Knotted (Trails of Sin 1)

I’m focused. Dedicated to my work. I don’t have time for distractions from my past.

Straightening my spine, I lift my hand, palm up. I lament the welted scar every fucking day. Jake and Jarret probably laugh at theirs. Lorne is locked up. Nothing he can do about his.

I made the blood oath under duress. Shouldn’t that negate its authenticity?

What if I do nothing about Levi Tibbs’ release? Would he come after me? Would he force his evil on other sixteen-year-old girls?

My stomach hardens, and I clench my hand, fisting the scar.

It’s summer break. Classes don’t restart for two months. I could leave school for a few weeks. How long does it take to kill a man?

I glance down the hall, taking in the dearth of students. Only reason I’m here today is to visit my favorite professor. So I focus on that.

I make my way to his classroom and find the door shut. His summer class should’ve ended by now. Maybe he’s meeting with a student?

Silently turning the handle, I peek in.

Professor York stands in the back of the room with a pretty brunette. He leans over her, his mouth too close to hers to be appropriate as he speaks quietly. Then his hand lowers and touches the back of her skirt. His fingers ruck the material, gathering it, inching it higher until his hand slips beneath.

I stumble back and turn away.

He’s not supposed to be with her. He’s in a fucking relationship. Why is he doing this?

Men cheat. That’s what they do.

My hands lose feeling. Listlessness spreads up my arms and deadens my chest. Everything inside me desensitizes, disconnects, and goes dormant.

I walk home in a numb fog.

I climb the front porch to the modest house. Insert the key. Pass through the rooms. Down the hallway. Sit on the bed in the master.

Still numb.

I want to feel something. Something profound. Intense. Dissolute. I want to feel pain that I can control.

Sliding the laptop from my bag, I cue up one of my go-to videos. It’s a clip from a foreign film. A rape scene with a woman on her stomach, her hands bound with rope and arms stretched over her head. A man jerks his hips and groans on top of her, his fingers around her neck as he fucks her in the ass.

The actress screams in another language, but I don’t pay attention to that. I absorb her tears, the round shape of her gaping mouth, the horrified expression scrunching her face. As her body tenses in pain, I cock my head, memorizing the way her fingers absently scrape against the rope.

Then I stop the video and restart it from the beginning. She’s already tied up, but her face is slack. She doesn’t understand, doesn’t know what’s coming. That moment of ignorant innocence captivates me so deeply I can’t look away.

When the man crawls onto her back and forces his dick in her ass, I freeze it. Restart it. Just like that, she’s innocent and whole again. Then he prowls over her, sodomizes her, and she breaks. I press freeze. Restart.

Freeze.

Restart.

Stop the pain.

Restart it.

Stop it.

Start it.

I crave the power in controlling her agony. It’s like an addiction taking hold of me. I can’t let it go. I need more. God knows I’ve scoured the web for darker, grittier videos. This one’s my favorite.

Stretching out on the bed, I watch the clip over and over. Each time I replay it, I grow needier, hungrier. My panties are wet, and I haven’t even touched myself. But I will. I’ll rub one out before—

A gasp sounds behind me. “What are you watching?”

My heart stops, and I slam the lid on the laptop. Fucking shit.

Tempering my breaths, I shift toward the doorway and meet the pale eyes of Professor Miles York.

“Are you watching a woman get raped?” He approaches the bed, running a hand over his neatly combed black hair. “Is that a snuff film?”

“Just a movie. With actors.” I return the laptop to my bag. “You’re home early.”

“No, I’m not.” He squints at me. “Let me see the video.”

“What for?” I rise from the bed and stride to the closet. “It was just something I stumbled on.”

“You don’t just stumble onto something like that.” He closes in behind me and wraps his arms around my waist. “If you want me to tie you up and…”

Heavy, suffocating heat bears down on my back. The confinement peels away his voice, the room, the air. I reach up, clawing to escape, and my fingers find purchase in hangers and shelves.

The weight vanishes, and I pivot, backing into the small closet and tangling in the hanging clothes.

“Shit, I’m sorry.” He steps back, hands up and expression creased with worry. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“It’s fine.” I straighten my camisole and bend to pick up the mess while I try to slow my breathing. “I’m just having a bad day.”