Page 14

14

NATHANIEL

S tanding in the front entrance of my son’s house, I am fucking fuming. “Get your ass over here!” I shout and my voice echoes around me.

Rain is first to peek around the corner. “What did he do?” She already knows whatever it is has to be a new level of grotesque as I am yelling.

“Where is he?” I ask as I take in her new pregnant body. Rain’s bump only popped a few days ago, and with each change, Elijah amps up his level of fuckery. It’s how he copes, but fuck me, a body farm in my backyard?

“Out back with the pigs.” She smirks. I am so grateful to have her in our family; she helps balance my boy and makes this family a little more loving than it had been previously. So I casually tell her why I am so pissed off while making my way to the back door. “Body farm. Brad’s head is at the center of it.”

Rain sighs. “He’s been watching your house at night. Greta’s granddaughter is absolutely on his radar. He knows there is something there without fully understanding it, if that makes sense? He doesn’t know how to feel… about it.” Her words cause me to pause.

“It’s nothing. Just an arrangement of sorts.”

I can feel her smirk and eye roll burning into the back of my head. I should know better than to bullshit her, but to be frank, I don’t even understand what this is.

Stepping outside, I spot my target immediately and his new sidekick, Thomas.

“You little shits,” is all I get out before I take a step forward into a giant pile of pig shit. The vile smell is activated as it clings to my clothes, shoes, and skin.

And ever so frankly, Elijah advises why I am ankle deep in it. “Fertilizer.”

Pressing my lips together, I try to gather my composure. “Elijah. Son. I’ve always supported you. Been your cheerleader, for lack of better words. But, son…” I pause, shaking my foot free. “I need help understanding why you’ve made a body farm in my backyard.”

Then he waves me off, like it’s not a big fucking deal. “It will only smell in the summer. The cold weather should suppress a lot of the odors. I find it interesting to watch how bodies decompose, given different situations and positions within and on top of the earth.”

“Why couldn’t you do this at your house?” I shake my head in utter disbelief. Is this conversation even real? Or a figment of my imagination?

Twirling his bat and still not even looking in my direction, he replies, “I wanted too, but Rain went on about kids and inappropriate things for them to see. The kid isn’t even born yet, it makes no fucking sense, Dad. Then I thought, wait, this could be the perfect gift for your new lady friend. To have a stunning view when she gets up every morning.”

“Elijah. I feel like this conversation is one we have weekly. I’m really trying to not lose my temper right now. But, son…”

Elijah interjects before I can continue. “You haven’t found the dead person in your room, have you? Well, half a person. It’s Brad’s torso, we found it.”

A loud roar erupts from deep within. My lungs and vocal cords are giving it all they can when Thomas boldly speaks up, “Are you worried about bloodstains on the flooring? Because he was pretty empty when we finally got him.”

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I say, “Do you do this in your bedroom with Rain? Or you, Thomas, would you do this to Greta?”

“Absolutely not. We have a room for that, and Thomas knows better than to piss off that old wench.”

Then why mine? I don’t speak it out loud; it’s of no use. He won’t understand how wildly inappropriate this is.

Throwing his head back, he cackles as if he just told himself a joke in his head. “She’s nothing more than a whore. She’s getting too comfortable here, don’t you think?”

I don’t budge, my eyes zeroing in on him, everything else is a blur. Am I having a stroke? Is this what finally takes me out? What the fuck is he going to do when he finds out I’m fucking obsessed with her?

I’m fucked. He’s going to kill her.

“You can’t touch her. She is technically our Queen,” are the only words I am able to muster up while in the process of having my stroke run its course.

But he completely ignores me. “Do you know how Brad got there? Aren’t you at all curious how we obtained him?”

Shaking my head, I reply, “Yeah, sure.”

“Thomas, he is a loyal servant. And the rest of the bodies are from the cabin, Hell Fire Night, and the backwoods.”

“Clean this shit up. My room is your priority,” I snark while trying to figure out how the fuck Thomas got that close to Dalton’s compound without becoming another body decorating my backyard.

Elijah answers for me. “His face, it’s unmemorable, so he blends in. People who did see him thought he belonged there.”

“Right then. I will leave you boys to it. Perhaps the pigs would appreciate some of the many treats from my yard, yes?” This is not how I expected to start my day, not with all the other shit going on around us. But Elijah doesn’t realize that, reading the room is not in his wheelhouse.

Then it occurs to me.

Elijah is training Thomas, grooming him even, to be his own personal pet.

Fuck my life.

RYLEE

Nathaniel stormed out, only throwing his trousers and dress shirt on before leaving me here, alone, once more.

Rogers knocked on my door moments later, followed by two females rolling in multiple suitcases filled with my personal things from The Ranch. My first instinct was to call Greta, but as I reached for my phone, I questioned myself. Is it safe to contact her if I am being forced to hide out here?

I miss my life, my bed… my home.

I want to be grateful that so many people care and love me. They are doing everything to protect me, but a part of me is still so fucking resentful.

All the families were destroyed because of The Exiled, including their own members. And they just continued to go along with it, until now. Why is it now such a big fucking deal?

Thoughts are frantic and my body still feels exhausted. Perhaps I’m overthinking everything.

Walking to the suitcase closest to me, I sit cross-legged and begin sorting through my things; it’s a mix of comfy casual and latex. They are neatly folded, ready to be put away. Taking a stack of tees out, the back of my hand rubs against something smooth and familiar. Lifting the shirts out, I see my baby. My flogger. Metal staples stare back at me, and I smile, finding comfort in seeing it.

I place the tees next to me and reach for the handle. Standing up, I catch a glimpse of myself in the dresser mirror and decide, this time I want to watch. Sliding my shirt off, my body is exposed. My breasts are round and full, my hips are curvy, which I’ve always been proud of, and a backside that I’ve recently learned how to clap. But I’ve lost weight. I can see it in my face and legs, and I don’t fucking like it. Just like I don’t like how weak I get around Nathaniel Sinclair.

Turning my body, I grip the leather handle of my flogger. With my other hand, I slide my hair off my shoulder so I can see my back in its entirety.

Old wounds are healing, scabs are forming. It’s time to reopen them. I must not give in to my own temptation and desires during sessions; he’s made me throw my discipline out the window multiple times, and I fucking hate myself for allowing it.

The sharp staples poke through my skin with the first whip; the sting of the leather tassels follows. But it doesn’t stop me from lashing myself again.

Get your head in the fucking game, Rylee , I tell myself as I crack my skin once more, this time opening an existing wound. A trickle of blood streams down my spine. It’s beautiful.

I keep going, not letting up. It even starts to feel good—so fucking good. More blood stains me, my teeth bite my lip, and my nipples harden. Call it what you want, but I’m starting to love it.

The last time I put all my power behind it, bringing the flogger forward then rapidly swinging it back onto my skin.

“Fuck,” I hiss. This one really hurt. The staples embed themselves into the shoulder blade. Lifting my hand, I pull at them, and my skin tries to lift and tear. I keep holding it this way for a couple minutes, applying more pressure once it starts to feel comfortable.

I don’t deserve to enjoy this pain.

My hand opens, letting go of the flogger, and it dislodges, falling to the ground behind me. Looking in the mirror, I admire my handiwork, all deserved, the old and the new.

Red droplets that were slowly moving down have stopped and are beginning to dry. Satisfied, I reach for my shirt and slide it back over my body.

The curtains are open, the clouds break, and daylight peeks through. I try to ignore the dozen bodies in Nathaniel’s yard, but it’s nearly impossible. I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s still shocking as my eyes examine each body or appendage for the millionth time.

Behind me, the bedroom door swings open, startling me. My heart nearly jumps out of my chest.

Turning toward the intruder, it’s my silver fox, accompanied by an unforgiving odor. My nose turns up, and my face scowls.

“We are going to see your cousin, Cecilia. Be ready in twenty; I need to shower first.”

I nod, taking him in. This man has a way of making me feel shy and uncomfortable.

“May I join?” The question barely makes it out of my mouth. I fear rejection and hate myself for asking. Impulses are taking over. It’s clear I’m no longer rationally thinking. When I am with a client, no rejection, no vulnerability, but this is becoming more than just a transaction between Nathaniel and me. A wave of realization washes over me. Instinct tells me to keep fighting it, this man and what he had believed his entire life are fucking evil and he must pay. But the reality is, Nathaniel Sinclair is becoming my caretaker, keeping me safe, protected, and provided for. He doesn’t limit me or force things. And I think I like it. To not have to be strong all the time is something I didn’t know I needed.

Nathaniel’s words resonate with me. ‘It feels nice to not think, to just be and do.’

Scratching his beard, his face contorts. “Maybe we should use yours? Elijah left a gift in my room.” I laugh, that motherfucker really is a psychopath. I suppose it’s a good thing he is on our side.