I find it unsettling how abruptly the world can change overnight—and then return to normal with equal speed. There is no big, monumental declaration of a shift in the status quo, either. No neon sign to mark the glaring differences. If anything, the transition is seamless. It’s as if everyone just blinks and forgets to process that something horrific has happened. They go on as before, smiling and cheerfully serving breakfast without so much as a frown.
“Did you sleep alright?” Catherine asks while setting the table with a stack of steaming pancakes and a dish of eggs. “I heard you go to bed late.”
I flinch at the statement. Did she hear the lash of a belt striking my skin, also? Looking at her face, I can’t tell. She’s the picture of perfection—bright-eyed and well rested, already wearing a beautiful blue dress for this morning’s sermon.
There are cracks in her façade, though. Whenever I stare at her, her eyes veer away to focus on the wall behind me. A wall, coincidentally devoid of any pictures of Hale. There used to be several, but now only blank spaces remain as if they’d been taken down too hastily to replace.
“Are… Are you ready for the service?” Catherine asks while fiddling with a handful of silverware. She starts to set a knife down at the head of the table and fumbles, dropping it. With a cry, she lunges to fix the mess. Only once the setting is neatly arranged does she seem to remember I’m even here. “Your father knows it might be stressful, but he’ll keep any reporters at bay.”
I’m sure he will. Just like I’m convinced that every bit of this morning has already been planned out and choreographed. We’ll leave and arrive together as a family, no doubt to an array of cameras eager to get a glimpse of me after my supposed ordeal in the grasp of armed criminals.
The reality is I don’t know who to fear more, Silas or my own father?
Or, someone whose cruelty could potentially outweigh them all…
Daze Keaton.
“You’re not eating much,” Catherine scolds once she’s settled into the seat across from me. Father’s place setting that she so carefully arranged is glaringly empty. She seems troubled by the absence. Her hands shake as she pours herself a cup of tea, though she never lets her cheerful expression waver. “I think your father must be skipping his meal today. Oh well, a few leftovers never killed anyone. Perhaps we could bring them by the outreach later? They’ve been busier there than ever after what happened. Visitors mostly, dropping off flowers and gifts for you—” She clears her throat and risks a glance over her shoulder like a child making sure her parents aren’t in earshot. Then she leans toward me and whispers, “You know, for what happened. So many people came out to show their support for you, Frances. Colton even went out to thank them. He was so devastated when he heard the news. Michael, of course, thinks it’s wasteful, but I think it’s so nice.”
“Wasteful,” I echo, feeling my brows furrow. For some reason, that word choice triggers a memory. It was a bitterly cold day, but we had to stand outside for hours. My dress was a thick black wool that itched like hell. I was younger, staring at a plot of disturbed earth, piled high with flowers of all kinds and a few heartfelt cards. Father stood beside me, his hair blonder then, his gaze steely as ever.
“How wasteful,” he said in disapproval.
He sneered at the mangled rose I’d held in my hand that some well-meaning usher had passed out as we left the church. Without explanation, he snatched it away and threw it carelessly onto the pile of sentiments. Then, in a booming voice that radiated throughout the entire cemetery, he launched into a biblical lesson on the perils of grief. Even back then, his philosophy could be politely summed up as—keeping a stiff upper lip. Some of our neighbors had whispered other words to describe his demeanor. Cold. Cruel. Like any devoted daughter, I’d written the naysayers off as bitter. They didn’t understand him. Father loved us all in his own way.
Without the blind loyalty of youth clouding my judgment, I can finally admit the truth—I’d been lying to myself. I didn’t want to see what those not under his spell so clearly had.
“Frances?” Catherine waves her hand in front of my face. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” I say, pushing my plate aside. “I just remembered something. He said the same thing at my mother’s funeral. Her fake one, of course—not that anyone outside the family knew that. He scoffed at their crying faces and gifts. He called them wasteful.” My voice sounds so stern. Am I angry? Yes. For one of the first times in my life, I don’t rush to suppress negative emotion. I’m angry.
Catherine just stares at me, her eyes bug wide. It isn’t fair to lay this on her. I know that. But Silas’ words keep itching at me. He’s been willing to throw away more than one of you precious Heywoods…
What had he meant by that?
“You’re probably exhausted,” Catherine says, nodding to herself. She grabs a serving dish of eggs. “You should eat—”
“I’m not hungry,” I snap. So much for our charming charade. I told Daze I would be fine another day—it seems I lied without even realizing it. I’m not fine. Ignoring reality has been my tried-and-true method for surviving this long, but my patience is wearing out. Some things can’t be overlooked. Like pain. My back is on fire, aggravated by the polished, high-back chair I’m sitting on. My left eye still aches every time I blink. I can’t breathe without thinking about Hale and how much I failed him.
And I know that Daze will find some way to break in, even if he has to risk getting hurt again. All for me—but I’m too much of a coward to unravel the twisted mysteries staring me right in the face.
“I need to know what happened to Hale,” I say in a voice I barely recognize as my own. “I need to know the truth—”
“Frances, please,” Catherine pleads. She reaches for my hand, and I realize that her fingers are trembling. Worriedly, her eyes dart in the direction of the staircase. “I know you’ve been through an ordeal, but your father has been stressed with the election. It might be best not to risk upsetting him. I know! I can make you some tea. That might help calm you—”
“No!” I wrench my hand away, but I’m just as startled by the action as Catherine seems. “You were beside him at Hale’s funeral, weren’t you?” I ask. By then, I’d been so lost in grief that I barely remember that day. “Did he call the flowers wasteful, then?”
“No,” Catherine replies, her eyes glistening. “He loved your brother, and so did I. It isn’t nice to bring up such awful things. Even about your mother, may she rest in peace. I’m sure your father—”
“She’s not dead.” I start to push back from the table. It’s too hot in here. I can’t think. “That’s the lie he’s been telling for the last few years, but she’s alive.”
“No, sweetheart.” Catherine shakes her head, a beautiful frown playing on her lips. It’s like she practices in the mirror how to appear as such—the wholesome, sweet wife to Michael Heywood. “She’s gone. You need to accept that—”
“No.” I lurch to my feet, compelled to keep talking, blurting out one of our dirty family secrets. “She was an addict who got sick of him. Did he tell you that? One night, she packed up her bags without a backward glance. I saw her leave.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about!” Catherine’s voice changes in pitch, hoarse and thready. No longer does she look charming and innocent. Her eyes are wide, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. She looks… Horrified. “She’s dead, and I—Frances, please, sit down. Please! Before Michael hears you! Please!”
I obey, compelled by her cries.
“Good. Now, can we at least have a civilized breakfast?” She pounces for my plate and grabs a ladle of fresh eggs. “Let’s eat. Here, have some more. There’s plenty.”
Despite her best efforts to forge cheerful chatter, I’m too tired to play along. We finish our meal in silence, just in time to greet the figure who appears in the doorway, dressed in a coal-black suit.
“Michael!” Catherine lurches to her feet, fighting to smooth the front of her skirt, but I don’t move. “I didn’t hear you come down. Oh, dear, the food is all cold. I’ll warm up your plate.”
She flits off, though Father pays her no notice. His gaze is squarely fixed on me, and I find myself watching him with the same intensity.
In the morning glow drifting in through the windows, Michael Heywood looks the same as always. His white hair is neatly coifed, smoothed back to enhance the intensity of his blue eyes—the same hue as Hale’s. They were more alike in physical appearance than personality, sharing an identical smile, as well as the quiet, suppressed way they managed their anger. Hale had a peculiar manner when something was troubling him. His brows would furrow, and his mouth would quirk downward into an “almost” frown.
Our father differs from him there, though. There is no mistaking his rage—his eyes darken to a dangerous shade of navy reminiscent of a sky when storm clouds roll in. He radiates that silent fury in every inch of his body, and his voice echoes, low and gravelly.
Like it does now.
“Morning, Frances,” he says. “I take it you’re ready to leave with us this morning? We will be joined in our pew by the Abernathys. They wanted to visit last night, but I decided that you should rest. You will speak with them after the services, I’m sure. Lewis Abernathy’s support is vital to my future plans for this city.”
Colton’s father? He’s a prominent investor from what I know, and an ardent supporter of my father’s—though he rarely shows such special favor publicly. While they have their own pew a few benches back from ours, they’ve never sat with us before. For the Abernathy family to join us means more than just a simple seating arrangement, I suspect. It’s a significant shift in the church’s hierarchy that I can’t even begin to process.
“After the services?” I repeat.
Father watches me with an unreadable expression. “Yes. Colton wishes to discuss a matter with you in private.”
Oh, God. My stomach flips as I consider disobeying entirely. Running away. Screaming. Doing anything to show that I can’t be cowed so easily. Beneath the gauzy material of my starched, white blouse, I can feel at least seven welts aching across the length of my back. I could barely sleep, plagued by their discomfort.
Even so, I grit my teeth rather than let the pain show. Instead, I just nod. “Yes.”
“You will conduct yourself properly, of course,” Father continues. “All eyes will be on our family, watching for any sign of weakness.” His gaze rakes me over from head to toe, inspecting every detail of my ensemble.
In addition to the blouse, the rest of my clothing is what Catherine suggested—no doubt with his input. A modest gray skirt and cream cardigan. Every ounce of material feels like shackles, tethering me to a personality I’m not sure I want to embody anymore. The perfect, obedient daughter who ignorantly stood on the sidelines as her brother dealt with something nefarious.
So nefarious it got him killed.
At the same time, I’m not like Daze, bold and self-confident. I can’t take on the world with a brazen swagger and hope for the best. I have to endure in my own way, whatever that may be.
It might just consist of playing along like an obedient, good girl for the time being. So, I force a smile and stand up to join my father in the doorway as though nothing is wrong.
“I’m ready.”
I feel his eyes on the back of my neck as Catherine scrambles from the kitchen, fighting to tear off her apron.
Minutes later, we leave, flanked by his security. I can’t resist scanning the faces of the men nearest me. I don’t see a familiar battered, blond head among them. Unease gnaws away at my newfound resolve. Could he have gotten caught?
Though, I think there would be some mention of it. My father wouldn’t hesitate to parade another “criminal” through the streets in the name of justice. The real question, though, is why I even want to see him again. Why I can’t ignore the hope fluttering in my chest as I scan the front lawn for any sign of him.
The best thing would be for him to have changed his mind about coming. Keep safe. I still wish he were here though, whispering encouraging words into my ear. His advice would be vile, of course, riddled with vulgarity. Toughen up, Blondie, he’d snipe. Don’t get sidetracked. Try to see things as Hale saw them.
Only I’m more confused than ever. He went from hating my father to debating biblical stories with him the night he died. A part of me wants to write off the information as trivial—but I can’t. There’s something there—if only I could figure out what.
I’m almost relieved when we pull up before the Covenant building, escorted by a police car. The square, two-story establishment looks the same as it always has.
Safe and simple, adorned only by a neatly tended front lawn of potted flowers that highlight a sign displaying the message of the week. Today’s is simple—Honor thy father.
That ominous feeling of unease building in my gut grows as I’m herded inside, forced to march past pews filled with parishioners who crane their necks for a glimpse of me. Catherine said there was an outflowing of support. For what? The innocent victim of an attack that might have been planned by the figure walking beside me?
I feel like a fish in a bowl, on display for the entire world.
“This way, Frances,” Catherine says, nudging me toward the front pew my family has dominated for years. Already seated there are a stern-faced man and woman with golden hair—with fake smiles plastered on their beautiful faces. The Abernathys. Beside them sits Colton, his expression the picture of concern. At least until our eyes meet—something cold flits across his gaze, gone in a flash, but I’m unsettled by it, nonetheless. Is something wrong?
By the time I’ve settled in the furthest possible spot from the others, I’ve pushed the fear to the back of my mind. Father keeps going, heading for the pulpit centered on the low stage at the front of the room. It’s strange how much time I used to spend in this place, with its familiar white walls and burgundy carpet meant to evoke the spilled blood of Christ. Yet, I barely recognize it. The pews are dark wood, worn with age, but even in the weeks before my father entered politics, I can’t ever remember them being so full of people. Most of the faces peering at me from around their open Bibles are that of strangers.
The recent news coverage has been a boon for Covenant’s attendance, it seems, and though he isn’t technically allowed to hold a leadership role while he campaigns, Father looks at home facing down his swelling congregation.
When he steps forward and hefts his leatherbound Bible before flipping it open, I feel myself tense. What words of wisdom will he share today? As the gist of his chosen sermon for the morning becomes clear, my blood runs cold.
It’s the tale of Abraham, a pious devotee tasked by God with a duty meant to put his loyalty to the test—sacrifice his own son, Isaac, without question. My father portrays that tale beyond the obvious lesson about devotion, however. He frames it as a duty. When God calls upon one of his flock, not even blood should stand in the way. Not a son. Not a daughter. A true follower will uphold any duty bestowed upon them by God without question.
Each word resonates differently than the many other speeches I’ve sat through over the years. His voice rings out harsher than I remember. Colder. His eyes seem to skip over everyone else and linger on me.
“Faith is fearless, and to embrace piety is to be a soldier for the Lord, unrelenting and unrestrained by mortal concerns.” He looks me dead in the eye as he speaks. “A true worshiper must hold nothing sacred over the will of God.”
Sweat runs down the back of my neck, aggravating every welt it meets on the way. As father drones on, I get up and scurry to the back of the room, desperate for fresh air. To my shock, no one tries to stop me, and I find my way into the women’s bathroom. Finally alone, I lean against the counter, panting for breath.
I’m being paranoid by reading into that sermon far more than I should. Right? That wasn’t a message directed my way—no, a warning. Was Hale the one he thought stood in his way to some righteous goal?
Or my mother… Catherine didn’t seem like she was parroting my father’s lies for once when she responded to my outburst. No. She insisted on my mother’s death as if she knew for sure she was gone—and that knowledge terrified her.
It terrifies me. I don’t even recognize the shivering mess staring back from the mirror’s surface. I look nothing like the bold woman who kissed Daze—and more—in the narrow bathroom of his apartment. Maybe I never was that person. I was always meant to be frightened, meek Frey, who watches from the sidelines, too afraid to stand up for herself.
Suddenly, the door opens, and I struggle to compose myself. Did Catherine come to check on me? I look over, expecting to find her smiling face, eager to shepherd me back to the main room and under Father’s purview. Instead, I spot a figure who, at first glance, doesn’t fit the mold of the average female parishioner. They’re too tall, for one, and possess ample muscles that strain the white dress shirt and slacks they wear instead of a dress. Wait…
I gape as the figure presses a finger to his lips while closing the door behind him. He grabs the large trash can positioned nearby and places it in the doorway, blocking the entrance in case someone tries to come in.
Rather than inspire fear, my body goes limp with relief at the sight of those familiar limbs. Voice a choked whisper, I croak, “I didn’t think you’d come—” Though I’m selfishly glad he did. Still, I can’t resist adding, “There are guards posted all over.”
“I know.” That smile vanishes every fear I have. It flits over a familiar mouth and illuminates the gray eyes I’ve come to recognize. They—and the blond hair neatly combed to obscure the bruises on his face—are the only parts of this figure that belong to the gruff, wild Daze. Otherwise, the man wearing a crisp church outfit with starched slacks could be a stranger, eager to listen in on a typical morning sermon.
“Breaking into my house is one thing,” I whisper, fighting to sound stern. “But if Father sees you—”
“We have about ten minutes before he wraps up that charming speech of his,” Daze says, evading my question. In two steps, he closes the distance between us, pressing me in against the nearest wall. “So, I hope you’ve said your goodbyes, princess.”
“Ah—” I barely manage to choke off a cry as my back twinges. Thankfully, Daze seems too busy inhaling my scent to notice. I wiggle closer to him, shifting so that my hip takes the pressure instead.
Then I copy him, breathing in deeply. He smells good—different from his usual musk. I think he put on cologne, which I doubt he uses regularly. It’s merely part of his ruse to blend in. Just to get to me?
“What if someone sees you?” I ask, though I don’t sound as worried by that as I should.
Having him near me acts like kryptonite to the niggling self-doubts. I can think clearly again. One unsettling speech shouldn’t be enough to rattle me so easily. I need to refocus.
I attempt to do so while holding Daze’s gaze, seeing myself reflected in those piercing eyes. With every passing second, I note changes in him that weren’t there even the other day. He isn’t smiling for one. The lack of the trademark expression makes him look older. Colder.
“Something’s wrong,” he says.
“Huh?” I fight to make my expression blank. Desperate for a distraction, I run my hands along his forearms. It’s easier that way to sense the tension rippling in his muscles, ready to explode at a moment’s notice.
“What happened? You don’t seem very happy to see me,” he adds, reaching up to flick a wayward strand of hair from my face. Then he holds onto that lone curl, twisting it around his fingers. “In fact, you look fucking terrified. Don’t lie to me. He did something to you. Said something. More than that fire and brimstone shit he was spewing out there.” His eyes narrow, and I feel his hand inch toward my lower back. “You winced before. When I touched you here—”
“No.” I try to bat him off. “I’m fine.”
“Little liar,” Daze snarls. His upper lip curls back from his teeth, and I’m suddenly aware of how much larger he is than me. How much stronger. Yet, his touch is persistent along my waist, unnervingly gentle. His voice, however, is a chilling contrast as he bites out, “Turn around.”
I stiffen. Catherine had spent the morning in such blissful ignorance that I’d almost convinced myself that I was just that good at hiding my true emotions. Apparently not. With one look, Daze has seen right through me, and I don’t know whether to be terrified he can read me so well or…
Relieved. At least it means that I’m not crazy—that the unease and constant prickling dread I feel isn’t all in my head. Something is horribly wrong, even if I can’t definitively say what.
But I’m not stupid enough to reveal everything to Daze, either. He’s taken enough beatings as it is.
“I don’t want to do this now. Please.” I force a smile and step into him, painfully aware of every noise emanating from the hall. I can only pray that no one has to pee before the end of the service. “Nothing’s wrong with me,” I lie in a way that I think is convincing. At least until my voice breaks. Thinking fast, I change tact. Lying is his game. Playing pretend is mine. “And even if there were… I don’t want to care. Just make me forget. Please, Daze. That’s all I want. It’s what I need. I need to forget.”
His eyes narrow to slits, and I brace for him to spin me around and rip my shirt off anyway. Instead, he presses his thumb against the corner of my mouth as if testing the validity of my last statement. “Fine then. We’ll dance around that subject for now if you want, but you aren’t that good of an actress, Freylie. I’ll find out the truth later, once I get you to my place.”
Oh no. I grit my teeth at the reminder of his unofficial timeline.
“Daze, wait—” I place my hand on his chest, but he draws me into him, palming my waist. He boldly plunges a thumb beneath my blouse and my breath feathers. I can barely choke out, “Daze, stop—”
“Done waiting,” he rasps. “You had your day. Now you’re all mine.” A devastating smile spreads over his lips, but his eyes remain dark. Way too serious for games. “You gave me your word, Freylie. You’re coming with me.”
“You think I can skip out in the middle of the service? You’re joking, right?” I force out a laugh, though deep down, I know he means every word. His desperation to leave is apparent in how his fingers grip me possessively, conveying the strength coiled in each digit.
“Like hell I am. Pretend I don’t know you’re hurting. Keep your secrets if you want—” He nods toward my shoulder. “But do you really think I’ll let you stay in that fucking house a second longer? You may put your faith in prayer, but I don’t. Silas has already come after you once, and we both know that your brother didn’t accidentally overdose. You’re coming with me. No discussion. We can leave out the back with no one the wiser.”
“Daze…” An unfamiliar warmth spreads through me, and I feel dizzy. “Are you proposing to kidnap me again?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Why not? Your old man has already gambled your welfare at least once for a publicity stunt. This time, you won’t risk a beating by a fucking psychopath. And don’t think I didn’t realize that fucked-up sermon was directed at you.”
I wince at the reminder. Maybe it’s the heated passion in his voice, but I can’t deny that his plan sounds convincing. Tempting. A part of me wants to throw caution to the wind and risk sneaking away now, right from under Father’s nose and the watchful eyes of his security.
But…
“I can’t,” I say, hating how weak I sound compared to him. My voice is just a thready whisper, but I fight to make it sound stronger. “I need more time. There’s something about Hale’s death no one is telling me.”
And maybe my mother’s supposed fake funeral should be added to the list.
I can’t stop picturing Catherine from this morning. The look on her face…
“I know it’s stupid,” I say in response to Daze’s enraged growl. “But I need to figure out what. Maybe then I can finally get him justice. I just need to do something.”
Or at least get to the bottom of what Hale had been trying to tell me. He wasn’t crazy—and Catherine got so jumpy when the topic of that night came up for a reason. Something more than trauma and grief. There was fear in her eyes, too, I’m sure of it.
“I need to do this while I’m close to them and still in the house. I owe Hale that much. Please—”
“You don’t owe him your life,” Daze counters, boring his gaze into mine.
“I know that. I’m doing this for me. And… I need you to trust me, the way I trust you. Remember? You still haven’t told me how you knew my father—the real reason. Should I demand to hear it before I can even think of leaving with you?”
He has the decency to look away. “Fine then,” he snaps after a painful few seconds of silence. “I’ll give you another day, maybe two. After that, you’re coming with me, even if I have to carry you out of that fucking house with your daddy watching.”
“As romantic as that sounds, I think you should worry about yourself first—” I prod his forehead. Despite how well he’s cleaned up, a neatly coifed hairstyle can’t completely hide the bruises. I wish I had a first-aid kit or something to treat him with. A wet paper towel will have to do. With a sigh, I grab one from the dispenser, run it beneath the faucet, and then dab at the nastiest mark along his temple. “You have Sammy to think about,” I tell him. “Besides, you can do something for me instead of trying to scale the walls of my house.”
He cocks his head just enough to still maintain contact with my hand. “What?”
I can’t shake the feeling that he’s right. I’m in danger, and no longer can I willfully pretend I’m not. There is only one solution, and yet… I can barely get the words out.
Tilting my head back to meet his gaze, I take a steadying breath. “I… I want you to get me a weapon.”
His eyebrows go up, but I don’t think he’s half as startled by the request as I am. Before I can even process the logistics of such an insane ask, another demand slips out of my mouth. “And I want you to teach me how to use it.”
“I think I’m starting to rub off on you.” He doesn’t seem too troubled by that prospect, however. He purses his lips, seemingly mulling over the request, and a thrill shoots down my spine. I’m not used to this—being heard.
“What kind of weapon?” He grabs my wrist, tracing a path down to my fingers. He takes his time, smoothing over each one as if gauging which method of violence they’d be best suited for. “Maybe a switchblade. Something small you can conceal at all times. Frankly, princess, I don’t know if I’d trust you with a gun.”
“You actually think you could get me one?” I don’t know if I’m horrified by the idea or merely intrigued about what he really does when he isn’t cage fighting or dragging women off bridges. Something involving a need for an intimate knowledge of weapons and how to find them, anyway.
“Already on it,” he continues, still stroking my hand. Then he reaches into his pocket and presses something firm to my palm. In awe, I realize I’m holding a sleek, compact switchblade. As I watch, Daze presses a silver button on the side that sends a pointed blade extending from one end.
“Great minds think alike,” he says with a grin. Then he sets the knife on the counter. “But we’ll start with basic defense, first.” He steps in, maneuvering me in front of him with my back against his chest. I close my eyes against the resulting sting—his nearness is worth any agony. “Let’s say I’m some asshole that’s snuck up behind you and gone for your throat—” He releases my hand in favor of palming my neck instead, gently enough that I can still breathe. “Besides screaming, what do you do?”
I raise my hands and mime digging my nails into him. “Try to get him off.”
“Wrong.” He leans forward, forcing me to feel the contours of his much larger body against mine. In theory, the answer to his question seems obvious. I wouldn’t stand a chance if my attacker was even half his size.
“Don’t think like that,” Daze scolds into my ear as if reading my mind. “When someone has you from behind, the first thing you do is go limp. Make yourself deadweight.”
I raise an eyebrow skeptically, eyeing the still-closed door. Despite my ever-present fear that someone might barge in at any moment, I’m dizzy off the warmth of his breath on my neck. The way he feels. How he smells, with his usual musk mingled with sweeter cologne. The mixture makes my mouth water and my tongue grow damp. I almost miss what he says next.
“Focus, princess. When grabbed, you go limp. Do it.”
“Okay…” I obey, letting myself slump into his grasp.
“That will throw off your attacker,” Daze explains, loosening his grip as he speaks. “He’ll expect you to fight, and he’ll instinctively relax when you don’t. The second he does, you grab his forearm with both hands and focus all your weight to the floor.”
I rock forward on the balls of my feet while grabbing at his hand. The force alone is enough to break his grasp and let me wiggle away.
“Good,” he says, wrenching me toward him again. “Do it faster.”
After five more attempts, he finally seems satisfied enough to move on to the next step of this impromptu lesson.
“We don’t have a lot of time left, but there is one thing you need to know. The most important thing.”
“What?” I ask when he trails off.
He spins me to face him, but I’m not prepared for the heat I find in his gaze. “That I’ll always have your back. Always.”
“I said that I trust you, but how can I?” I’m not being spiteful for the hell of it. Even now, it feels like he’s still withholding a piece of himself from me, even as he promises me everything.
“You want me to prove it?” He moves in to brush his lips over mine. “Fine. With every second that you stay with these bastards, I want you to think of this—”
His hand is whisper-soft, ghosting down to my inner thigh. He teases me with just the tip of a finger at first, but I can’t silence a whimper. It’s insane how confident another person can navigate your own body in ways you could never dream.
With barely any contact, he has me jolting on the tips of my toes, lacing my fingers around his neck.
“I want you to imagine me inside you,” he breathes against my throat. “Just like this… I want you to close your eyes and hear my voice. You got that?”
He stills, crooking that beckoning finger.
“Y-Yes,” I bite out.
“Good.” His lips brush my earlobe, his voice dangerously soft. “I want you to remember me saying this—you are mine, Frey. All of this.”
He sounds too serious. My belly quakes at the prospect, and I’m tempted to ask him, “Why? You barely know me—”
“Because I always know what I want.” He nudges my panties aside and eases a finger inside me. My eyelids flutter, and I lean back, relying on the sink for support.
“And I’m not afraid to claim it. Do you hear me, Freylie? This pretty little pussy is mine,” Daze grates out, stroking me in a slow, ruthless rhythm. “This little cry you make when I touch you…here—”
He crooks that finger, and my breath catches. It’s sinful how good he feels. I’ve barely adjusted to the sensation when he flexes his thumb, teasing the bundle of nerves that makes me cry out.
“And I want you to remember how this feels,” he says, his voice hoarse. “Tell me.”
I can barely get the words out. “It feels…good,” I manage to croak. “So good—”
“But not good enough,” he declares. “I want you to imagine me fucking you like this, against the wall, with your pretty little skirt a fucking mess and your nice bun undone. And your eyes so damn wide. Can you do that?”
My cheeks heat at the innuendo, but I can’t deny the power that image has over me. He makes something so seemingly degrading sound…incredible. My heart rate skyrockets at the thought of him bringing such an image to life. “Yes…”
“Good girl.” He touches me in earnest, griding his palm into me, while stroking me with his finger at the same time. I have to bite my lip to keep quiet. I can’t stop my hips from arching and my nails from snagging at his skin. “Damn,” he hisses through his teeth, stepping into me while his mouth finds mine.
This kiss is nothing like the others we’ve shared. It’s rough. Brutal. Biting. He sucks at my lower lip. Then nips, making me jump. I return the favor, and the sound he makes…
It has my toes curling. I smooth my hands over his shoulders, sensing the coiling muscle beneath. His heartbeat races against me, undermining the suave, calm persona he always embodies. The truth seems to be that I affect him just as much as he affects me.
“I think I’m having difficulty imagining exactly what you wanted me to,” I admit against his mouth. He rears back, an eyebrow raised.
“Oh?”
“Yes. I think you might have to demonstrate it in detail for me.”
“Can do.”
Before I can even blink, his hands are delving beneath my skirt and hooking around the waistband of my panties. One harsh yank triggers a horrific ripping sound, and then they vanish—not that Daze seems to mind the destruction. He hooks his hand beneath one of my knees, yanking it up to his waist. Then he wrenches open his fly with one hand.
I watch him in awe, feeling my cheeks flame. “I think I like you in this good boy church getup,” I tell him thickly. “It makes you look almost wholesome.”
He growls out a laugh that might be loud enough to draw notice—not that he seems to care. I doubt that even if my father waltzed in on us right now, he’d have the decency to stop. He looks at me like I’m the only thing that matters in the entire universe. Not even his safety comes close.
“Looks can be deceiving, Freylie,” he murmurs, diving in to run his tongue along my bottom lip. I shiver at his taste—musky and sweet. “I think it’s time you learned that.”
He takes his thumb and runs it between my legs, barely touching the aching flesh. If he had his way, I bet he’d tease me like this until my breaking point, using this power over me to make me do and say whatever he wanted. At the moment, though, time is too short, and he doesn’t seem willing to deny himself another second.
He enters me so slowly I can track his every reaction. The way he hisses out in relief at the feel of me. The way his eyes threaten to roll in the back of his head simply because of how much pleasure he gains merely by this act. Then he bites his lower lip as a feral hunger sets in. When his vision clears and homes in on mine, I know only to brace myself.
His next thrust makes my teeth clatter together. A moan revs in my throat as he draws back and rocks into me again. The second I adjust to the invasion, he changes tact, swiveling his hips to go harder. Deeper.
It’s so, so good. All thought—and fears—go right out of my head. The fact that we’re in a church bathroom ceases to matter. I forget that I can’t moan the way I want to. I forget that every grunt that rips from him as he rocks into me merely increases our chances of being discovered.
None of that matters.
Helpless, I rake my fingers through his hair, digging my nails in as he begins to slam into me in earnest. Fiery pleasure ignites in my belly, spreading throughout my body until it builds into an all-consuming inferno.
“Fuck,” Daze grates before seizing a tender bit of flesh on my shoulder between his teeth. He bites down hard enough to border on pain as his thrusts lose their polished cadence. He’s reckless. Wild.
I do my best to arch into him, letting my body demand more until I’m shuddering with the need to finally cross over the point of no return.
“You’re about to come,” Daze says, giving a name to the desperate, aching sensation building within me. “Fuck. I can feel you. Come for me. Just like that, sweet girl. Give me all you’ve got.”
I close my eyes and let his grated command work its magic over my body. I can feel my body clamping down over him, gripping so tightly he groans like someone in the throes of grievous torture.
“Not yet,” he bites out, though I think he’s speaking more to himself than to me. With renewed focus, he takes my other knee in hand and yanks.
This angle gives him more leverage, and he uses every last bit of it to his advantage. Without warning, he pivots, and I’m further back on the counter, with my back against the mirror.
“That’s more like it,” he praises as a startled cry rips from my throat. “No one’s here to see you now, little princess. Stop holding back and fuck me like you want to come.”
I grasp out with one hand, curling it around the rim of the counter beneath me. Using that grip for leverage, I rock my hips into him while pulling his face down to mine. I take him up on his challenge and use the kiss to turn the tables.
I lose all traces of the polite, perfect manners that have been drilled into me my entire life. I take what I want—using my teeth to pry his mouth open and hook my tongue around his.
He growls in shock and angles his hips to retaliate. From that position, he strokes a part of me that makes my vision go white. I have to gasp for air, and before my lungs can fully fill, he reaches between us and grinds his thumb against my clit.
He’s too good at this. I can only submit to the pleasure and hang on for the ride. Contrary to his taunt, he can’t seem to stave off the release his body desperately seeks indefinitely. With a hoarse, guttural shout, he slams into me one last time.
The grating friction triggers my body’s release, and I can’t even savor the fact that he beat me to the punch. My toes curl as I ride each slow, heady wave of ecstasy. At one point, it feels like it will never end. I’ll just exist like this for an eternity, locked in mind-numbing pleasure with him.
Eventually, my breathing steadies, though, and I slowly come back down to earth with Daze panting against my ear.
“Was that a good enough demonstration, Freylie?” he asks between breaths. “Think you can remember that?”
I can only muster up a breathless sigh in response.
“Good.” He runs his fingers along my bound hair and presses his forehead to mine. I greedily breathe him in, savoring this nearness. In total, we’ve probably been here less than twenty minutes, but it feels like something has changed between us, even in that short amount of time.
His eyes tell me he feels the same way, even if neither of us dares to voice what it is.
“I think your fellow parishioners might start to wonder where you are.” Suddenly, he pulls back, nuzzling against my neck until the last possible second. “I should go before they come looking...”
He should. That doesn’t make it any easier to nod in agreement.
“You should leave first,” he adds, helping me to my feet. With a start, I realize my panties are in two torn halves on the floor, savaged beyond repair.
“Wait—” Daze snatches a handful of paper towels from a nearby dispenser. He wets them beneath the faucet and then crouches, cleaning me up with a care that mimics how I fussed over him. “There,” he says, obscuring his handiwork as I rush to smooth my skirt into place. “You look perfect. Virginal, some might say—”
“Very funny!” I ruffle his hair as he rises to his feet.
“Here, don’t forget this,” he murmurs as he reaches for the blade he left on the counter. He places it in my right hand before curling my fingers around the weapon.
He kisses me hard one last time. Then he murmurs, “Clear the hallway for me if you can so I can exit before some lady gets a lot more than she bargained for.”
“Oh? I think you’d like that,” I taunt, throwing the words he’d murmured in my bedroom back in his face as I slip the knife into the pocket of my skirt. “They’d see who you really are. My dirty rogue angel.”
He laughs while I continue to adjust my appearance. After tossing my torn panties in the trash, I can’t resist lingering near him for another second. One more. He doesn’t resist, letting me reach for his hand and run my finger along his palm.
When I finally exit the bathroom, it feels like I’m going through a portal to another dimension. One in which the world seems colder and grayer, and there isn’t the wild, chaotic energy that Daze exudes without even trying. In its place is just fear and unease that builds until it feels like I’ll explode.
It takes everything I have not to turn back. Instead, I make sure the hall is clear before I return to my seat beside Catherine just as Father finishes up with his service to polite applause. Sitting down only reinforces the fact that I’m not wearing anything else beneath the thin material of my skirt. I know my cheeks are on fire as Catherine leans over and whispers in my ear. “You were gone a while. I was just about to go in after you. Are you alright?”
“Of course. I’m wonderful.” I even muster up a polite smile. Within seconds, I’ve fallen back into my perfect, charming daughter charade. When the congregation finally breaks to mingle and pay their respects, I survive only a handful of forced greetings and introductions before I can’t take it anymore.
I bolt, sensing one of Father’s men hot on my heels before I even enter the lobby. “I just need fresh air,” I tell him as I scurry toward the main doors, but the reality is that I’m praying to catch a glimpse of Daze retreating down the block. Maybe I’ll be brave enough to chase after him—damn the consequences.
Or, better yet, one last glance at him can give me the strength I need to keep going.
Instead, the front lawn is devoid of anyone but a few lingering reporters who strain to get a photo. I haven’t decided which is a worse foe to face—them or the people inside the church—when someone climbs over a metal barrier keeping them at bay, despite the guard’s warning.
“I’m unarmed,” he says, raising his empty hands. He comes close enough to touch me, but no further. “I just want to ask her a few questions if that’s okay. She doesn’t have to respond if she doesn’t want to. I can give you my press credentials if you want.”
Withdrawing a pen from behind his ear with one hand, he fishes out a notebook from his pocket with the other. He’s young, with tousled brown hair and dark eyes that gleam behind the frames of his glasses.
“Frances Heywood, if I’m not mistaken?” he asks, turning to me. “My name is Jamie Colland with the Daily Reporter. I just wanted to ask you a few questions about—”
“She has no comment,” a guard snaps before I can voice a word for myself. He storms to my location, stepping in front of me. “Miss, perhaps we should step back inside—”
“That’s strange,” the reporter says, craning his neck to hold my gaze, “because one might think you’d have something to say regarding the rumors about the organization your family runs and that you have attached your name to, Ms. Heywood.”
I stop short. The accusatory note in his voice startles me into responding. “What are you talking about?”
A potential answer comes to mind. Could he be referring to Hale and his doubts about Salvation?
His sharp brown eyes give nothing away. “I’m talking about the spate of disappearances being reported throughout the city in the past year and a half,” he says. “There’s been at least a dozen that I know of, most of them homeless or former addicts with few family ties to the local area. One thing they do have in common, though? They’ve all been through the doors of Salvation and roped into one of your ‘employment outreach’ programs. Do you have any comment on that?”
“That’s enough.” The guard grips my arm and manually steers me toward the front entrance of the church. “I think Mr. Heywood would be interested to know that you and your employer believe it’s okay to harass innocent civilians,” he calls back.
“I don’t intend to harass you, Ms. Heywood,” the man says, though he keeps his distance. “I merely want to get to the bottom of what’s happening to some of the most vulnerable citizens of our city. If you share the same interest, I ask that you give me a call.” He fishes a business card from his pocket and offers it to me.
“This way, Ms. Heywood.” The guard maneuvers me inside before I can protest, and I look back in time to witness the reporter setting the card on top of the church’s welcome sign.
“Give me a call at any time, Ms. Heywood,” he shouts, his voice muffled by the glass doors slamming shut. “All I want is to get to the truth of what’s happening. I believe your family might hold the answer.”
His words ring ominously as I’m steered back inside the main room of the church. Hale was worried about something involving Salvation—something so bad that it drove a wedge between him and the rest of my family and may have even gotten him killed. Something so bad that he felt compelled to team up with a man like Daze to find answers.
Do those missing people have anything to do with his concerns? Westpoint City isn’t the most idyllic place in the world—after all, my father has based his entire campaign on reducing a rash of increased crime. But multiple disappearances within a year, all of them able to be traced back to one place?
It sounds too convenient to be a coincidence.
Still, I try to keep my concern from showing on my face as I rejoin Catherine and my father, who are addressing a handful of parishioners. The closer I come, the harder it gets to maintain my carefree expression.
“Frances,” Father says, gesturing to the man across from him. “Colton has expressed interest in joining us for dinner tonight. What do you think?”
I keep smiling. I didn’t even realize that Colton and his parents were standing nearby. “That sounds great.”
It doesn’t. A dinner is just one more distraction threatening to get in my way of finding answers before Daze’s timeline. Do I really think he’ll drag me out of my house in front of everyone if he feels the need to?
Yes. I think he might.
“Good, it’s settled then. I’m sure you have plenty to catch up on. Catherine and I will be in the car.” To my surprise, Father retreats, leaving behind at least two guards who lurk nearby while Colton grabs my hand and guides me to the back of the church.
“You look good,” he says, glancing over the slight bruise on my forehead. “I didn’t sleep at all last night, worrying about what could have happened.”
He sounds earnest, but I can’t shake a paranoid sense that he doesn’t appear anywhere near worried enough. Almost as if he’s going through the motions, feigning shock at an event that he was well aware of in advance.
I try to shrug off the suspicion.
“I’m fine, but I’m a little tired. I really should be heading back—”
“Wait.” He tightens his grip on my hand, and I have to suppress the urge to wrench my fingers away. “You’ll be there tonight, won’t you?”
“Tonight?” I jump at the chance to weasel out of the event without rousing my father’s ire. “Oh, I hope so, though I’m still really tired. I’ll let you know if we need to reschedule—”
“Then I’ll tell you now, what I expect so that you’re prepared regardless,” he says. “I’ve already mentioned it to your father, and we’ve come to an agreement that now is the right time. I know you’ve been distracted after what happened with your brother, but you can’t spend the rest of your life, grieving for him, Frances. I’m sure you realize that now.”
I don’t know how to respond. “What do you mean?”
“I think it’s time we take our relationship to the next step. Tonight, I plan to formally announce my intent to pledge my devotion to you, Frances.”
My mind goes blank. All I can do is blink. “What?”
“I’m going to propose,” Colton insists, enunciating every word. “And your father has assured me that you will accept.”
“Assured you?” Anger rips through me, and I can’t control it. I wrench my hand away and step back, too horrified to keep up with my calm, happy charade. “What are you even talking about? He can’t promise you anything! I decide who I want to marry and when. We barely even know each other.”
“Enough!” With a wary glance at anyone who might have overheard, Colton steps forward, bringing his lips near my ear. “I’ve put up with your attitude long enough, but no longer. I even stood aside while you embarrassed me the way you have. Do you truly think we’re all really that stupid? That we don’t know about him?”
I feel the color drain away from my face. “Who… Who are you talking about?”
Darkness clouds his expression. “You know exactly who I’m talking about. We’ve turned a blind eye in the name of forgiveness, but that ends now. You are mine, Frances, ordained for me by God. Don’t make the mistake of assuming that forgiveness always triumphs over righteous duty.”
He wrenches me closer, his gaze boring into mine.
“When I propose to you tonight, you will accept. You will go back to the way things were. You will volunteer with your head held high in the Lord’s service, and you will stay by my side the way a wife should. Do you understand me?”
It’s eerie how much he sounds like my father. He even has his cadence down, as if he studied just how to mimic him in the mirror. “You aren’t the Shepherd,” I tell him, fighting to keep my voice steady. “And you don’t control me, Colton. Let me go—” I try to pull my arm away.
“Not yet, I don’t,” he says, tightening his grip. “But I will. Far sooner than you think. It’s inevitable, Frances. You belong with me. It won’t be long before you see that.” He leans in, forcing a kiss against my cheek.
“Stop!” I push him off and nearly succeed in getting away. His hand latches onto my forearm before I can take a step, drawing a gasp from my lips.
“Don’t you ever walk away from me,” he snarls, wrenching me to face him. “You will marry me. Your father will walk you down the aisle. And on our wedding night…” He exhales raggedly, his nostrils flaring. I barely recognize him, and tension gathers at the base of my spine as he curls one of his hands into a fist. Would he really hit me? Here?
I can’t stop myself from scanning the room, but the guards are absent, presumably posted out in the lobby. There’s no one to witness anything he might do—and I doubt it was by coincidence. No. He and Father conspired to arrange this little meeting.
As a warning.
I swallow hard and aim to sound calm. “Colton…”
“And on our wedding night,” he continues over me, his face reddening. “I’ll see just how much damage you let that criminal swine do to you. Your father used his influence to have the nurses perform an exam while you were unconscious. I know he soiled you. Seduced you. God, you even reek of corruption.”
I go still, unable to keep my face blank. Daze’s knife is in the pocket of my skirt. Drawing it now would certainly ruin my father’s chances of charming more money out of Lewis Abernathy, but I consider it. Then I force my hand flat against my hip and lick my lips to find traction to speak, “I don’t…”
“When I am your husband, you will repent for your sins,” he warns, his breath hot on my face. My resolve breaks, and I slide my hand into my pocket, gripping the switchblade. As my thumb finds the button to trigger the blade, Colton hisses, “I’m sure your father can teach me all about dealing with an unruly wife. See you tonight.”
He releases me abruptly and storms away, his head held high. Something in his posture sticks out to me. Maybe it’s the confident tilt of his head. In any case, I’m so shaken I feel my knees buckle in response, and I have to catch myself against a nearby pew.
He wasn’t referring to Catherine with that last statement.
He was referring to my mother.