Page 45 of Daddy's Sinner

Death

“Have nothing to do with the fruitless deeds of darkness, but rather expose them. It is shameful even to mention what the disobedient do in secret.”

Ephesians 5:11-12

Dove

Idon’t look back as I leave Matheo behind. I can’t allow myself to look back. If I did, I wouldn’t be able to leave. His scent still lingers on my skin, his warmth still imprinted on my flesh. As I step out of the woods and onto the threshold of my house, I run into the Prophet. My stomach drops, and I gulp down a rush of fear. I haven’t checked my body, but I know there are visible marks of Matheo. The look in the Prophet’s eyes tells me he sees them all too clearly.

In a swift movement, he lifts my wrist in the air and takes a whiff of my skin. The smell of sex still coats my body. A low growl comes from his lips as they curl. “WHORE!” the Prophet yells. “Did you enjoy it? Is that sinner’s cum tainting my cunt?”

I remain silent, biting the inside of my cheek as he continues his tirade, each harsh word a blade against my skin. As if he isn’t the one to send me there, to seduce him. Like other’s haven’t tainted my pussy with their cum, Matheo didn’t taint it. They all did but not him. But I can see the moment it clicks the recognition in his eyes—the confirmation that I’m no longer pure, worthy of him. And yet I don’t care. He did say to do whatever I needed to do, and well, I needed Matheo’s touch inside me.

He yanks me forward, my knees buckling underneath me as I lean forward. Bracing myself for the pain, I accept my punishment. The Prophet pulls me by my hair, throwing my head back before slapping me across the face. I don’t know if he’s enraged by the fact that I defiled myself or if it’s something else. But the fury in his eyes is demonic. For the first time in my almost twenty-seven years of living, I'm terrified and afraid of the Prophet’s demon.

The weight of his hand belies the fury in his gaze. His breath is hot as he spits out words of venom, each syllable a lash. My cheek blazes from his slap, but I hold back my tears, keeping my face a stoic mask. Takingeach insult like a martyr to an unknown cause, I tilt my face upward to meet his furious gaze.

“You have no right to be tainted by anyone but me,” he seethes, his breath hot and rancid against my skin. His fingers dig deeper into my flesh, threatening to leave a mark. His hands drop to his pant buckle, and within seconds, his cock is on my lips.

The taste of him is a bitter reminder, a continuation of the punishment he believes I deserve. He forces himself further, pushing past my resistance and taking what he believes to be his right. My hands move instinctively to his waist while he grips my hair harder, shoving me closer to him. I fight the urge to gag at his arousal, bitter and choking. He smells of sweat and sin, and I shut my eyes tight, trying to remember Matheo’s scent over this.

“Taste your disgrace, whore.” He snarls as I swallow down the bitterness that rises within me, not of the physical kind, but the emotional. The edges of my vision blur as he thrusts deeper, and for a moment, I allow myself to fantasize that this is Matheo’s cock in my mouth and not his. My mind wanders off as my tongue absentmindedly twirls around his cock, gently swirling around the head, saliva pooling as I brace on my knees on the grass.

The rhythm of his thrusts in my mouth quickens. His grip tightens in my hair, and I focus on the crunch of the grass under my knees, the coolness of the ground beneath me. Focus on anything but this.

I can’t breathe, can’t think, and can only survive. My hands clutch his thighs, my fingers digging into the coarse fabric of his trousers. His groan reverberates through me, but I push that thought away.

Suddenly, his grunts and curses fill the silent woods as he hits his climax, jerking his hips forward as his seed fills my mouth. He’s breathless, panting like a spent animal, pulsing within the confines of my lips. His warm essence fills my mouth, an ungodly communion that I have no choice but to swallow. He stills, his grip on my hair slackening. Amoment of respite until he pulls himself free, zipping up his trousers with smug satisfaction.

I falter backward, gasping for breath as I wipe the remnants of his cum and my spit.

“You’re mine,” he sneers before storming off.

I don’t know how long I remain kneeling on the grass before I gather myself and head into the house. The Prophet is in his office, but not his second. Gabriel. Who just walks in through the door with a smug grin on his face beelining straight to me. “Ahh... look who is here. The little Dove.” He says as he grabs my chin, forcing me against the wall. I refuse to cower, not to him, not to the man who is desperate to usurp the Prophet’s position in the church and my life.

“He roughed that mouth up, didn’t he? You fucked the priest?” His voice is a jeering whisper, hot and reeking of whiskey. The sharp stubble on his face pricks my skin, his grip bruisingly tight. I force myself not to flinch, not to react. I bear his touch with the same forced composure I held earlier.

My eyes meet his, feigning innocence. “No, Gabriel,” I lie, attempting to push him away with the last of my strength but it's futile.

He doesn’t believe me. I see it in his cold, calculating gaze, in the curl of his lip as he scrutinizes me. He releases my chin only to let his hand slide down my neck, exposing my breasts. His other hand pulls me tighter against the wall, trapping me against its cold, unyielding surface. The wall feels as unforgiving as the men in my life. Gabriel replaces his grip with his mouth, his teeth grazing the soft flesh of my neck in a cruel parody of a lover’s touch. His hand squeezes my bare breast, rough and demanding.

“Priest or not, he will die for touching what’s mine,” Gabriel growls against my skin. “I don’t care what the Prophet believes. You’re meantfor me. Not for him or the priest, but for me.” His voice drops to a harsh whisper. “You are my whore. Mine.”

I scoff, a bitter laugh escaping my lips. "Is that what you think? That you can just claim me because of your twisted desires?"

Gabriel’s eyes flash with anger, his grip tightening on me. “Don’t test me, Sol. You’re mine. You forget all the nights we shared. Our promises. All the love we made. Sol… stop denying our union.”

“You gave it all away,” I snap, struggling against his hold. “I stopped belonging to you the moment you offered me up like a bargaining chip. I was never yours to lose—isn’t that what you told the Prophet when you handed me over?”

His sneer is dark and dangerous, his anger palpable. “I never gave up on you willingly. The Prophet took you from me, but deep down, you’ve always been mine. Do you think I’ve forgotten how you used to beg for my touch?”

I recoil from his words, the memory of my past desires mingling with my current revulsion. “I was a fool then,” I retort, my voice trembling with a mixture of rage and disgust. “Your touch meant nothing. Now, I only see you for what you are—a vile, insatiable lecher.”

Gabriel’s face contorts with rage. He slams me against the wall, his hand still gripping my breast, kneading it roughly. “I’m not done with you yet,” he growls. “Everything I’ve done has been to secure my place, to give us a better future. I want to give you Eden, Sol. I want to give you everything.” His voice drops to a dangerous whisper as he leans closer. “I’m taking what’s mine and making sure you remember it. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? For me to remind you of who you truly belong to.”

His hand moves back up to my face, and he crashes his lips into mine. I want to claw his face out, to push him away, but instead, I let his tongue slip inside. It’s better this way—let him take what he wants, then it’s done and over with.

His taste is as rancid as his personality—a mix of the whiskey he can’t live without and the bitter, stale air of his breath. His hand returns to my breast, kneading it like a loaf of bread in a baker’s hands. The other holds me in place, fingers digging into the small of my back, trapping me against him.

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