Page 15 of Cast Stones
Not again.
Twelve.
“Why?” I manage to croak.
“Why not?” he sneers.
But I know the real answer. It’s because of my wickedness.Didn’t they tell me that?Every terrible thing that happens to me is payment for the ultimate transgression in the eyes of the Twelve and the Almighty himself.
I loved a black-eyed boy I was meant to hate.
I loved him way more than—
“The god of this world has blinded the minds of the unbelievers, to keep them from seeing the light of the gospel of the glory of Christ…”
I lied to Luca that first day we met.I never believed.At sixteen, God was a chore. An inconvenience.
The Twelve made me fear him.
Luca made me despise him.
I haven’t thought of that Bible quote for years. Haven’t dared to. It’s a key to a door I never wanted to open again, but it’s too late now.
Jackson’s first hungry thrust tears and burns. It penetrates so deep beyond my pussy, scars form on an already scarred soul.
“Feel that, Ice Queen?” he grunts, thrusting again. “Turns out you’re warmer on the inside than you made us believe.”
I lift my hands to shred his scalp with what’s left of my nails, and he punches me hard in the chest, knocking all the fight I have left out of me.
I’m floating after that, listening to the sound of forced flesh on flesh. Knowing the hurt and the shame, but refusing to claim it as my own.
I want it done.
I want it over.
He finishes quickly with another grunt—longer, more satisfied this time—and when he pulls out, I can feel his seed leaking out of me and staining the photographs beneath.
“That should finally put a smile on your face, Bailey.” His contempt is as vicious as his rape. “And don’t go worrying about the security cameras in this building. I’ll take care of that. You just need to keep that pretty mouth of yours shut about this. Go home and fantasize, because this is the best fuck you’ll have all year.”
I lie there motionless, staring up at the ceiling, as dead on the inside as Cyrus Moseley is in the ground.
Jackson leaves after that. There’s nothing left for him to stay for. He’s already stolen everything he can.
Back to his wife.
Back to his life.
And mine?
It’s been left to die slowly on a photographic carpet of another man’s crime.
I hear the ding of the arriving elevator carriage and then the metallic whoosh of the doors sliding shut. After that, there’s thetick-tockof a distant clock.
I’m still lying there, staring at the ceiling. I feel pain and I feel nothing, all rolled into one. The tears staining my cheeks are those of an imposter’s.
Thetick-tocksgrow louder. They’re joined by a faint buzzing in the air. Like a warning. Like a chorus of Palmetto bugs just before a summer storm. The back of my neck starts prickling as an even darker shadow creeps over my skin.
Tick-tock.
