Sins of the Father: A Paranormal Prison Romance (Sinfully Sacrified Book 1)

by Mary E. Twomey

  Yeah, that was too far. But after years of “Oh, that looks nice,” and “Tell me more about the guy you’re dating this week,” I’ve finally run out of surface material to discuss.

  Ursa shoves me hard, tears stinging her eyes. “I hate you and your family!” A guard barks at her to knock it off. He trots over, but not before she works out a livid, “When I get out, I’ll bury you! I’ll bury you with your precious four-thousand-dollar stilettos! I know things! I know things, and I’m not afraid to testify!”

  I throw my hands out to the sides. “By all means, go ahead! Get me sentenced to more time in here. Those stilettos kill my feet. I like it here just fine.”

  The guard shoves Ursa backward and holds a hand out to me in warning. “Break it up, or you’ll get solitary.”

  “Don’t you get it?” I seethe at Ursa, who’s posturing and sneering at me as she struggles against the guard’s arm. “You can’t ruin what’s already wrecked.”

  I’m not sure if I’m talking about the family, or about me. Either way, I own my mess in this moment instead of pushing it away. My father’s almighty hand turned against me, and I don’t forgive him for it. I’m not his good soldier. I was never supposed to be that. I was supposed to be his daughter.

  And Ursa’s father was supposed to protect her, which he failed to do. He lost sight of what’s important, and her broken heart is bleeding all over me because of it.

  I hurt her on purpose, which officially makes me my father’s daughter.

  Ursa yells loud enough to fill the barn. “If you think you’re only serving five years, think again! He’s got you right where he wants you. Daddy’s little girl is going to die an old woman in here.”

  Her words send lightning through my spine, striking me with more horror than I can process.

  She’s right. I’m my father’s perfect scapegoat. Now that I’m here, he can commit as many crimes as he likes and get caught for them all. He can simply add time to my sentence, stacking years on top of each other. His pockets are deep, so he can afford to buy his way out of whatever crime he’s charged with, and push the blame onto me.

  I can’t apologize because Ursa won’t hear it beneath her angry swearing. So I pick up the wheelbarrow and make my way back to the pile of bricks.

  Of course Gray was standing just outside the barn. Of course he heard the whole thing.

  If he thinks I want to talk about any of it, I don’t.

  I don’t want to talk to anyone.

  Maybe that’s something I can address.

  I drop the wheelbarrow and beeline to the officer who’s giving Ursa a stern talking to.

  “Excuse me, Officer Lockley?”

  “What is it, Princess?” They all call me that, and I hate it.

  “Did I hear you right? If I get caught fighting, I’ll go to solitary?”

  He turns fully and broadens his chest. “That’s right.”

  “For how long?”

  “Depends on how angry I am.”

  “What if I want a day? Is that like, punching someone? It’s got to be bigger than a shove, right?”

  He quirks his eyebrow at me. “Are you asking for permission to go to solitary?”

  I nod. “I can punch Ursa if I have to. But if I can just go to solitary without all the theatrics, I’m sure she’d prefer it.”

  “Are you high?” Ursa shouts. “The shifter’s whore is psychotic!” she broadcasts to the whole of the barn.

  “Run along,” Officer Lockley chuckles, truly baffled by my request. “You don’t want solitary. If the kids are picking on you, stick near the guards, and they’ll lay off.”

  I don’t know how to tell him it’s not them. Well, it’s not just them. It’s everything. It’s the realization that I don’t have five years in here. I have infinity years. I have as many years as people can pin crimes on Daddy, and he can siphon them off onto me.

  I need to deal. I need to deal in private. I’m tired of being weak in front of Gray, Cass and Charlotte. I need to steel my insides and build up some intestinal fortitude to last me through the rest of my life behind bars. I can’t lean on the three of them forever. They’ll get out one day.

  I’m a lifer.

  One of Daddy’s life lessons chimes in my ear, pushing me in the direction I know I shouldn’t go: Know your assets and lean on them.

  Solitary is my asset right now, so I’m taking it. The whole thing coincides with his other lesson, which I pushed aside because I’ve been weak. I wasn’t supposed to let them see me sweat. Yet I’ve done far more than that. I’ve sobbed on their shoulders. I’ve shuddered in public. I let my fear of the dark be known.

  That’s never a good plan. My weaknesses should be hidden, so they can never be used against me.

  I don’t know how I let things get so turned around.

  But I know how to fix them.

  I’m starting over, beginning with a stint in solitary to get my head on straight. I’ll feel all the things in private, then stuff them away for as long as I can manage it.

  Then I’ll punch another person and take a break in solitary again if I need more time to deal.

  I wait until Officer Lockley steps back. Then I run at Ursa without a single trace of malice on my face. It’s not about anger. It’s not even about her. It’s about me needing to reset myself.

  I jump and tackle her to the ground, pinning her down so I can get a decent windup. I don’t care that my trainer would scold me for telegraphing my punches. Ursa can’t counter my attack from this position, so I swing how I please, connecting my fist with the side of her face.

  14

  Solitary Refinement

  It doesn’t take more than the three punches to Ursa’s face for Officer Lockley to swear as he rips me off my prey. “That’s it! You want solitary? Well, now you’ve got it.” He blows on his whistle, and two other guards come trotting into the barn.

  I really don’t have anything against Ursa. I don’t begrudge her any pain or her right to her hatred of me for what our fathers did to us, sending us here. I just wanted a trip to solitary to get away from everything. I’m tired of being called a whore when the guy I fancy doesn’t even want to be my boyfriend. I’m tired of the shoves and whispers and glares that all tell me I’m not welcome, yet I can’t leave.

  I’ll leave when I want to. Granted, it’s to go to solitary, but still. It’s my choice.

  Gray runs toward me, his composure destroyed when he sees the damage I’ve done. “No! Don’t take her!”

  Ursa’s moaning on the hay-strewn floor, holding her cheek and calling for every bad thing in the world to rain down on my head.

  Cass is on Gray’s heels, her hand up. “I’ll take her stint!”

  I can’t believe she’d do that for me. I would never let her, but still. The loyalty rings through the barn and sticks in my heart, where she belongs—my fierce protector.

  Cass steps toward Officer Lockley. “She’s not been here a month, Lockley. You know she shouldn’t even be in gen-pop yet. Most people take a month in acclimation. She’s not well!”

  Charlotte’s beside Cass, but she says nothing. I can see she understands why I need this. Her sadness is palpable, but she doesn’t stop me from taking the time out so I can control my breakdown in private.

  I fix both Cass and Gray with a stern look, warning them silently to let me be.

  It’s no matter, though, because Officer Lockley isn’t listening to their pleas. He jerks my hands behind my back, cuffs me, and marches me off the field and into the cement prison, muttering under his breath the whole time about wishing he’d taken a job as a postal worker when he’d had the chance.

  It’s not my first time being cuffed and marched away. Five other times, we were all taken in for questioning, making a parade of what looked like an arrest. But none of those charges ever stuck. The crimes slid right off Daddy.

  For the most part, they still do.

  We walk up a few floors and down too many hallways for me to keep track of
where in the massive building I am.

  When we reach a series of concrete, windowless rooms, he uncuffs me and gives me a hard shove to shunt me inside. “Three meals through the chute here. Toilet’s there. No one can hear you if you need anything. See you in twenty-four hours, Princess. I’ll be wearing this uniform, and you’ll be wearing a new attitude.”

  The moment the door closes, I heave a sigh of relief. The bare bulb overhead gives me enough light to take stock of my assets: steel toilet, tiny sink, light bulb, silence.

  No one’s going to catch me being angry at the family in here. No one’s going to hold me like I matter in the dark and then distance themselves from the idea of actually being with me in the daylight.

  I know that’s not the totality of what Gray’s rejection meant. Truthfully, I don’t know what it means, even now.

  But Gray doesn’t matter in here. This is my space. Mine, not his. Mine, not theirs. The family can’t dictate a thing in here.

  I shouldn’t have pushed through acclimation so quickly. Those days don’t count toward your sentence. I rushed through them and said all the right things, so I could get into gen-pop and start working off my time.

  Working off the family’s time.

  Had I put together that I’ll most likely never get out of here, I wouldn’t have bothered. I would have stayed in the motel-like accommodations of acclimation until they dragged me to Prigham’s. Three days is their record, they told me.

  I’d been so proud of myself for faking normal so well.

  I’m so stupid.

  Daddy doesn’t love me. Though I always suspected we were all tools in his game, the sparkle in his eye when he regarded me with such warmth made me feel special—the only person in a room full of tools. I felt shiny and special and chosen.

  But I was never any of those things. I was his useless tool, dressed up like a princess and paraded around as a display of the family’s wealth, which is second only to the king’s, if that.

  I wonder what kind of weight is on Prince Paxton’s shoulders. Though I only have the one memory of him when we were children, my mind often drifts to him when I’m stuck in a situation only he would understand. He’s been bred for the public, same as me. Though, his father would never send him in here.

  Then again, his father would never be caught up in sordid things like mine’s always constructing, though not for lack of Daddy trying to lure the king into his web. He was always trying to push that connection, but the king doesn’t need Daddy’s money or influence. He’s got enough of his own to keep him from selling out.

  Plus, the two hate each other, so there’s not enough trust there to forge anything real.

  I wonder if Prince Paxton enjoys his cage, if he’s resigned himself to the limits his guards set in place for him. I can’t even remember what color his eyes are; he wears sunglasses everywhere he goes.

  But this cage is mine. My choice, not theirs.

  I can pace all I want in here without driving Cass crazy.

  My thoughts swirl like a freshly shaken snow globe, so I pick one out at random to examine up close.

  Sloan. I miss him so badly. I’ve been trying not to picture his face. But now that I have the space to break down and dive into my worry, all sorts of sentiments flood me. Is he eating right? If he’s not living at the house anymore, then Suzette’s not cooking for him. He once ate out of a vending machine when we were in hiding during a raid. Is he living like that? Eating stale snack cakes from vending machines and unwrapping his dinner from tin foil?

  I can’t. I’m incapable of stomaching the mental image of that even a little. Sloan prefers salmon with teriyaki sauce, which Suzette makes from scratch. Is he taking a multivitamin? What if his motel room is dirty?

  My skin starts crawling with phantom bedbugs, so I scratch at my arms, not stopping until I see blood.

  “Huh. I’m bleeding,” I say to myself, listening to my words echo off the walls.

  I wonder if Sloan can feel the sting. He always had a sixth sense about me that kept me from danger as much as he was able. But he’s not here, so I’m free to hurt as much as I want.

  With each droplet of blood, I give myself permission to say all the things I wish I could to my dad.

  Sloan’s phantom prodding pushes the words out of my mouth: “I have a right to my own voice.”

  But even as I speak that aloud, I shudder and duck. It’s too much. It’s too bold.

  Yet I feel Sloan in my bones, his gentle but firm verdict telling me, “You have a right to your voice.”

  So I take a step out into the unknown and speak out against my father.

  “You’re a coward.” Though Daddy can’t hear me, the fear of my convictions is real. I shudder, as if expecting him to manifest in the cramped space and lash out at me for my mouth.

  But there’s nothing. He’s not here to get angry at me or defend himself.

  I collect some blood on my finger and draw a line on the concrete wall.

  This is my new mansion, this solitary cell. This is my freedom. I can say whatever I want in here, and no one will come after me for it.

  Again, Sloan’s encouragement chimes in my ear: “You have a right to your voice.”

  Another accusation hurls out from my lips. “You cheated on Mum your whole marriage, and we pretended not to see it.”

  Another line on the wall.

  “You slapped Mum across the face because she was cross with you for missing Christmas morning.”

  Another line on the wall.

  “You had Jeremy sent away because he asked me to his homecoming dance.”

  Another line on the wall.

  I run out of blood before I run out of my father’s sins, so I scratch at my other arm until I get what I need. He won’t bleed for his sins, but I will.

  “You fired Pierre from the kitchen because I gained five pounds when I was sixteen.”

  Another line on the wall.

  “You didn’t give Sloan the day off on his birthday three years ago. His strawberry tart was soaked through and sloppy looking by the time he actually got around to eating it the next day.”

  Another line on the wall.

  “I was in hiding with Sloan for a month and got no explanation.”

  Another line on the wall.

  When my meal comes through the slot however long later, I scramble to the tray and pick up the plastic spork. Always a spork, never a knife. I ignore the food because I can’t eat half of it. The spork is all I need. I take the thing and snap off part of the white handle, eyeing the jagged edge.

  This will do just fine.

  I roll up my orange pant leg and scrape a long line down my thigh, sighing at the pretty hue of red that blooms after only three digs.

  I’m not allowed to get hurt. My modeling contract demands absolute perfection.

  If only they could see me now.

  “You killed my cat when I tried to sneak out and go to a party in junior high.”

  Another line on the wall.

  Sloan’s teachings push me forward again, his words echoing in my brain: “You have a right to your voice.”

  Tears are falling now, but I have the space not to be embarrassed by them. I don’t need to save face in here. I don’t need to convince anyone that I’m okay.

  I’m not okay. I’m not sure I ever have been. I’m just fantastic at faking it (until lights out, that is). Excelling at doing whatever job is set for me to perform is the highest priority.

  I’m his show dog.

  Sin after sin paints itself on the wall, and with each one that I release from my usually sealed lips, I feel lighter and lighter. The heaviness of being Daddy’s puppet slowly fades as the wall fills up with lines of my blood.

  This is good. The next time the pain gets to be too much, I’ll just punch Ursa or Malrick or someone, and release the sins into the air in here. I don’t want Daddy’s blood in me. I want nothing to do with a man who would sell me out like this. I’m here, doing my part for the fam
ily, but he didn’t do his part for me. He abandoned me in here, all so he could play his grownup games and feel like a big man.

  I will not be small so he can be big.

  I will not cry on Gray’s shoulder.

  I will not let anyone’s insults or outbursts bother me.

  In this place, I am bulletproof.

  Because after all this, I’m still my father’s daughter, and I carry that around with me wherever I go. I may not have my stilettos, but in my veins is blood that belongs to me. It’s mine. I choose what to do with it, and I won’t spend it being afraid.

  I’m purging my father’s blood from me as best I can and painting the walls with his sins so they’re out there in the world, untouched by bleach. What’s left over stays in my body. That blood will be mine alone.

  When the loudspeaker crackles, letting me know there’s twenty minutes left until lights out, my bravery vanishes. There’s no protection in here. Dad’s enemies could come for me at any time and stuff me in their trunk.

  With shaking hands, I shove my face with the food on the tray that I can eat—an apple and a piece of bread. I drink down my water and use the toilet, wondering when the last time was it was cleaned.

  When the lights go out, I rock myself in the corner, my arms wrapped around me in a hug that doesn’t keep a damn thing from splintering apart. I feel deranged as the bleach seeps into my nose. The stale stink of the trunk’s interior closes over me like a trip to the morgue.

  They’ll send me back in pieces.

  No one can hear me, so I let out a scream. It won’t change anything, but it’s a release I can’t live without. The sound echoes off the concrete walls, and finally I begin to understand why solitary is a punishment.

  No one can hear me scream.

  Sloan may have insisted that I have a right to my own voice, but that doesn’t mean anyone will listen.