I collapse against the cold surface, trembling.
I was ready to give myself to him—to the devil himself. But he just left me here, like none of it mattered.
Like he didn’t just unravel me without even taking off his clothes.
For a moment, I just lie there, shaking, trying to piece myself back together. The sting in my chest builds until it spills over, hot tears sliding down my cheeks. I wanted him—God, I really wanted him—and he walked away. Is that what this was? My punishment? A lesson? Maybe he just wanted to remind me how easily he could have taken what he wanted, how my body was never really mine when he decided otherwise.
I push up from the table, gathering my torn dress and shredded underwear, covering myself as I glance toward the window. He’s outside, seated on the porch steps, a cigarette burning between his fingers, smoke curling around him as he stares out over the empty fields like none of it happened.
I slip away down the hall, back to my room. I pull on my pajamas with shaking hands and crawl into bed, the sheets cold against my skin. Alone.
Chapter 9
Precision as Penance
Summer
Ididn’t sleep last night. I couldn’t. Not with the phantom weight of him pressed against me. Not with the ache between my legs—shameful, raw, unresolved. Not after what he did.
He’d hurt me when he threw me on the table. He stripped me but didn’t fuck me. Still—some wicked, secret part of me had been thrilled. The weight of him. The smell of bourbon and leather. The scrape of his tongue against me. He made me want it. Made me want more. That’s what kept me awake—not the bruises. The wanting. The part of me that hated him for it, even as I lay there, spread wide for him, and wanted more.
Since moving here, I’d convinced myself it was only a matter of time before he took everything from me—that one day he’d push past every boundary I had left. But he didn’t. Even when my hips raised for him, even when his name slipped out like a plea, he held that line. My body begged, ached, pleaded for more, but he didn’t cross it. And now shame and hunger coil together in my blood until I can’t tell them apart.
I lie on my back, staring at the ceiling until the plaster blurs, trying to breathe around him—around us.
Benny’s face keeps breaking through. His voice, his hands, the way he looked at me like I wasn’t already ruined. Like Iwas still soft. Still whole. I tried to hold onto that. But every time I thought of Benny’s hands, I felt Jacob’s. The contrast makes my stomach turn, but it also makes my thighs clench.
I don’t want this. I don’t want to want this. And that’s why I have to leave.
I’m starting to feel things I never thought I would. My body has started craving his attention, and after last night, if I don’t get out soon, I probably never will.
He’s in my mind constantly. His features, his smile, his scowls, the strength in his jawline, the way it shifts when he clenches his teeth at the sight of me. The hatred I feel for him burns inside me, but the what-ifs are creeping in deep.
Maybe if I can get out for even an hour, I’ll prove to myself I’m not as far gone as I feel.
I creep into the kitchen at 5:30 a.m. The house is quiet. I feel like it’s watching me. My bare feet whisper across the wood, and I move through the dark. If he asks why I’m awake, I’ll lie. I’ve gotten good at lying.
My head hurts.
It’s not a lie. My scalp throbs where he banged my head onto the table. I’m certain there will be a bruise blooming under my curls. A mark that proves he owns me, even when he’s not touching me.
I set the table. Fork to the left. Knife to the right. Glass behind the plate.
It’s ritual now—precision as penance. I slice the bread. Crack the eggs. Fry the bacon low and slow. The smell curls around me like smoke—thick, domestic, unreal. I tell myself I’m surviving. But deep down, I know what this is.
I’m performing. Preparing the stage. Playing the role he wrote for me.
Once, I imagined killing him. A slow dose of poison. A silent cup of coffee. But Sheriffs don’t die quietly. They’d investigate. They’d dig. And they’d find out I hated him. That I wanted out. That I’donce told a friend I felt trapped. That my bruises weren’t accidents. That my smile didn’t reach my eyes. They’d make me the monster. And I’d trade one prison for another.
At least here, I get the porch. A book. A few hours of sun before the storm returns.
So I won’t kill him. Because I can’t.
Upstairs, the bed creaks. A door slams and I know he’s headed to the bathroom.
I have minutes. Maybe five. Maybe less. I flip the bacon. Wipe the counter. Rehearse my lines.
Hey, I couldn’t sleep. My head’s hurting.
