Page 155 of Controlled Burn
Frozen.
Burning.
Ruined.
The room was cold. But her skin burned. Her lips stung. Her throat ached.
She rinsed her mouth twice in the sink. Scrubbed her hands until the skin blistered.
It didn’t help.
His taste was still there.
His voice.
The stretch.
The name.
And worst of all—the heat between her legs hadn’t fully gone.
She hated that.
Hated her body for reacting.
For the way her hips had moved. For that moan she hadn’t meant to make.
For not screaming.
She told herself she froze.
She told herself she panicked.
But part of her leaned in. Part of her opened.
And that part made her sick.
What kind of girl—what kind of woman—lets it happen like that?
He’d called her obedient.
She hadn’t said no loud enough.
She’d let him think he won.
When she finally stood, she was shaking. Her vision tunneled. Her body moved without her permission—out the door, down the hallway, numb and heavy.
Every prayer she’d ever whispered felt like ash.
Every hymn like poison.
And still, she kept walking.
She found Talia in the turnout room. Alone. Sharpening tools.
Kennedy didn’t speak.
Didn’t have to.
