Page 28 of Pretty Stolen Dolls

My eyes bulge as he shoves into me. I squeeze them shut, fire exploding behind my lids as I hold my breath and will the excruciating pain to subside.

Why does it hurt so bad? Why would people choose to do this?

His weight is still crushing me. His breathing is deep and tense.

“Perfect,” he announces.

I want to tear at his flesh until he’s nothing but pulp.

“It will only hurt for a minute,” he assures me before thrusting into me over and over again.

He lied.

It doesn’t ever stop hurting.

When he finally ceases moving and grunts, hot liquid empties inside me and spills out. It stings like crazy and I want to wipe it away, but I’m frozen to the bed. I’ll never get this back.

His weight lifts from mine to sit next to me. He rubs over his cock and with the pad of his thumb, he coats my lips in the residue of my innocence, like it’s lipstick.

“My pretty, perfect, dirty little doll.” His head drops toward me and his lips hover over mine. “There’s no one like you.”

And then he’s gone and I’m alone, empty and dying inside.

Ruined.

Slamming my eyes shut, I attempt to think of happier things, but come up short.

I don’t know what the hell makes me happy.

Macy.

Macy.

Macy.

When a strong arm wraps around me, I let out a shriek. It’s only then I realize Dillon has slipped into the booth beside me and hauled me against his solid body. A tear sneaks its way out, much to my dismay, but I don’t push him away or joke off my distress.

I obligingly let him hold me. It’s surreal to feel the tears on my cheek knowing they’re soaking against the cotton of his shirt and he doesn’t judge me in this moment. I haven’t cried in so long.

His large hand strokes up and down the side of my arm, soothing my rapidly beating heart. The scent of peppermint and leather, now mixed with coffee, calms me and I relax in his grip. It’s easier than I ever imagined it would be. I fit against him like the curve of his body was created for this moment—created to shield a sorrow-filled woman from being buried in the memories of a broken little girl. Sighing into his body, I relish the comfort, grateful to him for not being his usual mocking self.

After a moment, he speaks. With my head against him, I can feel the deep rumble rattle its way through me. “The doll. In the shop,” he says, his voice gravelly, “was it familiar?”

“Yes.”

“You think the homicide may be tied to your own cold case?”

I nod and chew on my bottom lip. “And the girl who was taken from the mall. A witness claims she saw her speaking with someone who matches Benny’s description. It all ties together, Dillon. I swear, I’m not crazy.”

Lifting my head, I look into his eyes to see if he believes me. Huge mistake. With my emotions all over the place and the monster from my past fresh in my thoughts, I suddenly find myself greedy for more of Dillon’s comfort. A shameful thought enters my mind and I quickly shove it away. But when his dark eyes skim to my lips for a brief moment, heat floods through me.

“You’re not so much of a bitch from this angle,” he teases before releasing me. “But you’re still annoying.” He winks and returns to his side of the table, and my skin instantly chills at the loss of him.

Thoughts of Bo creep into my conscience and I want to throw up.

I’m a terrible person.

This is exactly why I shouldn’t marry him.

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