I nod, though my mind screams no. It doesn’t matter what myresponse is; he’s going to tell me regardless. To do otherwise would deprive him of his greatest pleasure—invoking the most fear.
“I imagine the tight sweetness between your thighs soaking every inch of my dick,” he murmurs, kneading my clit through my clothing.
“Don’t,” I whisper, latching one hand onto the arm circling my belly and the other on the wrist pressed against my pubic bone. My mind immediately goes back to the night he took me to God’s Glory. Is he planning to do the same thing here? At least half of my classmates are at this party. I won’t be able to show my face at school again.
“One day soon, I’m going to pop that beautiful cherry, Zilphia, and pump your body full of cum. Then there’s making you hurt.” I gasp, feeling his length growing against my ass. “Nothing gets my cock harder. But what I think about more than anything else is cutting this soft, beautiful skin of yours.” He rubs his nose along my neck. “The sight of your blood does something to me.Youdo something to me,” he rasps accusingly, his voice tortured and thick with emotion.
“I’m so sorry, Sam,” I sob, hating that I’m the cause of his anguish. “I was stupid and scared. I wish I could take it all back.”
“I warned you never to call me that,” he barks, winding his hard fingers into my passion twists.
I lean into his strong body, attempting to relieve the stress on my scalp. “Sandman—”
“Shut the fuck up,” he snarls, tightening his grip in my hair.
Pained tears sting my corneas as he forces me through the crowd ahead of him. I slam my eyelids shut against the shocked faces, humiliation heating my cheeks. The mild night air enveloping my slightly damp skin alerts me that we’re outside. Still, I keep my vision shrouded in darkness, hearing animated conversations echo around me.
Once the voices and music fade to the background, I crack my eyes open and see that he’s steering me toward the farmhouse.I climb the creaking steps and find the front door ajar. A loud cry startles me, and I halt in my tracks. There are people here.
“Move!” Sandman shouts, releasing my hair and shoving me inside.
I crash to my hands and knees on the dusty floor. A musky odor immediately clogs my nostrils and throat, sending me into a coughing fit. I’m no expert, but I doubt it’s safe to be in here. It’s highly probable this house is infested with mold.
My gaze roams the four corners of the living room, only finding a lone recliner positioned adjacent to the fireplace. The door closes behind me, cutting off the little light the moon provided.
I retrieve my inhaler from my fanny pack and spray two doses into my mouth before pushing to shaky legs. “Why did you bring me in here?”
“Don’t talk, Zilphia,” he rasps softly, standing so close behind me his warm breath fans my nape. “It’s not safe for you to talk.”
I snap my mouth shut and stand stock-still, afraid to even breathe. Uncontrolled energy radiates from his body in waves, pouring into me like an electric pulse. I apprehensively wait for his next move, but long moments pass and nothing. I want to shout at him, tell him to get it over with, to stop playing his fucking mind games with me. Instead, I close my eyes and count.
One, two, three, four—
“No!” Leah’s terrified scream echoes from upstairs, followed by heavy footsteps and a loud bang. I strain to listen for more sounds of her attack, but silence greets me.
Christ.What is Snake doing to her?
Before I realize what’s happening, my face smacks into the wall. I whimper as the metallic taste of blood melts on my tongue. Sandman tears at my jeans, roughly yanking the tight denim down my legs along with my thong. I hold my breath, bracing for the feel of his thick length pushing between my ass cheeks.
“Turn around,” he orders.
I should be relieved, but this means he has far worse in store for me. I face him in a daze, head whirling from the violentimpact. He’s a shadow in the dark living room, mirroring a ghostly apparition.
For all intents and purposes, that’s exactly what he is, a restless spirit hellbent on taking over my soul. My tormentor says nothing; he just stands there, several inches separating us. Though his features are an obsidian void, I swear I feel his hot gaze burning a hole into the very core of me.
I plaster myself tight against the crumbling wall when he makes a sudden movement, my breath lodged in my throat. A small flame washes his beautiful face in an orange glow as he lights a joint.
This is all wrong.
The devil shouldn’t look this good.The devilshouldn’tlook like a golden god. I stare at his hard angles in wonderment, completely baffled that someone with a heart as black as his could be so handsome. He takes a long hit, then exhales, filling the short distance between us with the distinct smell of cannabis.
“Smoke,” he demands, nudging the joint against my lips.
I turn my head. “I-I d-don’t d-do d-drugs.”
“You’re a fucking puppet, Zilphia,” Sandman states, his tone hushed and menacing. “And I’m your puppeteer. I control your strings. You don’t question. You don’t talk back. You obey. Now fucking smoke.”
I hesitantly inhale the pungent herb into my lungs and immediately spiral into a coughing frenzy.
