Masuk
I always knew my father was in trouble.Not the screaming, dramatic kind—the quiet kind that eats away at a man until there’s nothing left.Marcus Reed—Daddy to me, Mr. Reed to everyone else—built Reed Construction from a single truck and a toolbox into one of the biggest luxury development firms in the state. Mansions. High-rises. Golf-course estates. The kind of projects that put his name on plaques and his face in local magazines.He had powerful friends.One of them was Cole Donovan.Daddy’s best friend since their frat days at State.Forty-five now. Six-three, still built like the linebacker he used to be—broad shoulders, thick arms, hands that looked like they could crush concrete. Dark hair with distinguished silver at the temples. Sharp jaw always shadowed with stubble. Eyes the color of winter steel—cold, calculating, impossible to read.He’d been around my whole life.Barbecues in the backyard where he flipped burgers shirtless.Thanksgiving dinners where he carved the turke
The first week after I found the stash was slow torture. Victor didn’t touch me again right away. He played it perfectly—normal husband to Mom, normal stepdad to me. Helped with dinner. Asked about my day. Smiled across the table like the devoted family man he pretended to be. But his eyes… God, his eyes. Every glance across the kitchen was a promise. Every brush of his arm when we passed in the hallway was deliberate. Every time Mom turned her back, his gaze dropped to my ass, my tits, my mouth—like he was remembering how I’d looked bent over, how I’d screamed when he filled me, how I’d cum around him begging for more. I was soaking constantly. Aching. Thighs rubbing together under the table. I stopped wearing panties entirely. Wore the shortest shorts I owned around the house—denim cutoffs that barely covered my ass cheeks. Tight tank tops with no bra, nipples hard and obvious against the thin cotton. Left my bedroom door cracked when I changed, giving him glimpses
I always knew Victor was a creep.It wasn’t some sudden revelation. It was years of little things that added up, like drops in a bucket until it finally overflowed.Mom married him when I was fourteen. Victor Hayes—forty-two then, ex-military, built like a tank with broad shoulders, buzzed salt-and-pepper hair, and cold gray eyes that always seemed to strip me bare. Mom called him “stable.” A good provider. The kind of man who’d give us the life my real dad never could after he bailed when I was ten.Victor did provide.Big house in the suburbs.Private school tuition.A college fund.Everything money could buy.But the price was him.It started small.The way he’d “forget” to knock before entering my room.How his hugs lasted too long, hands drifting lower on my back than they should.The comments that made my skin crawl—“You are turning into quite the young woman, Ava,” when I turned fifteen, his eyes on my chest.“You fill out those shorts nicely,” at sixteen, while I did dishes in
I hated Logan Keller long before the accident that killed Ryan.It started the day Ryan brought me home to meet his family—me at twenty-one, fresh tattoos on my arms, heavy makeup, laugh too loud for their stuffy dinner table. Logan was twenty-eight, already the golden boy: high-powered lawyer, corner office, suits that cost more than my rent. Ryan was the younger brother, the “charming” one who partied with me, fucked me in dive bar bathrooms, promised forever while sliding into DMs behind my back.Logan took one look at me and saw trash.“You are dragging him down,” he said that first night, cornering me in the kitchen while Ryan was in the bathroom. His voice low, eyes cold as steel. “You are not the kind of girl he needs.”“You are too wild,” he whispered at Ryan’s birthday party a year later, his breath hot against my ear as he “accidentally” brushed past me in the crowd.“You are not good enough for him,” he told me outright at Thanksgiving, pulling me aside while the family wat
I never meant for it to happen.I was just the babysitter.Nineteen, home from my first year of college, broke and bored in the suburbs. The Harrisons paid better than any other family—$25 an hour cash, plus bonuses when Mr. Harrison drove me home after late nights. He always slipped an extra fifty into my palm, fingers lingering just a second too long.Lily was three, sweet and easy—dinner, bath, one story, lights out by 8 p.m.Mrs. Harrison—Claire—was away for the long weekend at a luxury spa retreat with her girlfriends. “Girls’ trip,” she’d said with a wink, kissing Lily goodnight.Mr. Harrison—Nate—was supposed to be at a client dinner downtown, not home until midnight or later.So when Lily finally drifted off at 8:30, the house was all mine.Six bedrooms. Heated pool. Wine cellar. A master suite that looked like a five-star hotel.I’d been curious about that master suite for months.I’d folded Claire’s laundry enough times to know what was in her lingerie drawer—top right, behi
Three months turned into a lifetime.I never left Eden’s Promise.I never wanted to.From the morning after that first witnessed ritual, I became Father Matthew’s undisputed favorite—his eternal chosen vessel. The sisterhood didn’t resent it; they celebrated it. They saw me as blessed, the one whose body responded most perfectly to his seed. New arrivals were told my story like scripture: the outsider who quickened in weeks, who took his cock like she was born for it, who would birth the strongest children for the community’s future.And I embraced it completely.My old life faded like a dream.No more thoughts of David’s betrayal.No more worry about Mom’s illness ‘I’d sent one letter through Seraphina before surrendering my phone—telling Mom I’d found peace and not to look for me’No more emptiness.Only him.Only purpose.My days became a sacred rhythm.Dawn: I woke in Father Matthew’s bed—his private quarters now mine permanently. He’d often take me first thing, slow and deep, sti







