Page 6 of Unholy

RYLEE

I’m back in my bedroom, which is located in the private wing of the house. The Ranch is my childhood home. Growing up, from what I can tell in pictures, my mom tried to make it as normal and cut off from the business side as possible. Then, after she passed, Greta did, and she managed to keep it that way. Many of the girls here are family to me. If Greta was busy they helped take care of me. This life is all I know. These incredibly strong and powerful women helped mold me into the woman I am today. I wouldn’t change my upbringing for anything.

Greta also has her living quarters here. It’s the one place we are able to escape, if only for a few moments. We have a kitchen area, but we aren’t one to have family dinners.

Out back, the old swing set and sandbox I played in remain. Some girls will bring their kids here during the day, let them play while they set up their rooms for the evening clients or collect paychecks.

The house is large and has been in our family since my grandmother’s parents bought it when she was a child. Back then, it was just a home. Once they passed, Greta inherited it and turned this place into something exquisite. It’s where we can allcome together and be ourselves for an evening. A place where we are safe to do what we love.

It’s 2025; slut-shaming will get you banned before you even step foot into The Ranch, and we aren’t opposed to a little harm, should the crime fit.

We live in a town where rules and laws are merely suggestions. I suppose The Exiled did one thing right. They control the police, the judges, and district attorneys. Brothels aren’t technically legal in Montana, so the last thing anyone is going to do is call the police in the event of suspected foul play.

At The Ranch, experimenting is encouraged and giving in to temptation and desires is a must. This is where I was free to give in to my dormant side. Greta has always said since I was a little girl, ‘Embrace who you are; don’t hide from it or run. Chase your dreams, because if you don’t, it will only catch up to you in the form of regret. You have one life; regret shouldn’t be a thought. Living freely should be.’

Throwing my boots to the ground, I walk into my en suite and go immediately for the mouthwash.

I hate The Exiled. I fucking despise them.

I want to vomit.

Greta knows my stance on them, but still, she asked me to do the unthinkable to that monster. Perhaps she thought it was best to keep them happy than to be on their radar.

My face cringes at the memory of sucking his cock while being watched by his equally vile friend; it makes my stomach turn. That fucker, Darian, whose loyalty to his precious society has always baffled me. He forced his now wife, Cecilia, to marry him on Hell Fire Night. They threaten death if you don’t obey.

Her father would be turning in his grave.

Why? Because The Exiled killed him, the same way they eliminated Darian’s family.

Indirectly, they also caused her mother’s death—a car accident. And yet she still chose life over death. Turning her back on her principles for the sake of being able to see the next day.

Coward.

Rinsing my mouth out with the minty fresh wash, I spit the blue liquid into the sink and watch it trickle down the drain.

Looking up, I see myself in the mirror. My makeup is a mess. Black mascara running down my cheeks and lipstick worn off and smudged, stained around my mouth.

Moving my tongue gently along the inside of my cheek, I swear I can still feel his head pushing against it with the silver barbells leaving an imprint.

My sharp canines bite the inside of my lip, and my eyes hood as my mouth fills with saliva. The memory of his musky scent follows. My pussy tingles under my tight latex bodysuit, pulsating and begging me to grind against something. Desire moves up my body. I can feel my nipples harden; they are desperate to be pinched and pulled. The pads of my fingers barely touch my body, but electricity follows, dancing seductively with every inch I move. Reaching my throbbing cunt, I cup it tightly, and my pelvis takes control, slowly moving and rubbing my clit against the cool latex.

The nerves ignite as I chase what I crave. My head gets heavy, and my neck allows it to follow backward. With hooded eyes, I picture him, his cock, and how fucking phenomenal it feels rubbing against my tight walls. They tighten, trying to grip the cock my mind is seeing. A soft moan brushes against my lips, triggering my hips to move faster; the wetter I get, the more the latex squeaks against my hand.

I can feel my body getting warmer, causing my bodysuit to stick to my skin. It feels tighter the more I pant.

No.

Disgust returns to my mouth, and my stomach drops.

Immediately I freeze, stopping the chase.

Throwing my head back up, I look in the mirror and take myself in. “He is the goddamn enemy,” I whisper to myself, absolutely mortified.

Gripping the countertop, my body folds and my head falls on the cool marble in shame. Closing my eyes, I take a couple deep breaths in. My heart is beating in my ears in disbelief that I had a moment of weakness.

I nearly got off on him. What is wrong with me?

As much as I want to ride his ladder, it’s not worth going against everything I believe in.

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