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“The whole world thinks you’re a filthy whore,” he says, reaching over me and gripping my wrist. He pins it behind my back before fighting for the other, and before I even get a chance to try and pull them free, they’re bound with a rope. “Why don’t we show them just how much of a whore you really are.”
My father laughs as he pulls the ropes so tight the fibers dig into my skin, and I cry out, tears welling in my eyes.
This can’t be happening. Not again.
I try to buck him off me, but it only spurs him on. “Calm down, my filthy little slut. I know you’re fucking hungry for it, but there will be time for that. Let’s wait until we have our eager audience.”
The fuck is he talking about? Eager audience? It’s the second time he’s spoken about having an audience, and the thoughts of what he’s going to do make me sick. Is he planning to record me and post it online? If he’s so willing to show the world exactly what he’s done to me over the years, it’s confirmation that he was the one who leaked the story to the media.
His hands dig beneath me, violently searching for the button of my jeans between my body and the mattress, and I cry out again and again. “GET OFF ME, YOU PIECE OF SHIT.”
My protests earn me a solid blow from his elbow, right in the center of my spine. A sharp cry slips from my lips as the pain takes me right back to those abandoned years.
“You’re going down for this,” I vow. “No matter where you run, you won’t escape me. I’m going to make your life a living hell.”
Every ounce of my soul is spoken in those words, and yet all he can do is laugh. “We’ll see about that, princess,” he mocks. “Once I’m through with you, there’ll be nothing left worth saving.”
He makes me sick.
The button on my jeans pops open, and as he pulls back off me, he viciously yanks my jeans down my thighs. I take the moment to strike, whipping myself over and kicking out, slamming my foot across his face, listening to the satisfying way his nose crunches under the impact, just like the first time he ever touched me.
“You fucking bitch,” he growls, lunging for me.
I go to flee, desperately trying to scoot myself off the bed, but the glimmer of a blade catching in the light brings me up short as he presses it against the base of my throat. “That’s what I thought,” my father says as I come to a terrified halt, my whole body shaking in fear. “Now, here’s how this is going to happen.”
He moves away from me, and I scramble up the bed, putting distance between us as he reaches for my small purse that’s been tossed on the ground.
“I’m going to fuck you, Raleigh. I’m going to take everything that I’ve deserved, and you’re going to lay there and take it like the filthy little whore that you are, and if you don’t,” he says, his tone shifting to something more sinister and vile than I’ve ever heard from him. “I’ll be right here waiting for your little boyfriend to return, and when he does, this blade will be plunged right through his heart. You hear me?”
Fuck.
Tears stream down my face, and all I can manage is the slightest nod as bile rises in my throat, knowing with every ounce of my being that he means every last word he says. If I don’t do this, if I don’t allow him to take every shred of dignity I’d painfully found over the past six years, if I don’t allow him to destroy me, he will end Ezra’s life.
Ezra and I would never see eye to eye on this. He would prefer I fight, prefer that I allow him to take his chances with the blade, but he doesn’t know my father like I do. Whether I play along or not, he will still rape me. Whether I lay there and take it or try to fight him off, he will still brutally force himself inside of me. The sad reality is that after years of his abuse, I already know how to play the game to ensure I’m not left bleeding and broken when he’s through with me.
My father grins as he pulls my phone from my small purse and strides up to me, using my face to unlock the screen. “Now,” he says, searching through it before pressing a few buttons. “Smile for the camera, Raleigh. We’re going to show the world just how much you like it.”
32
Ezra
My gaze shifts to the wing of the stage, hating that Rae isn’t here, but I get why she needed the night to herself. That meeting was a shit show. Hell, the past two weeks have been a shit show, and considering everything, I think she’s handling herself remarkably well. Though I won’t lie, I’m annoyed with Dylan for catching her before she could get a chance to beat Jessica’s ass. The bitch deserved it, and while watching Rae take her down would have been the highlight of my century, she needed it more than she could ever know. I might have to introduce her to a punching bag, or she could take her frustrations out on me in the form of wild, desperate sex. I have no issues there.
Rae and I, when we’re together, it’s fire. I always knew we’d be compatible in that way, but finally getting to taste her, to feel her, it’s everything I thought it would be and more, and though I don’t regret waiting, I wish we were able to get our shit together a long time ago.
Years were wasted between us. I can only imagine where we’d be now if we never lost those years. If I never left her behind, and she never suffered the horrendous abuse her father submitted her to. If Rae had been with me all these years, Ax never would have needed to go find her. He’d still be here. So many fucking harsh consequences for the decisions I made as a kid following his dream.
All of it rests on my shoulders, but I’m strong enough to bear the weight of the burden, especially if it means taking it from Rae. She’s hurt for too long, suffered in a way no woman should ever have to suffer, and if carrying her burden makes it just a little easier for her to breathe, then fuck, it’s not a burden at all. I’ll take it from her willingly.
The seductive words of “Scarlett Rose” flow from me, and without Jessica and Stacey prancing around the stage and putting their hands all over me, it’s fucking refreshing.
Firing them was the easiest decision I’ve ever made. Having their hands on me made me feel dirty, and I hated every fucking second of it. And now that they’re gone, I can sing the song the way it was always intended—right to Rae. At least, when she’s here tomorrow night.
I’m halfway through the song, and a wave of shock flows through the crowd, and I watch as one by one, the audience starts pulling out their phones, gasping, and looking up at me in horror. My brow furrows as I glance toward Dylan, who shrugs his shoulders, clearly seeing what I’m seeing.
Rock seems just as confused, and when the people in the front start holding out their phones toward me and screaming for my attention in a way they never have before, I have no choice but to cut the song short. “Okay, okay,” I say into the microphone as the boys cut the music. “Can someone tell me what the fuck is going on?”
I glance toward the wing of the stage toward where a few of the backstage crew stand, and when one of them pulls out their phone and his face turns ghostly white, it’s all I can take.
