Page 138 of The Ecstasy of Sin

The tires crunch small patches of loose gravel as we turn off the main road, the trees pressing close on either side, their overgrown branches dragging against the windows like claws. The cracked pavement winds deeper into the forest, and a thrill races down my spine.

“Where are we?” I ask curiously, leaning forward to peer through the windshield. Cracks spread across the broken pavement like veins, with wild grass and flowers growing through every fracture. Wherever we are heading, it’s been abandoned for a long time.

My eyes widen as we round a bend, the narrow path unfurling into a massive, overgrown clearing. At its edge, two rusted gates lean inward, yawning open to reveal the structure beyond.

A prison rises from the earth like a carcass left to rot, its stone walls eroded and crumbling in several places, the entire building is being strangled by ivy and layered with creeping moss.

Every window is shattered behind its bars, and the front door hangs from twisted hinges, kicked in long ago and never repaired.

The building looks like it caught fire on one end, the charred stone scorched black from heat and smoke, the damage stretching up to the second floor. Maybe the repairs were too expensive, and the province decided this prison wasn’t worth saving.

That’s what I imagine as my eyes roam the wreckage, before landing on a large, weathered sign near the gates: Oakgrove Correctional Institute.

Nature has already reclaimed the old prison, with roots crawling through its cracked foundation. The outer fence, once crowned with razor wire, now sags from neglect. The entire place looks ravaged by vandalism, battered by storms, and abandoned to time.

It looks haunted.

Dominic slows the car, pulling to a stop just outside the front entrance. His gaze is fixed forward, locked on the gaping darkness beyond that broken door.

“Uh, Dom? Are we here for a ghost-hunting tour or something?” I ask, wide-eyed as the prison looms against the rapidly darkening sky.

He chuckles, a quiet sound that rumbles through him like thunder. The sound isn’t exactly comforting. Without a word, he climbs out, rounds the car, and opens my door.

He offers me his hand.

“I forgot to mention that I’m terrified of ghosts.” I hesitate to grab his hand, hoping he’ll take pity on me and explain what we’re doing here.

“Take my hand, Wren,” he commands, his intense emerald gaze narrowing slightly.

I sigh, but slide my hand into his. Of course I trust him, I just can’t shake the anxiety this place gives me. The fire-damaged end of the building looks like it could crumble to dust with a stiff breeze. At least the rest of the prison doesn’t look like it's seconds away from collapsing.

Dominic helps me out of the car, then guides me along the cracked walkway toward the main entrance. Weeds and wildflowers have claimed every crevice. I step carefully, trying not to crush them, admiring their stubborn will to thrive in a kingdom of concrete, wire, and stone.

When we step inside, I’m relieved it isn’t as dark as it looked from outside. Shattered windows and gaping holes in the walls allow shafts of light to spill in, casting fractured shadows across the decaying interior.

I know what little light we have won’t last long. Once the sun sinks below the horizon, this place will drown in darkness. My stomach turns at the thought, and I glance up at Dominic.

He steps in close, wrapping his arms around my waist, and pulling me against the solid heat of his body. A devious smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Are you afraid, little lamb?”

His voice is quiet, a low rumble that echoes through the large reception area. I look up into his eyes, leaning into him.

Even though I’m wrapped in his arms—my own personal sanctuary—my body still trembles at the sound of his voice, and the way he calls me his little lamb.

I nod.

He leans down, pressing his lips against mine in a kiss so teasing it’s maddening. His touch is completely at odds with the atmosphere of this spooky prison, and with the darkness radiating off him like red flags of warning.

He steps back, just enough to reach for the hem of my dress, his fingers grazing the fabric where it falls just above my knees.

His fingers grip the soft, billowy material, and I shiver. “Such a pretty dress.”

My breath catches as his hand slips beneath the folds of cotton, his fingers skimming up my thigh until they find the edge of my panties.

A shiver runs through me, desire roaring to life and igniting in my body like he struck a match and set me ablaze.

“Such a shame that it’ll be ruined,” he murmurs, his hands hooking the thin lace material and twisting roughly until it tears.

I gasp, my skin pinching from the force of the lace twisting and popping against my hip. I watch, stunned, as he does it again to the other side. The ruined panties fall away, and he casually tucks the scraps into his back pocket like a trophy.