Page 6 of The Sinner’s Desire (The Sinner’s Touch #1)

Close your eyes and they’ll disappear, Amos.

Just focus on an object. The wall, anything. Pretend you’re back at the orphanage, I tell myself. It’s a trick I learned—but it doesn’t last long. Still, it’s a relief to escape, even for a moment.

“Please, Amos, just do it. Otherwise, they’ll be even crueler.”

“I don’t want to. Don’t ask me to hurt you, Mom.”

My face is streaked with dirt and tears, while in my head, I beg God to help me escape this house.

I was so happy when they came for me two months ago. I thought finally I’d have a family.

I was ten, and no one wanted to adopt me. The lady at the orphanage said I wasn’t the “standard.” I didn’t understand what that meant until she explained to another staff member that, since I didn’t have blue eyes, had golden skin, and looked too tall for my age, I stood out too much.

“No one wants to adopt a kid who doesn’t look like the rest of the family,” she said.

So I was beyond grateful when they said they wanted me. But the joy didn’t last.

The house they brought me to was beautiful. I’d only ever seen places that big in movies. I hadn’t even known they existed in real life.

But the moment we got there, I sensed something was off. Even though the second floor had at least six bedrooms, Jonathan made me sleep in the basement.

The place felt haunted—but now, I’m relieved when they forget about me. At least then I can pretend I live a different life, where he doesn’t hurt me anymore.

The switch from “nice dad” to monster happened the day after I arrived—and got worse with time.

They barely fed me but threw constant parties.

Men in funny suits walked around with trays full of drinks, and there was food everywhere.

My stomach growled, but I knew better than to ask.

I’d tried once.

When I first got there, they gave me tiny portions. I asked for more—and that was the first time Jonathan beat me.

Not the worst beating I’ve had. This is my fifth or sixth foster home. I’ve lost count.

I never knew what would set them off, so I learned early on: stay quiet. It’s safer that way.

Eventually, you stop wanting affection. I didn’t need love. I just wanted a house and food.

When I’d already given up hope of being adopted, Maria and Jonathan came and said they’d be my parents.

But now, after just a few months here, I’d give anything to go back to the orphanage.

I tried running away once, but the beating I got left me unable to walk straight for days. I still have the marks from the belt buckle across my thigh.

The violence kept escalating—until Jonathan made me an offer: he’d film me beating Maria, and that would spare me from getting hit.

At first, I didn’t understand. Why would I hurt a woman?

I’d never hit anyone before—not even the boys who picked on me at the orphanage. I was bigger than them, and even if no one had taught me right from wrong, I knew it was wrong to hurt someone weaker than you.

Of course I refused.

So he starved me for five straight days. All I got was water.

My stomach ached. I was scared I’d fall asleep and not wake up. My legs felt like lead. Even walking to the bathroom was torture.

I smelled awful because he didn’t let me go upstairs to shower. But still—I didn’t give in.

Then she came to talk to me.

Maria was so beautiful. She never hit me—it was always Jonathan or one of his friends.

She was crying, and she explained that if I didn’t obey, she would get beaten even worse than anything I could do.

Terrified and desperate for a bite of food, I finally agreed. But I did it gently. I just pretended.

That made things worse. Jonathan went into a rage and beat us both.

At that point, I didn’t care what happened to me. I prayed for God to take me to live with the angels. But Maria . . . she wasn’t strong enough. When I saw her face soaked in tears, I did something I’d never done before. I begged. I begged them to stop hurting her.

And then, I gave in.

But it got harder and harder to remember who I was before they brought me here.

After each session—even bruised and crying—she’d tell me I was a good boy. But I didn’t feel good.

Not anymore.

Today, Jonathan hands me a belt with metal tips and tells me to whip her back.

This time, we aren’t alone. There are at least ten people watching. And even though I’m scared they’ll hurt Maria worse if I don’t do it...I can’t.

“I’m sorry, Mom. But I can’t.”

The words have barely left my mouth when Jonathan’s hand strikes my face. The slap sends me to the ground—but I don’t look away from him.

I hate him. If I could use that belt on him, I wouldn’t hesitate.

“Stupid little shit.”

They all leave the basement—including Mommy. But strangely, she doesn’t look afraid.

She looks angry. At me.

It takes me a moment to realize . . . they’ve forgotten to lock the door.

I haven’t been upstairs in over a month. They never let me go to school or play outside. Now, I’m not even allowed in the kitchen.

Last time I was there, I took an apple because I was starving. Jonathan called me a thief.

How could I steal from my own home?

Using all the strength I have left, I crawl up the stairs.

I hear voices—coming from the dining room.

Quiet as I can, I hide behind the door, trying to hear what they’re planning. Because I know it won’t be good.

Jonathan’s not going to let it go that I disobeyed him.

But then I hear something that stops me cold.

Mommy is laughing.

She’s laughing.

How can she be happy after being threatened and beaten?

A sick feeling churns in my stomach.

“That boy’s done,” I hear her say. “He’s no good anymore. We need to get another one. If he can’t handle a few beatings, imagine how he’ll react to what we’ve got planned next.”

“What do you want me to do?” Jonathan asks.

And just like that, I realize something else.

He’s not in charge.

She is.

Rage floods me like nothing I’ve ever felt.

She lied.

She played the victim this whole time—but she was the one behind everything.

I want to burst in and scream that she’s a liar. A traitor. But I’m not stupid.

“Well?” Jonathan asks. “What do you want me to do?”

“Get rid of him,” she says without hesitation.

And I know—I have to run.

I don’t know what “get rid of me” means. But I know it’s bad and I'm afraid.

I move as fast as my aching body lets me. I head for the kitchen and turn the knob on the back door.

I can’t believe when it opens.

The sunlight stings my eyes, but I don’t stop.

Sooner or later, they’ll come for me.

I have to get out.

I walk fast, my body screaming in pain. I duck behind trees when I can, hoping they won’t see me from inside.

Finally, I make it to the street. But my head is spinning. I’m weak. I can’t take another step.

Tears run down my face.

They’re going to take me back. Just the thought terrifies me.

I’d rather be hit by a car than spend one more day in that house.

With the last of my strength, I walk into the street.

A white car comes into view, fast.

I know it’s going to hit me. I collapse onto the tarmac.

Then I hear the brakes screech—and a woman bends over me.

“Are you an angel?” I ask. I don’t even know what I’m saying anymore. I don’t care. I just want to sleep.

She looks at me and speaks in the softest voice. “I can be your angel today, sweetheart. Tell me your name. I’ll take care of you.”

“My name is Amos. Please . . . help me. Don’t let them take me back to that house.”

The shrill sound of my phone alarm rips me out of the nightmare. But the effects still cling to me—just like they always do.

Drenched in sweat, I head straight for the shower and blast myself with cold water.

I have to find them.

I’ll never sleep in peace until I make them pay.