Page 52 of Forgotten Sacrifice
Ding. Ding. Ding.This is the room I need to search.
Hurrying to my bathroom, I return with a hair pin, trying to pick the lock, but I can’t get it open. I search the house for the key, but no luck.
Giving up for now, I return to my room and count my loot. I’ve got over a thousand bucks in cash plus one hundred in Euros. I squirrel away the money in a tampon box, returning it to my bathroom linen closet.
I plop down on my bed and close my eyes. Mentally surveying the chess board, a huge light bulb goes off, and I snap my eyes open. Vince hasn’t fallen for my trap because a more aggressive move on my part is needed:a queen sacrifice. It’s deliberately giving up the most powerful piece on the board in order to gain a positional or tactical advantage.
And the most powerful piece on my board?My body.
In this game between me and Vince, a queen sacrifice is giving up my V-card for checkmate. It’s a risky move, but one I’m willing to make to get out of this life sentence. Who says Vince will let me go, even after I repay my dad’s debt? No one, that’s who.
I hear footsteps down the hall, and I snap my eyes closed, pretending to be asleep. My door creaks open, and I don’t need to look to know it’s Vince. I can feel it’s him, which is extremely annoying. He quietly closes the door, and I give it a few minutes before I move.
Reaching under my mattress, I grab the kitchen knife I swiped from school before I left. I haven’t cut myself, but only for fear of Vince “showing me what true pain feels like,” whatever that means. My God, a psych major would have a field day with me; they could write a fucking dissertation on my dysfunctional life.
Turning the knife back and forth in my hand, I’m questioning if I can really do this. Yes, I shanked Aspen, but that was with a fork and barely broke skin. Slitting a man’s throat is a whole other ballgame.
Speaking of ballgames, Vince turns on the game, and I wait quietly for over an hour before the television goes silent, the heavy sounds of footsteps filling the hall. A door opens and closes, and I give it thirty more minutes to make sure he’s in bed.
I grab the teddy bear, refusing to look at it as I stuff it in my getaway bag.
Before I chicken out, I tuck the chef’s knife in the back of my boy shorts and adjust my sleep shirt; it’s baggy enough to conceal the weapon. Taking a deep breath, I walk to Vince’s bedroom and open the door.
I tiptoe to his bed, and as I anticipated, he moves at lightening speed, grabbing my throat. “What the fuck are you doing?” he menaces.
“I had a bad dream,” I say softly.
“So go back to bed.” Vince releases me, and I walk around and crawl into the other side of his bed. “Your own bed.” He growls.
Rolling over, I grab the knife from my waistband and stick it under the pillow. “What if I don’t want to sleep in my bed?”
“Too bad. You’re not sleeping in mine.”
“I’m not interested in sleeping,” I say in what I hope is a sexy tone. “I heard you call that woman my name when you were fucking her. You want me. You’ve been fighting it. But what if you don’t have to fight it?” I whisper. “What if I want the same thing? Please, Daddy. I want you to fuck me.”
Chapter
Twenty-Two
Vince
I flip on the lamp and turn to face Luna. The little con artist’s eyes are full of lust and lies, and my dick is so hard I could blow my load right now.
I roll on top of her, pinning her arms over her head with one hand as I reach under the pillow, finding the knife. “Gonna seduce me, and then slit my throat? Hum, Luna?” I bring the blade to her neck, her eyes wide as she gulps. “The only person in this world to have ever given two shits about you.” I watched the brazen little thing on the security feed as she stole my money. I was curious to see what she’d do next.
But this little murder plot? Wasn’t on my bingo card.
“What bullshit! You don’t care about me; it’s about the money,” Luna hisses.
“It’s always about the money,” I agree. “Don’t let anyone tell you different.”
“I hate you!”
“I’m well aware. And that’s what makes you trying to pullthe oldest, most unoriginal hustles of all time that much more ridiculous. Following in your old man’s footsteps by using your pussy as a bargaining chip. You’re no better than him, and not much of a step up from a cheap hooker,” I chide.
“Why is your dick hard, then?” Luna grits through angry tears.
“Because for some reason—God only knows—your bratty little ass makes my dick hard!” I grind my throbbing erection against her panty-clad pussy. Christ, I can feel her desire seeping through her patines.
