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“Stay still,” Samuel grits, fingers digging painfully into my hips.

“You’re not supposed to!” I cry, pushing against his hard member. It’s my only way of attempting to get him off. “We’re supposed to wait until marriage!”

“Oh, like you waited with that heathen who dirtied your virgin pussy? You were supposed to be mine!” He roughly pulls on my hair.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to! It slipped out, we didn’t actually—”

A slap lands on my ass. “Shut up, whore.”

My scream wakes me, my T-shirt sticking painfully to the fresh wound on my back. I pull in deep calming breaths before running my hands through my hair.

I shift, and the wound throbs. “Ow.”

I washed it the best I could last night with heavy eyes, but without any bandages, I couldn’t find another way to stop myself from getting an infection. I highly doubt any nurses would be sent out to help, so a T-shirt was my best solution.

This morning, I feel more awake, stronger.

Yesterday was a moment of weakness. Everything was getting to me. Kain was getting to me.

Lacey was lucky I was tied up and weak.

Heath and Mother were lucky I was already exhausted. They broke me down physically but not mentally.

Never again.

Never a-fucking-gain will I let anyone catch me off guard like that.

Realisation dawns on me as I inspect my new mark because this might be just what I needed. What happened last night was not Christian or Holy. It was the work of the Devil himself. A ritual.

If only the town could see this, they would see through the lies. The facade.

The Westbrooks would be no more.

As I work out in my head when the next town event is, there’s a rapid knock. I slide the shirt down and I trudge to my door, opening it just a crack.

But it’s not Kain’s annoying, smug face that I see, it’s my mother’s.

“M-mother.” I add the extra stutter to my voice as I furrow my eyebrows in fear and open the door wider. Blonde hair is slicked into her not-a-hair-out-of-place bun. She strolls into my room like she owns it, and perches primly on my bed.

“Turn around,” she instructs, twirling her finger in the air.

Slowly, one foot after the other, I turn, gritting my teeth when I’m out of sight. Kain’s closed door might as well be wearing a smirk of its own the way it’s looking at me.

I scowl.

“Lift your top.”

With a silent sigh, I grip my shirt at the back of my neck, and slowly scrunch it between my fingers to lift, refraining from hissing in pain.

She hums in satisfaction. “What are you doing here?”

“Where? In my room.”

“That’s funny. I don’t remember assigning your room here.”

What?

“You’re not to leave the castle grounds without permission,” she continues.