PROLOGUE

CONTENT WARNING: 18+

This story contains dark themes including: sexual trafficking, dubious consent, drug use, BDSM, violence, religious trauma, abuse, and morally gray characters. The relationship begins with coercion and power imbalance.

Reader discretion advised.

****

Father was going to kill me if he found out that I had snuck out to kiss a boy on a public bridge.

I knew I shouldn't be doing this, but I have had a crush on him the longest. I wanted this feeling.

It felt so good the way his hands pulled me closer against him. His hard dick pushed hard against my lower belly.

I gulped, moaning in pleasure as his tongue dragged hot against my neck and I tilted my head back without thinking, a small sound leaving me before I could stop it.

The night was cold, but every place he touched me burned hot.

Julien’s breath spilled against my ear, his hands running down my spine grabbing my butt and then his mouth was at my collarbone, teeth grazing, tongue smoothing over the sting.

My knees wanted to give out, but his hand was already under my sweater, finding the thin cotton camisole that clung to my skin.

I gasped when his fingers pinched my nipple through the fabric, sharp enough to make me whimper. He did it again, rolling the peak between rough fingertips until it tightened under his touch, and I pressed into him shamelessly, aching for more.

I bit my lips hard, eyes rolling up, my arms clinging to his neck, wanting to grind my aching spot against the hardness in his jeans.

“Julien…” My voice shook as his mouth closed over mine again, hard, greedy, his tongue pushing past my lips like he wanted to taste every part of me at once.

I opened for him, answering kiss for kiss, the scrape of teeth, the mess of breath. My hands clutched at his hoodie, dragging him closer, desperate for his weight against me.

His palm slid down, cupping me over my skirt, the pressure heavy enough that I moaned into his mouth.

He broke away just long enough to bite down on my lower lip, tugging until my eyes fluttered open, then shoved his hand higher again, back to my chest, squeezing my breasts like he owned them.

I couldn’t breathe right.

Each twist of his fingers through the camisole shot heat straight down between my legs, my thighs pressing together as if that could relieve the ache of my pussy.

He knew what he was doing—his grin brushed my mouth before he ducked lower, sucking the swell of my breast through both layers of fabric, teeth scraping over the peak until I cried out.

The stone of the bridge was cold against my back, but I barely felt it.

All I knew was his mouth, his tongue dragging up my throat, lips crashing against mine again, his hand kneading my breast greedily.

My hips rocked forward without my permission, chasing friction that wasn’t there, and he groaned into my mouth like he could feel it too.

I’d dreamed of this—waking hot and damp with shame, his face in my mind even when I prayed for it to go away—and now it was real, rawer and hungrier than I had ever imagined.

Every bite on my lip, every tug at my nipple, every sloppy kiss tasted like the answer to something I hadn’t even dared to ask out loud.

“Fuck…” he breathed into my skin when I arched against him, his hips grinding forward once, rough, showing me exactly how hard he was.

The friction made me gasp, my whole body jolting with the sudden flood of heat. I wanted more.

God help me, I wanted everything.

He shoved his hand under my camisole at last, skin on skin, and the shock of his fingers closing over my bare breast made me cry out softly. He squeezed, pinched, rolled the peak between thumb and finger until I was biting my lip hard to keep quiet. He loved it, I could feel it in the way he groaned against my mouth, in the way his hips pressed harder into mine, desperate and messy.

The river rushed behind us, but I could barely hear it over my own pulse.

His tongue pushed deep, fucking my mouth with the same rhythm as his hand worked my nipple, rougher, faster, like he wanted me undone in his arms right there.

I dragged in a shaky breath when he finally broke away, panting against my cheek.

His teeth scraped down my neck again, another bite, until I knew there would be marks tomorrow.

The thought made me tremble.

“I…I have to go,” I whispered, the words shaking. “If I don’t get home soon—”

“Tomorrow,” he cut in, voice hoarse against my throat. His hand tightened, one last cruel pinch that had me gasping. “Tomorrow night you’re mine.”

“I’ll call you,” I promised, clinging to him, suddenly dizzy from desire, “I swear it.”

“And you’ll give it to me as we planned,” he breathed, his tongue flicking my ear, voice dark with certainty. “Your Virginity. Tomorrow. In my bedroom.”

“Yes,” I whispered, licking my lower lip. “I promised, didn't I?”

He hummed.

His mouth crushed mine again for one last savage kiss, his tongue claiming, his hand still on my breast as if he couldn’t let go. When he finally pulled back, my lips were swollen, my nipples sore, my body humming with need so intense it made my pussy hurt.

I stumbled away only when he let me, sweater rumpled, camisole damp from his mouth, thighs pressed together to hold back the ache until tomorrow.

I looked back to where Julien stood under the bridge light, fingers still on my lips.

“Tomorrow,” I whispered, smiling like an idiot.

****

The walk home took fifteen minutes.

Fifteen minutes of floating through rain soaked streets, my fingers touching my swollen lips, replaying every kiss.

I couldn't believe that I had kissed Julien Statham and tomorrow night, I shall spend the night with him.

No one would ever believe that I did that with the school beat hockey player.

I would be…hia girlfriend.

I giggled.

I couldn't stop smiling.

I looked up to see that our apartment building appeared through the darkness. The third-floor windows shone with light–every single one. Mama hated wasting electricity. Maybe she was feeling better?

The thought made me walk faster, taking the stairs two at a time.

The closer I got to the room door, the more I heard wailing.

My eyebrows deeper into a frown.

Crying.

Deep, broken sobs coming from behind our door.

My hand froze on the knob. The door wasn't locked. It swung open.

Papa knelt on the living room floor, his whole body shaking. Mama lay in his arms pale and still, her head tilted back at an unimaginable angle that made my stomach drop.

Dark red blood flowed from her nose, dried blood crusted at the corner of her mouth.

My hands started to shake, I tried to blink away the scene. Hoping it was nothing but a dream.

It wasn't.

"Mama?"

The word barely made it past my lips.

Papa's head lifted. The look on his face—I'd never seen anything like it. His eyes were raw, empty holes in his skull.

"Celeste." My name sounded like a curse.

I stumbled forward, my knees hitting the floor. "What happened? Is she—Mama, wake up, I'm here now…"

I reached for her hand.

Pak!

Papa's palm hit my face.

I sprawled sideways, my shoulder slamming into the floor, the taste of copper flooding my mouth.

"Don't." His voice shook with something beyond rage. "Don't you touch her."

I pressed my hand to my burning cheek, staring up at him through blurred vision. "Papa, what—"

"Where were you?"

Where…where…

I gulped.

"I... I went for a walk, I just—"

"A walk." He laughed, and the sound was broken glass. "A walk. Your mother is dead and you were taking a walk."

Dead.

The word didn't make sense. Couldn't make sense.

"No." I shook my head, still on the floor. "No, she was fine this afternoon, she said she just needed rest—"

"She wasn't fine!" Papa's roar shook the walls. "She was dying! And you knew it! I told you to stay with her! I told you to make sure she took her medicine at nine o'clock!"

The medicine.

My eyes found the bottle on the side table. Untouched and full.

Nine o'clock. I was supposed to give it to her at nine o'clock.

At nine o'clock, I'd been on the bridge with Julien's tongue in my mouth.

"I forgot—" The words tasted like ash as I bit my lower lips. "I didn't think—"

"You didn't think." Papa's voice dropped to something worse than shouting. It was deadly. "No. You thought…You thought about sneaking out. You thought about that boy. You thought about yourself."

Against the wall, my fourteen-year-old sister Liora sat with her arms wrapped around her knees, her face blotchy and wet.

When she looked at me, I saw something that made my blood freeze.

Hatred.

Pure, absolute hatred.

"I tried to help her," Liora whispered. Her voice was hoarse, like she'd been screaming. "When she started getting worse, I tried. But she kept asking for you. 'Where's Celeste? I need Celeste. Get Celeste.'" Liora's face crumpled. "And you weren't here."

"I didn't know—"

"You knew she was sick!" Liora's scream tore through the room. "You knew! But you left anyway! You left her to go whore yourself out to some boy!"

The words hit like a fist.

"We didn't—that's not—"

"I can smell him on you." Papa's lip curled with disgust. "You have marks on your neck. Your lips are swollen. Don't lie to me about what you were doing while your mother was dying."

Shame burned through me, worse than the slap.

My hand went to my neck, feeling the tender spots where Julien's teeth had scraped.

"She was calling for you," Papa continued, "Do you understand? Your mother's last words were your name. She died thinking you'd abandoned her."

"No—"

"She choked on her own blood, Celeste. Alone in that bedroom because her daughter was too busy spreading her legs somewhere o give her the medicine that might have saved her life."

The cruelty of it stole my breath.

"I'm sorry—" Tears were streaming down my face now. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean—"

"Sorry?" Liora lurched to her feet, her small body shaking with rage. "Sorry doesn't bring her back! Sorry doesn't change the fact that you killed her!"

"I didn't kill—"

"Yes, you did!" Liora was in my face now, screaming. "You killed Mama! You murdered her! For what? For some stupid boy who won't even remember your name next week?"

Each word was a knife.

"You're selfish," Liora continued, tears and snot running down her face. "You're disgusting. You're a murderer. I wish it was you dead instead of her. I wish you were the one who—"

"Liora." Papa's voice cut through. "Enough."

But when I looked at him, I saw he didn't disagree. He just didn't want to hear it said out loud.

He turned back to Mama's body, cradling her like she was made of glass. The blood from her nose had dried in dark trails down her face. Her nightgown was soaked with sweat. She must have been suffering. Must have been terrified.

And I wasn't here.

I looked at my hands. These hands that had pulled Julien close just an hour ago. That had clutched at him, desperate and shameless and hungry.

These hands that should have been giving Mama her medicine. Holding her hand. Being a daughter instead of—

"Get out of my sight." Papa didn't look at me. "I can't stand to look at you right now."

"Papa, please—"

"I said GET OUT!"

I stumbled to my feet, backing toward the hallway. Liora turned her back on me, curling up beside Papa and Mama, her shoulders shaking with sobs.

I stood there in the doorway of my own home, watching my family mourn the woman I'd killed.

Because I had killed her.

Not with my hands.

Not with violence.

With selfishness.

With lust.

I'd chosen three hours of teenage desire over the mother who gave me life.

And now she was gone. Forever gone. And it was my fault.

The room blurred through my tears.

All of it crushing down on me at once.

My knees buckled. I caught myself on the doorframe, staring at my trembling hands.

I couldn't believe it. No…I…didn't want to believe it.

I couldn't believe that I…I... killed my mother.