Lili Germain - Seven Sons

“Dornan,” I stutter. “What are you doing?”

Dornan removes the boy’s gag, and grabs the back of his neck, pointing his gaze towards me.

“Remember her, motherfucker?!” Dornan demands, spittle flying from his mouth and landing on the boy’s face.

“Dornan, it’s not what you think!”

“Shut your mouth,” Dornan yells at me. “Let him speak.”

Oh God. What am I going to do?

“Dornan, he’s not who you think he is–”

“Chad, shut her the fuck up, will you?” Dornan points to me and before I can move, Chad has sidled up alongside me and grabbed me in a bear hug, his hand planted firmly over my mouth. I gasp, unable to scream. I look over at Jase, whose peaceful breakfast has been shattered by all the ruckus.

“Pop,” Jase says slowly, “what’s going on? Who the hell is this guy?”

“What’s your name, son?” Dornan demands. “Speak!”

“M-Michael.”

Michael Trevine.

I just have one question for you, baby girl.

The boy is terrified. One of his eyes is swollen shut, there is blood all over him, and I wonder how much of the long journey back to LA was spent beating him.

 Tears form at the corner of my eyes as the full brunt of Dornan’s obsession with me becomes apparent. He left me here for this. He asked me who my ex-boyfriend was, and then proceeded to travel across the country to kidnap an innocent boy from his house. A boy who has never laid eyes on me, a boy who I found online and added to Sammi’s backstory for credibility.

 A boy with a gun pointed at his head.

 I struggle against Chad’s stronghold, but it is useless. The guy is built, and he’s probably been snorting the white powder with Daddy Dornan all the way home.

 I bite down on Chad’s hand and he pulls it away, yelling at me.

“He’s not my ex!” I scream, fighting against Chad’s rigid embrace.

 Dornan looks at me like a man possessed. A man on a mission.

 “I lied,” I gasp, still struggling. “I’ve never met him before. Please, just let him go.”

 Dornan lowers his gun and looks me up and down. “You don’t have to be scared of him anymore,” he says.

He lifts the gun, his finger putting pressure on the trigger.

“Please!” I scream.

My pleas go unheeded.

He pulls the trigger.

Two things happen. Firstly, the roar of a single bullet as it leaves Dornan’s gun and enters the back of the boy’s head. Secondly, almost at the exact same time, I am showered with a fine mist of blood and what I think are pieces of Michael Trevine’s skull.

Michael lays on the ground, motionless. The red cloud around his head grows swiftly, reaching my flip flops. I scream and Chad releases me, letting me slump to the ground. I crawl through blood and bits of skull to get to the dead boy, cradling him in my arms. He is heavy, a dead weight, because he is dead. And it is my fault.

I heft the boy onto my lap and realize his eyes are still open.

Fuck.

With trembling fingers, I reach over and press his eyelids shut.

I feel hands on my shoulders, pulling me away, and it takes everything inside me not to kick and claw and bite Dornan as he carries me away. He pulls my clothes off and puts me in the shower, where I huddle into a ball and stare at the lines of grout that separate each white tile.

You don’t have to be scared of him anymore.

I make a strangled sobbing sound, but nothing much comes out of my throat except a dried-up, pathetic scream.

Dornan pulls me from the shower, wraps me in a towel and walks me to his bed, where he sits me down.

“Do you understand how much I care about you now?” Dornan asks with a throat full of gravel. His hands are all over me, feverish, and I don’t fight back when he presses me down onto the bed and unbuckles his belt.

I just lay there, in shock, his lips at my throat and his hands roving every inch of my shell-shocked body.

“Do you know why I did that?” he breathes in my ear as he grips my hips and slides inside me.

My breath hitches in my throat as he begins to thrust into me, and I feel a single tear roll down the side of my face.

“Because I’m yours,” I whisper into the darkness.

If I think watching Michael die in front of me for a careless lie I created is bad, the aftermath is horrific.

Dornan is high, the blood on his hands washed clean away but still leaving invisible handprints all over my body that spell murderer.

Because it is my fault. I should never have used a real person’s name in my fake past; I should have just made one up.

It seems that the only thing that gets Dornan hornier than a girl auditioning for a job by screwing him is killing her supposed ex-boyfriend. The hours after he shoots Michael are possibly even worse than the night six years ago when Dornan and his sons took turns raping me. Because at least then I could struggle.

At least then I could scream.

Now, here, it is like I am in a hell that I will never escape. Six years’ worth of nightmares are coming to life in the space of a few incredibly torturous hours.

 Dornan is high and he wants to fuck.

 “What’s wrong, baby girl?” he keeps asking me over and over as I lay flat on my back, being fucked, unable to move.

I just have one question, baby girl.

After it has been going on for an hour or maybe more, I clear my raw throat.

“Stop,” I plead.

He doesn’t stop.

I push his warm chest away from mine.  I can’t breathe. I threw up my breakfast in the shower as I watched Michael’s blood and pieces of skull rinse from my skin and drift lazily down the drain, gone forever. I am shaky and starving.

For a moment, I think he will stop, afford me a small rest before he starts up again.

“Please?” I ask him. “Please just stop for a minute.”

He doesn’t stop.

It’s the drugs, I realize. He is frustrated. He is hard and he is horny and the drugs are stopping him from having that release that he needs so desperately to calm down.

“Stop!” I yell, pushing his chest with all my might. Surprisingly, he doesn’t pin me down as I suspected he would, but draws himself out of me and rolls to the side, coming to a standing position beside the bed. I draw my knees up to my chest and watch in horror as he pulls a shiny black gun from his side table.

It is only now that I see his entire body is shaking, balanced precariously on the edge of an overdose.

“What did you take?” I ask calmly, sitting up on the side of the bed. I am alarmed. He can’t die, not now, not before he suffers for me. It would be too easy for him to just OD and die before I’ve made him regret ever meeting my father.

He doesn’t answer, just starts to pace the room, his cock still erect in front of him, his index finger nervously bouncing against the trigger of his gun.

“Dornan, you need to calm down,” I say, still in shock and not ready for him to shoot me, too. “You’ve taken something.”

“Too pure,” he says, “too pure. We gotta cut it down, cut it down–”

“Hey!” I say loudly, trying to cut through his incoherent monologue.

He swings around and presses the tip of the gun to my forehead. I gasp.

 “Why did you come here?” he asks me, his breathing short and sharp. He is angry. Angry and peaking.

 Stick to the story.

 “I had nowhere else to go,” I say honestly, and it is true. I had nowhere else to go.

 “You know what I did for you? The risk I took?” I nod.

“I know. Thank you for protecting me.” The words are pouring out of my mouth before I can even think. I will do anything for him to take the gun away from my head and calm down.

“I fucking risked EVERYTHING for you, and you don’t even care?”

Oh God. Oh Godohgodohgod.

“I do care,” I say, and I do the only thing I can think to do to calm him down. I take his cock in my hands and start stroking back and forth, making a tight fist. He seems to relax almost immediately, but doesn’t take the gun away. I look up at him through my eyelashes and see his face still incredibly tense, his body twitching with too much pent-up energy and high-grade methamphetamine.

I have to do something. I take his cock and guide it gently to my mouth, teasing the underside with the tip of my tongue. His whole body is still shaking but he moans and drops the gun to his side, his other hand stroking my hair.

I keep going, thankful that I at least don’t have to look at him. I pretend that we are other people, somewhere else, and this, too, makes it easier to keep going. I sigh with relief when the gun clatters to the floor and he uses both hands to grip the sides of my head.

“Baby girl,” he moans, rocking his hips in rhythm, his cock as hard as ever.

I take him all in, as far as my mouth will open, and he suddenly tenses. “Ohhhh,” I hear him say as hot cum hits the back of my throat. It takes every muscle in my body locked rigid so that I don’t choke. I am suddenly overwhelmed by a claustrophobic, trapped sensation that goes from my mouth all the way down to my stomach.

Dornan staggers back, a sated smile on his handsome face. I swallow thickly, looking around the room for something – anything – to get the taste of him out of my mouth. I spy my half-drunk coffee from the morning, sitting innocently on the nightstand. I have no idea how it got here. I reach for it and take a swig of the cold liquid, sighing as it floods my mouth with sugar and bitterness. My eye notices something on the cup and I look closer.