Page 229 of Ripped Veil (Ripped Bratva)

“… what’s mine.”

He starts scrabbling up the hem of my dress as I struggle and scream. “No! No!”

But I might as well not be speaking for all the good it does. I close my eyes when he rips my panties down my thighs.

I feel his hardness on the inside of my knee as he clambers on top of me.

“Please stop…!” I cry. “Please…”

He thrusts himself inside me and I wail in pain. My body shudders, trying to reject the alien thing that has just entered me.

Then, when I see how useless it is to push back, I stop fighting. I give in. I slump down onto the duvet and drift out of my skin so I can be anywhere but here.

The one saving grace is that I don’t have to wait long. Eight thrusts later, and Josiah moans low. He quivers in a strange spasm and then he collapses next to me.

The slipperiness of the comforter sends me sliding down to my knees without his weight to skewer me in place. I hit the hardwood floor with a tinyoof. It’s only when I touch my cheek do I realize I’ve been crying.

My eyes lock on a mote of dust caught in a moonbeam. It floats, shimmies, pirouettes. For a moment, I’m sure that it’s the most beautiful thing that’s ever existed.

I follow it as it drifts over and settles on top of something on the bedside table. The object is metallic and dark. It seems to swallow up the moonlight, blacker than all the shadows around it.

Between my legs, I’m vaguely aware of the sticky mess that Father Josiah left behind.

And in my chest, I’m vaguely aware of a hot, roaring rage bubbling up in me.

I’ve never felt anything like this before. My whole life, I’ve been taught that women must not let their feelings control them. That men are logical creatures, that we women are slaves to our emotions. That sadness and happiness and anger are not permissible.

Now, though, there’s no way I can resist it. I knew this was wrong and this anger, this wrath, is my body reacting. I’m powerless to stop it.

The moon shifts just enough that the metallic object on the bedside table is lit up. It’s a swan, I see now. A paperweight or something like that, curved and graceful. Its sleek, cast iron head is aimed in my direction. Looking. Observing. Judging.

My hands are starting to shake with this foreign feeling that’s burning me up from the inside out.

It wants to take over.

It wants control.

And so I let it.

When Father Josiah entered me, I felt myself dissociate from my body. This is the exact opposite of that. I’ve never felt more alive, never felt more like myself, as I rise to my feet.

The trembling has stopped. In its place is molten certainty. Hot fire in my veins.

My hands close around the swan. I fondle it, feeling the cool metal against my fingertips. Hefting the weight in my palm.

I turn in place. Father Josiah is struggling to an upright position on the bed. His penis hangs limp and shrinking on the front of his linen pants. His eyes are dreamy, distant.

But when they see me, he freezes.

“What are you doing?” he demands. “Elyssa, what are you—”

I don’t answer as I take one huge stride forward and slam the swan against the side of his head.

There’s barely a sound, but the impact is immediate. His skull gives way. Something sickening crunches, spurts. It’s almost enough to make me throw up.

He slumps back against the bed. And then, just like I did, he slides to the ground, moaning softly.

I’m still holding the swan when he hits the floor hard.

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