War & Peace 03 - This Isn't Over, Baby - K Webster.pdf

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They'd won the battle and I held up the white flag of defeat... But the
war wasn't OVER.
I suffered the aching loss of what they had stolen from me. OVER and
OVER again, my heart broke. The white Queen and the black King had
taken OVER the game and ruled for what seemed like eternity.
Until one day, eternity was finally OVER.
I was the dark knight who would rise again and conquer. I was the man
who would win OVER the most important piece on the board.
A slayer. A protector. A father. A new king with the blackest of hearts.
And head OVER heels in love with... The little princess who owned my
twisted soul.
Sometimes the villains don't just want their happy ending... They
demand it.
This isn't OVER, baby. This will never be OVER.
The Past
"NEXT."
My father' s bored, gruff tone grates on my nerves and I itch to tug at
the knot of my tie. But his shrewd nearly black eyes are on me—always
on me—waiting for me to show one tiny sliver of weakness. Weakness
is what he feeds on. What he has for breakfast, lunch, and fucking
dinner. And he's been feeding on me since I was ten years old. So
instead, I fist my hands and I keep my features relaxed as I wait for his
stupid little show to fucking end. He may be hungry, but I won't be the
one feeding his crazy-ass monster tonight. No, one of the shivering,
bound, and crying girls standing in front of our fireplace will. As the
next girl stumbles into the room, I close my eyes and let my mind flit to
the past. Almost eight years ago, my life changed with the whap of a
belt against my flesh.
"Your whore mother left us. "
That was his only explanation of why
Donna Sharpe wasn't in the living room slurping down one of her
signature dirty martinis after school one day. I'd been confused
because, quite frankly, at ten, I had no idea what a whore was. When I
cried for the loss of the calmer parent in my home, my father changed.
His annoyed expression turned into one of rage, and that day he took
out every ounce of his fury of her leaving on me. His expensive leather
belt on my bare ass tore the skin to shreds.
But that' s not what broke me.
He crushed me later that night. When the house grew silent, and I'd
cried myself dry, he stepped into my room and promised to make it all
better. That night, he kissed away the pain on my backside, and in the
process, twisted my head into a tangled mess of strings that he would
go on to pull whenever he wanted.
My father devoured my innocence, and now that he can no longer feed
on me, he's transforming into a starved animal. His need to prey on
the weak disgusts me. It only shows he isn't as strong as he thinks he is.
He may traipse around in five thousand dollar suits and drive an
expensive sports car, but my dad is a pussy.
It took this past summer for me to come to this conclusion. When he'd
come into my room after I'd spent a week at summer camp, something
in me snapped. I'd watched other guys my age sneak off with girls at
night. Kids all around me were happy. Naive. Untouched. And I
realized that I owed him nothing.
But he owed me everything.
The moment he slurred out my name and dragged the covers off my
half-naked body, the fear and revulsion that always made me immobile
was no longer present. Instead, rage—a glorious fucking feeling—lit a
fire inside of me and I exploded. The fucker put up a good fight for a
drunk asshole, but I bashed my fists against my father's face until he
was unmoving. My knuckles were bruised and achy, but my pride was
restored.
My father never touched me again.
Instead, he treated me like an annoyance. A burden. A fucking bother.
Like nothing ever happened. But
everything
happened. That night, I
transformed. I became someone better.
I became my own monster. A monster dead set on not letting him feed
off me ever again. I became invincible as far as he was concerned.
Next month I'll be graduating from high school, and I'll go on to
college. Away from my father. Away from my hellish past. I'll make a
life and become someone. For once, I'm not the scrawny, lanky kid
with the messy hair and quiet disposition. After that night, I began
working out—fueled on by the desire to always be stronger than that
beast. Eight months later and I had filled out everywhere. My shoulders
were broad, I had abs, and I was no longer someone he could
intimidate. Girls started to notice me and guys wanted to be my friend.
I was no longer weak.
"They're all so terrified," Grant Sharpe's gravelly voice growls,
interrupting my thoughts when the last girl comes to stand beside the
three others. Four girls. All of them young.
Some my age, some considerably younger. But one stands out among
the others.
A girl with bright blue eyes and messy blonde hair eyes the group in the
living room with disgust. Where the other girls are crying and huddling
together, this one looks as though she wants to slaughter every one of
us.
My father, his best friend, Lance, his accountant, Gordon, his attorney,
Jack, and me. Four girls, four men, and me. These "pussy parties" as
good 'ol Dad called them, were nothing more than a sick form of human
trafficking of under-aged girls. Lance, Gordon, and Jack are all
married, and their wives think they participate in monthly poker night
with my father. Something innocent and legal. None of them know.
I' ve always known.
At fifteen, I walked in on one of their parties by mistake when I was
supposed to be sleeping. It was then that I became the official mascot.
The kid they poked fun at while they smoked their cigars and bid on
girls. I hated every second of it. You see, father, in his spare time,
recruited girls for a human trafficking ring. And their monthly "poker
night" was where they test drove the merchandise before they sold
them to the distributors.
Despite hating what happened during them, I began to look forward to
those nights. Those were the nights when I would watch girls who were
weak and breakable. I was stronger than them. Not the weakest in the
bunch. For one night a month, I was a man.
Of course, he never let me do anything but sit and watch from afar, a
hard-on straining in my slacks and heat burning my cheeks. I'd craved
to lose my virginity to one of them. I even fantasized about falling in
love with one of them—had thoughts of rescuing them from the biggest
villain I know and running far, far away. But each time, my hopes and
dreams were snuffed out as every one of my father's friends took their
pick and disappeared to the other rooms of the house. By the next
morning, they were always gone.
Tonight wouldn't be any different except when girl number four's eyes
meet mine, I see a flash of something that stirs my heart. She's caged
and wild. Everything in her screams to be set free. The girl is different.
Not weak at all.
My gaze skims over her naked flesh and lingers over her perfect tits.
Small and perky. I can almost feel my mouth watering with the need to
suck on her nipple. A small groan escapes me the moment my dick
thickens. I continue skimming over her flesh. Unlike the other girls,
she's dirtier. Bony. Hardened. She has a small tattoo of a black heart on
her hipbone. I become fixated on the ink that mars her flesh and wonder
how old she really is. The other three girls are sixteen or seventeen, but
number four looks like she might be eighteen or nineteen. Our eyes
meet again, and something passes between us.
Not a plea.
Not fear or terror.
A threat.
I will kill all of you. Just untie me and watch.
The smile on my lips is immediate, and I wink at her, flashing her a
message of my own in one simple glance.
I'd cut you loose and help, if
I could.
"What's the matter, boy?" Gordon says with a sneer from beside me.
"You got a thing for one of the pieces? Which one? Let me guess..." He
trails off and saunters over to them. They shriek—all of them but
number four, of course. She bares her teeth at him, and I wish he'd get
close enough for her to take a bite. "Not this one. Her tits are too big for
a little boy like you, and this one looks like a fucking boy with her
stupid haircut. This other girl has some fucked-up acne and you're way
too pretty for that, Gabey," he mocks. Then he continues down the line
until he stands in front of the last girl. "But this one. She's something
special, isn't she? Is this the one you like?"
A growl rumbles in my chest, but I swallow it down, knowing
he' s
watching me. When I don't answer, Dad tosses a piece of ice from his
glass at me. "Answer him, Gabriel."
I swallow down the fury and swat the ice out of my lap onto the floor.
"Four. I like four."

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