
CHAPTER SIXTY
KILLIAN
Jesus. This woman is trying to kill me. Clearly, I should’ve told her to wear sweat-pants, and a t-shirt. Instead, she walks in wearing next to nothing—purple boy shorts, and a matching sports bra—leaving so many inches of bare skin. Her long blonde hair is up in a messy bun, exposing her slender neck, and a small bruise has already begun developing where I bit her. Why am I turned on by my mark on her skin?
“Twenty minutes of cardio, so you're warmed up. You can choose. Bike, elliptical, or treadmill. It’s all the same.”
Crossing her arms over her chest, she gives me an attitude.
“I stretched. I’m fine.”
It is not lost on me that this defiance is only for me. She’s not like this with either of my brothers. Even when she refused their pleas to eat, it was done sweetly.
“Killer, do what you’re told. I know what I’m talking about. Cardio, and then boxing, or you can go back to Carter’s room.”
She huffs all the way to the treadmill, like the fucking spoiled brat Knox and Carter have turned her into.
“Why do you give me such a hard time?” I ask, as she starts a fast walk on the treadmill.
“Because you’re a dick.”
I laugh at her usual response, but I’m not buying it.
“Try again, Killer.”
She’s quiet as she speeds up into a sprint, and I can’t help but watch her tits bounce as she runs. A thin sheet of perspiration coats her chest, and I fight the urge to lick it. When I bit her neck, I got a thrill from the sweet taste of her flesh. It was like biting into a forbidden fruit, something I’m not even supposed to like, yet yearn to devour.
When she turns the machine off and walks over to me, she answers my previous question.
“I like our dynamic, as hostile as it might be. Knox and Carter treat me like I’m something precious. You’re the only one who gets it.”
Handing her the boxing gloves, I raise a brow in question.
“Get what?”
Heather shakes her head at me, like she can’t believe I need an explanation.
