Page 9 of Wicked Sins

“Don’t waste, Candy Cane.”

“Okay,” I murmur. I take up my glass and gulp down another mouthful. It burns the back of my throat, and that bitter aftertaste is even more noticeable than before. When I try to focus on the chessboard, it’s too blurry to make out.

My head tips to the side. The glass tilts in my hand as icy panic sluices through me. When a dark shadow falls over me, my heart knocks hard and heavy against my rib cage.

He takes away my glass. Glass clicks on glass as he sets it down on the coffee table.

A big, warm hand strokes my hair. I try to force my eyes open, embarrassed that I couldn’t even handle a glass—

several glasses

—Of liqueur, but I can only flutter my eyelashes.

“Time for bed, Candy Cane.”

I have to get up, but I can’t; my body has melted into the armchair. “Sleep here,” I mumble.

“Come on, baby girl. Daddy needs you in bed.”

Daddy.

Stepdad.

Hot dad.

A hand slithers under my knees, another around my shoulders. Gravity reluctantly releases me as I’m lifted, lifted, lifted.

His smell envelops me; leather and wood. With every exhale, a warm whiskey breath tickles my face. His powerful chest moves against me as he carries me down the hallway and into my bedroom.

Everything’s spinning by the time he pushes open my bedroom door with his foot.

I don’t want him to let me go. I’ve never felt this safe, thislovedin my life. My fingers tighten; I have his shirt clutched in my fists.

He comes to a stop in front of my bed. “Let go, baby girl,” he murmurs into my ear, his mouth brushing my earlobe.

I shake my head, nuzzling against his strong chest.

“I told you to let go.” His voice is rough now. “Why aren’t you listening to me?”

Tears prick at my eyelids. Why is he angry with me? The last thing I want to do is make him angry with me. Angry men do bad things.

They punch, and they shove, and they choke, and they try to put their hands up your skirt.

So I say the only thing I can, the thing that always calms them.

“I love you.”

The words slip out and hang in the air like a plume of smoke. Shame scorches my cheeks, and then tears are running in rivulets down my cheeks. “Oh, God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

My words tumble and slur as I hastily let go of Wayne’s shirt.

He sets me down on the bed and steps back. When I try to focus on him, he’s just a wavering shape.

“I know you do,” he says quietly. Then he perches beside me to stroke my hair. “Now go to sleep, Candy Cane. You have a big day tomorrow.”

Wayne’s hands brush my neck, my shoulders. He tugs the sheets, but I can’t make out if he’s tucking me in or opening me up.

I shift a little, desperately trying to open my eyes, but they’re too heavy.

---