Sins of Bloodlines{Thirty Forbidden Short Stories}

The lock turned. My hand tightened on the edge of my robe, knuckles whitening. The sound was soft, but it landed in my chest like a door closing. I was on my knees on the cold marble before he’d finished crossing the room. The floor bit into my skin. He didn’t have to tell me. I was twenty-four, and I’d chosen every step that led me to this floor.

He sat in the wingback chair. The leather creaked under him. The study smelled of cigar smoke and leather. It used to smell like safety. Tonight it smelled like his rules. The lamp on the desk threw a low light across the room, leaving most of the corners in shadow.

He looked down at me with none of the old warmth, only the cold, assessing gaze of a man who owned every inch of what he surveyed. His eyes moved over me slowly. I felt them.

“I watched you all through dinner,” he said quietly. “You couldn’t sit still. You’ve been restless for hours, haven’t you, little one?”

My throat went dry. My pulse jumped under my skin. I’d felt the shift in him these last weeks. The way his attention had changed. I’d wanted to be enough for him. Just him. One place to hide.

But what came out of my mouth was softer than I meant it to be.

“I’ve been greedy, Daddy.”

He gripped my chin between two thick fingers and tilted my face up until I had to meet his eyes. His thumb pressed just under my jaw. The hold was firm, not rough.

“Greedy,” he repeated, voice low and even. “That’s what you’ve become.” He let the silence stretch. The only sound was the faint tick of the clock on the mantel. “Tonight, one man isn’t enough for you. You’re going to be shared, Grace.”

The words settled over me like ice water. My stomach dropped. Terror twisted together with something hotter, and I hated that I couldn’t tell which was louder. My fingers curled tighter against my thighs.

“Prove your obedience,” he said.

I was half a second late. I opened my mouth.

Everything narrowed to the sound of my own pulse. The room felt too quiet, the shadows too close.

Tears spilled hot down my cheeks. My hands stayed on my thighs, nails digging in.

Somewhere behind the haze, I counted the ticks of the clock on the mantel. Each one louder than the last. I held on to the rhythm like it was something solid.

He didn’t move at first. Just held me there. One hand fisted in my hair, the other free. I let the robe slide off my shoulders as I bent to him. The fabric pooled around my arms. I tried to hold still, fingers curled against my thighs. The cool air hit my exposed skin.

The burn in my throat became a raw ache. The stone under my knees felt sharper now.

I thought of who I’d been before all of this. She wouldn’t have recognized me. Part of me didn’t either. Still, I stayed exactly where I was.

“Take it,” he said. “Like the greedy little thing you are.”

He stopped holding back. Couldn’t breathe. My eyes watered until everything blurred. My fingers flexed against my thighs, but I didn’t pull away.

He let me go, and I collapsed forward, forehead against his thigh, gasping. The fabric of his pants was warm under my skin. My throat burned. My lips felt swollen. For a moment the only sound in the room was my breathing.

The lamp glowed faintly beside the desk. The shadows in the corners seemed to lean closer. I pressed my palms flat against my thighs and tried to slow my breath, though it refused to obey me.

His hand rested on the back of my head. Heavy. Steady.

He said nothing. He didn’t need to. His silence told me everything: this was not the end of the night. It was only the beginning.

A key slid into the lock.

Footsteps crossed the floor, slow and deliberate, stopping right behind me. The air shifted. I felt the new presence before I heard the next breath.

I knew better than to turn around.