บททั้งหมดของ Screwed Into Forever [Forbidden Collection]: บทที่ 31 - บทที่ 40

Lavinia noticed the marks first.The faint purple bloom just above Aveline’s collarbone, half-hidden by her loose sweater the next morning. Then the way her daughter moved—slower, more languid, a secret glow radiating from her skin like she’d been thoroughly, deliciously used. And Merrick… he barely glanced at his wife anymore. His touches were polite, distant, while his eyes followed Aveline with a hunger that made Lavinia’s stomach twist into knots.She had suspected. Now she knew.That afternoon, while Merrick was supposedly working in his home office and Thorne had vanished to the gym to burn off his own misery, Lavinia cornered her daughter in the kitchen. Aveline was rinsing a glass, humming softly, when her mother’s voice sliced through the air like a blade.“You little whore.”Aveline froze, water still running.Lavinia stepped closer, eyes blazing with pure venom. “I know exactly what you’ve been doing. Spreading your legs for my husband under my own roof. After everything

Thorne was drunk on pain and cheap whiskey when he cornered Aveline in the hallway the next evening. His eyes were bloodshot, hair disheveled, the scent of alcohol clinging to him like regret. Lavinia had gone out “for air,” leaving the house dangerously quiet. “I can’t do this anymore,” he slurred, backing her against the wall. “I’ll tell her everything—every single time I saw you with him. Unless…” His hand trembled as it cupped her cheek. “Give me one chance. Just one night. Let me show you I can make you feel something real.” Before she could pull away, he crashed his mouth onto hers in a desperate, sloppy kiss. His tongue pushed past her lips, tasting of liquor and heartbreak. Aveline turned her face, gently but firmly pushing against his chest. “Thorne… stop. I can't… it's your father I want.” The words landed like a slap. Thorne staggered back, eyes glistening. “He is old enough to be your father! What is wrong with you!?” He laughed bitterly, a broken sound. “Fine. Ru

Lena's POV The city was already drunk on holiday lights and mulled wine, but inside The Black Cat, a tiny basement venue in the East Village, the air was thick with sweat, reverb, and anticipation. I stood near the back wall, arms crossed, half-hidden in shadow. I’d come alone—again—because books and silence were safer than people, but tonight the flyer in the bookstore window had promised something raw. Rhys Calder and the Night Owls. Blues-infused indie rock. “One night only before the tour.” The lights dropped. A single spotlight hit the stage. And there he was. Rhys. Leather jacket slung low, dark hair falling into his eyes, guitar slung across his chest like an extension of his body. He looked up once—scanned the room—and his gaze snagged on mine for a heartbeat longer than necessary. My stomach flipped. I told myself it was the bass vibrating through the floor. The set was electric. Gritty riffs, lyrics about longing and leaving, his voice low and smoky, t

Lena's POVNew Year’s Eve in the city felt like everyone else was celebrating something I couldn’t touch.The bookstore stayed open late—our annual tradition of hosting a quiet reading hour while the rest of Manhattan exploded with fireworks and champagne. I’d volunteered to close, grateful for the solitude.The last customer left at 10:45. I locked the front door, dimmed the overhead lights to just the warm glow of the reading lamps, and flipped the sign to *Closed* but didn't lock it.The shop smelled like old paper, cedar shelves, and the faint vanilla of the candle I’d lit earlier.I should have gone home. Should have poured wine, watched the ball drop on my tiny TV, toasted alone.Instead I lingered.I wandered to the back corner—the erotica section nobody ever asked for help finding. I pulled a slim volume from the top shelf: The Art of Surrender. The cover was black with gold lettering, no photo. Perfect.I sank into the worn velvet armchair tucked between the stacks, the on

Lena's POV Summer had arrived early in New York—sticky heat, long days, the kind of evenings where the city felt alive and restless. The Brooklyn Summer Music Festival was in full swing: three stages, food trucks, bodies pressed close under string lights and the smell of grilled corn and weed.I hadn’t planned to come.But Riley had dragged me out with a promise of “just one set, then we can leave,” and I’d caved because staying home meant staring at the same bookstore walls and thinking about him again. Six months since New Year’s Eve. Six months of radio silence after that one text he’d sent from the road: ~ I’m still tasting you. Every fucking mile.I hadn’t replied. What was there to say? “Come back?” “I miss the way you broke me open?” I’d left the message on read and deleted the thread, but the words stayed burned into me like a lyric I couldn’t shake.Riley handed me a beer and tugged me toward the smaller side stage. “This band is supposed to be good. Low-key, bluesy. Y