The Nerve

Ava’s Perspective

The night outside was pitch-black. Not a single person around, not even a shadow. I stared out the tinted window and felt stupid for even thinking Bill would follow me. He never cared where I went or what I did. Why would he bother now?

Just as I was about to breathe out in relief, Alexander’s fingers pinched my chin, forcing my head toward him.

Before I could react, he pressed the end of his cigarette against my lips.

I gasped, but the drag was already shoved into my mouth. The bitter smoke burned down my throat, making me choke hard. “Cough—cough—” My chest heaved as my eyes watered, the violent coughing shaking through me until spots danced in my vision.

While I struggled, his other hand slid down, fingers pressing between my thighs. My heart jumped into my throat. Panic slammed into me all at once. Bill’s voice was still on the line, but I couldn’t—there was no way—

Terrified, I slammed the call off with trembling fingers, cutting him off mid-sentence.

My phone buzzed almost immediately. A message flashed across the screen:

Who gave you the nerve to hang up on me? Where the hell are you?

Another followed, faster.

I’m giving you twenty minutes to get your ass back here, or I’ll call Father Matthew to drag you back myself.

Was Bill already home?!

No, no, I have to go back.

“I want to go back.”

Alexander let out a slow breath of smoke. “Back?” His gaze ran over me once. “Like this?”

I looked down. My blouse clung damp against me, buttons stretched. My thighs were sticky, the smell still on my skin. Semen streaked my inner legs. I felt dirty and exposed.

“Please,” I said quietly. “Take me to the nearest mall. I need clothes.”

He didn’t answer. The car just moved.

When we stopped, I grabbed the handle and stepped out. Cold air hit my legs. Only then did I notice—my skirt was shredded in the back and the side seam ripped open. My stockings laddered up to the knee. Anyone could see everything.

I turned back. “Can you lend me a jacket?”

He tilted his head, eyes dropping—calm, almost bored. Then he lifted a brow like he was reminding me of something obvious. “My jacket? Didn’t I lend you one already?” A pause. “Used it under you last night.”

I froze.

Right. Last night he’d tossed his coat beneath me. Later, he’d covered me with it before I changed. And after I changed, I left it… near the couch. Shit. The coat was still there. A man’s jacket in Bill’s bedroom—with my makeup probably smeared on the collar. My stomach twisted.

“Thank you,” I said quickly, holding out my hands.

He shrugged off the one he wore now and passed it over. I pulled it on and kept my head low, hair covering the marks on my neck. No time to think. Buy clothes. Get home. Destroy everything. Wipe the couch, mop the floor, hide that jacket.

I tightened the coat around me and headed straight for the entrance, keeping to the wall where the lights were dimmer. Every step felt too loud. I repeated the list in my head: underwear, blouse, skirt, stockings, wipes. Pay cash. Change in the restroom. Dump the ruined stuff far from home.

Behind me, the car idled. He didn’t call out or follow. Good. Better.

Clothes first. Then home. Burn the trail.

Alexander’s Perspective

The phone on the console buzzed. I flicked ash from my cigarette and answered.

“She’s still waiting, boss,” my man said. “The Mexican arms dealer sent a girl to apologize. She’s been here four hours. Real pretty. Says she won’t leave till you show.”

Four hours. More than enough time for payback.

“I’m not going,” I said. “I’m full.”

There was a pause. Then, careful: “Full… from who? Which one are you talking about, boss?”

I took another drag and let it out slow. “The Morgan family’s young miss.”

He sucked in a breath. “You’re kidding.” He lowered his voice like the street might be listening. “Boss, those women—everybody knows. The Morgan girls guard chastity like it’s life or death. Even now. Mothers watch them, the church backs them, their men stand guard. Guys in our circle make bets and still can’t get a hand on them. It’s a whole legend.”

He couldn’t help himself; curiosity made him talk more. “Which Morgan is it? Julian? One of the other cousins? The quiet one who never shows her face? People will go crazy if they hear one of them broke the rule.”

I ground the cigarette in the ashtray. “Does it matter?”

He hesitated, then asked the real question. “How much did you give her?”

“What for?”

“Money. Jewelry. Whatever she asked. She must have asked for something.”

I thought about it a moment, then said, “Does giving her a big problem count?”

Silence. He understood that line.

“Got it,” he said at last. “I’ll send the Mexican’s girl away.”

The call clicked off. But I knew my men too well. Got it never meant done — it meant they’d start digging.

Curiosity, sure. But more than that, they wanted to be ready when this woman — whoever she was — came back to bite me. They’d pull every string until her name fell into their hands. It wouldn’t take long before they learned it was Ava. I didn’t need to waste my energy outing her myself.

I leaned back, the leather creaking under me, and let the events of last night and just moments ago replay in my head. If last night Ava had given herself away by mistake, then tonight she had thrown herself at me like a desperate slut. All that talk about virtue and purity—chastity above life itself—yet she still chose to press closer and test me.

People called the Morgan girls saints. Untouchable. Untamed. They liked to act clean while the men around them did the dirty work for their family. That kind of “pure” didn’t mean much to me.