by LP Lovell
Copyright © 2015 by LP Lovell and Stevie J. Cole
All rights reserved
This book is an original work of fiction. All of the names, characters, sponsors, and events are the product of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously. Any similarities to actual events, incidences, persons, deceased or living, is strictly coincidental.
Any opinions expressed in this book or solely those of the authors.
Absolution
Copyright ©2015 by LP Lovell and Stevie J. Cole
Published in the United States of America
Ebooks are non-transferable. They cannot be sold, shared, or given away. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is a crime punishable by law. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded to or downloaded from file sharing sites, or distributed in any other way via the internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement including infringement without monetary gain is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of LP Lovell and Stevie J. Cole
Editing: Indie Editor Jones
Proofreading: Kim Ginsberg
Cover Design: SM Piper
Photographs and model: Front cover: Uncovered Models, Claire Porterfield and Max Ellis Photography, Back cover: Uncovered Models, Garrick Murdie and Eric Battershell Photography
WARNING: The purpose of this story is to take you out of your comfort zone. There may be topics in this book you find repulsive or morally wrong-that is the intent. The main character comes from a religious cult, so please remember the religion within these pages is not a "real" religion. There are elements in this book some may term BDSM, but this is NOT BDSM. There is no respect, no safe word, there is no limit, please keep this in mind as we have a deep respect for people who practice that lifestyle. There are elements of abuse, violence, and explicit sex. If you are not okay with possibly being dragged out of your comfort zone, you may not want to read this book.
When you turn the page, you will be thrown into the mind of a psychopath. At times things may seem incoherent, and you will most likely feel overwhelmed…and that was the plan. Oh, and yes, the italics is Evie's chapters, that is her little demonic voice that talks to her. Happy reading!
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
What's Next? - Including Excerpts
Dear Reader
Acknowledgements
About the Authors
The door to the kitchen creaks open, but I don't bother to turn around. "Evelyn," my father's voice is angry. "What have you done? You sinner!"
I turn up the temperature to the eye, watching the oil in the iron skillet pop and bubble. I'm not going to acknowledge him. Evelyn, it's his fault too. My inner voice whispers. He wouldn't protect you. He's the one who said Zachariah is righteous. Squeezing my eyes shut, I shake my head and will my little demon to quiet as my fingers grip the handle.
"Evelyn!" I turn to face him just in time to catch a backhand over my lips. Blood pours into my mouth. "Have you not learned your place? Nineteen years, and you're still a defiant little whore just like your mother was." His eyes burn with anger and resentment as he glares at me, his jaw twitching while he shakes the sting from his hand. It's wrong, Evelyn. This is all wrong. Liars. Sinners. Blasphemers. Shut up! Do what's right. You need forgiveness. Father grabs the nape of my neck, and I flinch. "How can people follow me as their leader if my own daughter doesn't learn her place? You are a disgrace to the work of God, disgusting and wretched. You make men sin, and God hates you for it."
Without thought, I take the heavy skillet and swing it around. There's a loud crack when the pan meets the side of his face, and he falls back, his body making a loud thud when it hits the tile floor. Shock ripples through me as I watch the dark red liquid ooze from the gash on his forehead. When I fall to my knees next to my father, I’m still clutching the pan in my hands. He let Zachariah hurt you. Lifting the skillet above my head, I use as much force as my thin frame can gather to hit him again. Blood splatters over the white tile. He beat you. I bash his skull again with the heavy pan. He's made you a monster in the eyes of God. It's no longer me that's bashing his head with the pan over and over. It's this demon that's been trying to claw its way out of me every day since I can remember. And for a moment, everything fades to black. I can feel my arms dealing out blow after blow. I hear the gruesome cracking of bone, the wet sound of the skillet hitting his mangled face, but I'm disconnected.
Breathless, chest heaving, face coated with a mixture of tears and blood, I come back to the moment. I toss the pan to the side and scramble across the floor on my hands and knees as far away as I can get from the massacre in front me. I go to wipe my face but realize my hands are covered in blood. My heart is in my throat in a quivering lump. Look what you've done, Evelyn. What a mess you've made all over the clean kitchen floor.
"Forgive me for what I've done. Take away these sins..." I choke on a sob because murder is a sin, but I feel no guilt. "Forgive me for..." Nothing. Forgive you for nothing because this man allowed you to be hurt again and again. Evelyn, he did that to cleanse you.
My mind swirls through a kaleidoscope of memories, the reel violently stopping on one in particular.
I'm crying because Zachariah told me he'd kill me if I told anyone, but I'd rather die than keep taking his form of punishment. Pain is punishment, but what Zachariah does to me is far more than pain. Father glares at me. "You've sinned, Evelyn." He shakes his head in disapproval. "On your hands and knees." I tremble but do as I'm told and submit to his demand as we've all been taught. I hear the old hinges of his closet door groan, and I know what he's getting. This is not what I expected, I expected he would protect me, but I know better than to question him because that is yet another sin that I'll need cleansing from.
I block out the pain as the leather rips into my back. I ignore the shameful names my father calls me as he delves out my atonement. I've learned to accept this. I've been taught that this pain brings you closer to righteousness, that with each scar we are healed. We are imperfect, and our sins should mar our bodies as not to mar our souls. I think of my sins as he beats me and by the time he is through, I feel cleansed. I feel that my body is now broken
so that my soul can heal, and I wonder if this is what it's like for the others my father calls blasphemers. I wonder if people who do nothing more than confess their sins can ever feel absolved because surely there must be pain to be forgiven.
"Evelyn?"
I glance up to find my sister, Hannah, holding on to the door frame, her face white, her gaze is locked on Father's lifeless body.
You're both saved now, Evelyn. Run. I swallow. I stand. My legs wobble from the fear still coursing through me. "We need to go, Hannah. God told me we should go."
Four years later
The large wooden door to the cathedral creaks open and I stumble into the darkness. I trace my fingertips over the wooden pews, guiding my way until I come to the altar and fall to my knees.
“Forgive me,” I breathe, my voice catching in the back of my throat. My urgent whispers echo into the pitched ceilings and I wait for an answer I know will never come. “Forgive me Father for what I am about to do…” I bow my head and my chest tightens.
Confessing your sins, asking for forgiveness, I've still not grasped this concept. It never feels as though I'm forgiven. How can something as simple as asking for forgiveness absolve you from your sins? What penance is there if there is no pain? Clenching my fists, I rest my head against the step and listen to myself breathe. In. Out. In...
"Please take my beauty and use it as you will..." Beauty is wicked, Evelyn. The memory surfaces of my father beating me because a man called me beautiful. My nails claw at the carpet as I unwillingly become lost in that memory.
"Don't flinch!" he shouts at me. "Don't cry! You thank God for allowing you to be cleansed of your sin. You learn to love this pain because it is the only thing that keeps you clean!" The belt bites at my skin again, and I hold my breath, forcing my back to remain rigid so it won't bow away from the pain. "Beauty is a mark of the devil, and despite that I've prayed for you for eighteen years, the devil still lives inside you. Just like he did your mother." Another loud crack sounds when the leather lands over my shoulder. "Pray, Evelyn," he says with such anger I fear he may beat me to death this time. "Pray where I can hear you."
I squeeze my eyes shut and exhale. "Dear Lord, please forgive me for my beauty—" CRACK. The sudden pain stops me mid-sentence, but I hurry to continue my prayer. "Please, I don't want to be a temptation. I don't wish to be a sinner."
"You are sin, Evelyn. Not a sinner. You are the sin, and you're going to have to pray much harder than that to be freed from your chains." WHACK.
"Forgive me!" I shout, pleading. "Forgive me for being a sin, for being a creation of the devil. Forgive me for the sin I force upon others, I beg you—" CRACK. My fists clench around the wooden footboard of my bed. Tears roll down my cheeks, and I want to weep, I want to sob, but I know if I do it will only make it worse. You need worse to be cleansed. I suck back the tears. "Forgive me. Forgive me. Forgive me."
The bells in the old cathedral toll, the deep boom tearing me from that nightmare. My heart sits in the back of my throat, pounding and forcing a thin sheen of sweat over my entire body. "Forgive me. Amen," I choke as I take in the silence surrounding me.
I push away from the altar and make my way down the aisle. The heavy door groans as I pull it open, and the freezing wind whips my hair around my face. Cinching my coat, I step onto the sidewalk, and the bustling Manhattan crowds quickly swallow me.
Several men walk past me, eyeing my body. Their eyes skate up my bare legs, and I tug at the hem of my skirt. If I weren't pretty, they'd leave me alone. At one time, I prayed that God would take my beauty away from me, but I have learned to embrace it and see it as a tool. You see, beauty and sex are the most powerful weapons a woman can wield, and they can bring any man to his knees in a matter of seconds, leaving him begging and at your very mercy. And I want them at my mercy.
Even though it's a short walk to Matthew's apartment, I'm nearly frozen by the time I reach his building. I knock on the door and wait. A month ago, I was nothing but a whore to Matthew. Someone he paid to give him a good fuck. After the first time, I fucked him for money, I followed him for several weeks, watching him take home a different whore every night.
But I changed that.
I've spent the last few months pursuing him, making him want me, making him feel like he needs me. Making him love me. It's a lie. I am the last thing he needs. I am death dressed as his deepest desire: a weak woman. But I am not weak.
The door opens, and there stands Matthew, beer in hand and smiling. "Hey Matthew," I coo in a breathy, sex-laced tone as I step inside, closing the door behind me.
He grabs my hips and tugs my body to his as a sickening groan presses through his lips. His filthy little hands move to my ass and squeeze. “You are so fucking hot.” His mouth lays against my neck, his warm breath blowing against my skin when he whispers, “You smell like something I want to eat.”
I swallow the acid burning up my throat, and I force myself to giggle. Honestly, I have it ingrained in my soul to cringe when a man touches me. But sex is a means to an end. Something to make them vulnerable. And I learn all of their vulnerabilities.
He walks me back through the hallway to the bed, his hands groping clumsily at my body, clinging to my curves. I drop my purse to the floor when the back of my legs hit the mattress, and I fall onto the bed, batting my eyelashes at him as I curl one side of my lips into a seductive grin.
He bites his bottom lip and rips his shirt over his head. I force my eyes to trail over his body. His stomach is hard, carved, his arms a perfect example of how a man should look. It’s a shame he’s such a piece of shit. I drag my gaze down to his crotch, and there, it freezes. Men want to feel like they are being worshiped. I make him think I want him. I make him feel as though I want his filthy, dirty hands all over me.
“What I’m going to do to you…” he growls as he shoves my skirt up around my hips and yanks my thong off, throwing them to the side of the room.
What I'm going to do to you.
What I want to do is make him beg for forgiveness as I slit his throat, but over the years I've found blood makes everything too messy. You learn the person, you learn ways they could die that no one will ever question, and this man right here—forgive me Father—this man right here will OD with or without me. I know he has a drug problem. The first time I broke into his apartment, I found a plethora of expensive drugs spread out over the coffee table. All of his family and friends will just assume it's an overdose and bury him six feet under. Just as I'm thinking this, Matt pushes my thighs apart and buries his face between my legs. I close my eyes and fight off the feeling of sin crawling all over me like insects. His mouth is wet and warm and filthy. I don’t let myself enjoy this, but I play the part. I moan, I grab his hair and lace it between my fingers. I grind my hips over him, riding his face as I tell him to fuck me. I call out his name. I make him think he is a god when he's nothing more than a wretched sinner.
Suddenly, his mouth is off of me, and he slides up next to me on the bed, pushing his pants down and freeing his hard dick.
I lean over him and place my lips inches from his. “Wait,” I whisper as I grab his cock. I want to squeeze it until the circulation cuts off—until the head of his dick engorges and goes numb, but I don't. I just imagine that scenario while I work my fist up and down his shaft.
“Wait? My dick's about to fucking explode, Evelyn.”
“Uh-uh.” I reach for my purse at the foot of the bed and grab the pill bottle, dumping out a handful of tiny blue pills into my palm. I glance over them and quickly spot the one with an 'A' carved on it. I take that one, place it on the tip of my tongue, and swallow. I hold out my hand, smiling because I just took an aspirin, but that's not what he's about to take.
He lifts an eyebrow and his gaze rises to mine. “What is it?”
"Poison," I laugh. "Oh, come on Matthew, it's fucking roll. Don't tell me you don't do it? I know you do." Most men would know not to trust a whore, but then again, I'm not most whores...<
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“Fuck me, where have you been all my life, huh?" He laughs, pleased, and takes a single pill, places it on the tip of his tongue, then swallows. "Beautiful and dirty and knows how to have fun.”
“Oh, just waiting for you, sweetheart. Just waiting for you…”
I take the rubber from the side table, tearing the foil with my teeth and rolling it down his hard-on. I straddle him and push myself down around his twitching erection. Fucking him makes me feel so dirty, but it is worth the end product. I will pray time and time again to be forgiven because surely God understands a man is at his weakest when he's buried inside a woman. I keep my eyes trained on Matthew's, intently watching as I ride him, slow at first, then faster and harder.
I stare down at him. I need one more thing from him before he dies. I need complete control of him. "Tell me you love me." His brow furrows, and I stop moving.
"What?" he asks.
"Tell me you love me."
"I mean..." he laughs, "what, are we role playing now?"
Heat spreads over my face. I don't have time for this. "Just do it. Tell me," I say, slowly grinding over his sick little dick.
"I love you, Evelyn," he says with an edge of sarcasm.
That demon inside of me wails because he doesn't. He is lying. He pretends he loves me, just like he pretended he loved the girl before me, and like he would pretend to love whoever came after me if this wasn't his last night on this earth. All men lie. He would never save me or protect me. I am a vessel for him to use and toss away, but no Matthew, no. Tonight I toss you away!
Ten minutes in, sweat is dripping between my breasts, and his breathing deepens. He grabs at the neck of my dress, pushing the material underneath my breasts. His eyes flutter, then pulse open. He's fighting it, Evelyn. He holds them wide open before they slam shut against his will. Tiny beads of sweat form on his forehead and roll down his temples. He keeps licking his lips, and I know it's because his mouth has gone dry. His hands drop from my chest to the bed, and I ride him harder.