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 CONTENTS

Content Notice
All For Him Playlist
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

Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
 CONTENT NOTICE

Please be aware this story deals with a character who has a traumatic past. Themes of sexual
violence are included. There is no on-the-page trauma, but rather memories of it. In the end, this story
is about celebrating life, survival, and ALL love.
ALL FOR HIM PLAYLIST

Available on Spotify
 PROLOGUE

Until It Happens To You by Sasha Alex Sloan

She lost me—her clunky black shoe—when one of the boys pinned her kicking ankle down.
I fell to the floor while terrified screams shredded her lungs, while the sound of her pain would
break anyone’s soul.
But the other boy silenced her. Kneeling between her legs on the bed, he suffocated her with a
pillow.
Her cries. Her breath. Her body. He took it all while his violence did not stop.
She was little. She was innocent. She fought like hell, but it was no use.
It was happening.
Until the prince burst into the room. Horror then rage twisted his handsome face while he fought
for her. Throwing punches, he took them too across his face while she escaped. And the boy who hurt
her the most? He laughed at her pain until the prince’s fists silenced him.
Without me on her foot, she ran limping from the bedroom. Crying and bleeding, no one noticed
her while she disappeared into the party downstairs.
The prince ran after her with his bleeding knuckles and a busted lip, searching for her. I saw him.
I laid on the floor where she lost me… where she lost so much.
But he never found her.
By the time he returned to his bedroom, the evil boys were gone, and only I remained.
Her odd left shoe. The prince kept me.
He hasn’t been the same since that day, like he lost something too, and now he must find it.
All these years later, I’m still sitting alone on a shelf in his closet, like his heart, hoping to find
her again one day.
 CHAPTER ONE

since i was young by Wrabel with Kesha

I ’m a“Are
dick.
you guests of the bride or the groom?”
A sweet lady asks me while these damn dress shoes choke my feet.
Because I want to say, “I’m here with my nice parents and perfect date who’s also a bridesmaid,
but you see, I’m a dick. I’m a spoiled, horny dick because I hate weddings. I’d rather be fucking
right now, searching for love I know I won’t find in a damn church, so give me a seat in hell where
I belong.”
Instead, I answer, “The bride, please,” while offering my arm to my mom.
Like a queen, she’s so proud, hooking hers over mine in the cashmere suit she bought me as I
escort her down the aisle.
Yeah, I’m twenty-eight.
I’m a grown-ass man who owns his own house and business, but my mom picked my suit out for
me.
“Silas Henry Van de May,” she had fussed at me, and when moms use your full name… watch-the-
fuck out. “You’re not going to Reverend Dove’s daughter’s wedding in boardshorts. And the two suits
you’ve had for ten years look like it.” She plucked one of my long hairs off the shoulder of my navy
jacket while we stood in a store where all proper southern gentlemen get their suits tailored. “You’ve
got all sorts of events now, and I won’t have you looking like you just dropped your surfboard to join
us. You’ve got a name to uphold.”
Then she cut me a look in the mirrors, twisting her lips while the tailor marked the hem of my
pants; I knew what she was eyeing.
It’s always a point of contention.
“You can dress me like an asshole prince all day long, mom.” I grinned. “But you ain’t cutting my
hair.”
“Then why do you have to wear it like that?” Her eyes narrowed. “All pulled up in a messy knot
like a cat’s been kicking up litter in your hair?”
She made me laugh, and I chuckle now as my dad sits in the pew first. I gesture for her to sit next
because Mom’s doing it again, eyeing my hair, but I note her slight approval because I actually pulled
a comb through it and kept it down.
Taking the seat closest to the aisle, I scan the huge sanctuary.
This ain’t no quaint, southern church.
No, this is a stadium built for God with rows of pews in a circle and a massive pulpit on the
center stage. I half expect a “Heaven vs. Hell” scoreboard to be hanging somewhere from the ceiling.
But instead, this place is plastered with pink flowers, and everyone who’s someone in South
Carolina fills the room.
With a sanctuary like this, people must follow Reverend Dove like he’s their savior, not just God.
All the millions donated to build this place? Some were from my parents because they’re his loyal
congregants too.
And they’re close friends.
It’s an uncomfortable alliance because with a son like me—my parents ain’t welcome in
Reverend Dove’s traditional world.
But it seems if you got billions, you’re treated like royalty. You get exceptions and invitations.
Like today, we’re here in Charleston to witness Reverend Dove’s youngest daughter get married,
but I don’t know the bride. I went to high school with her older sisters, and I don’t remember them
either.
We ran in different circles.
They ran in the pure preacher’s daughter circle, and I hung out in the asshole athlete one.
Told ya, I’m a dick.
I mean, I’m proud of who I am and who I love, but when you force me into a place like this, one
that doles out eternal damnation on the daily, why do I suddenly feel guilty?
My mom whispers, “That Sloane Duval sure is the cat’s meow,” and that’s why.
“It’s just a date, mom,” I whisper back.
“When you take a woman on a date to a wedding, and she’s one of the bridesmaids, you’re
sending signals, son. Best you know it because that’s what all will be thinking today.”
I’d roll my eyes, but God will strike my ass down for disrespecting my mom and for what I’m
really thinking. Instead, I gently peck her cheek. “I don’t give a damn about what folks think.”
I know people think all kinds of crazy shit about me, and hell, most of it’s true.
Yes, I’m the sole heir to the Van de May fortune.
Yes, I’ll inherit billions.
Yes, my parents treat me like their golden prince now.
And yes, I’d rather be in my boardshorts, fishing with the woman I love before I kiss her and then
kiss the man we both love until the three of us disappear into the cabin of my boat for a hot-as-hell
threeway fuck and suck session.
And yes, we just did that last month, so…
See, I’m a dick.
And now I got pussy and dick on the brain in a church while my dick firms to that carnal memory.
It needs to be shifted left, but these damn suit pants are so tight they’re strangling my dick and life
away.
Seriously, they are.
Everything is.
Agreeing to be Sloane’s date to this wedding with my parents here, too, everyone will think that
Sloane’s the one. That we’re next to get married.
But hell, we haven’t even fucked yet. We’ve been on three dates, and we’ve barely kissed.
Because that’s my real sin.
I’m searching for true love. I’m desperate for it, actually. And maybe that ain’t the alpha man thing
to admit, but if you knew how much fucking I’ve already done and how many times my heart’s been
broken, you’d be like, “Yeah, it’s your turn now.”
So I’m trying, but I don’t get that feeling with Sloane yet. But damn, “Fake it ’til you make it,”
they say.
Because Sloane Duval is pedigree, trained like the southern princess I’m supposed to marry.
Elegant blonde waves, perfect tan skin, bountiful curves, educated with Mississippi manners, and a
smile sweeter than iced tea.
It’s like I’m a dirty Prince Charming, and she’s a perfect princess, and what the hell was I
thinking?
But Sloane begged me to be her date. “Please don’t make me sit at the reception like the only
pathetic loser without someone,” she whined. “It’s just a date, I know.” So I couldn’t resist.
But does she know?
I’m cautious about dating her.
Sloane works at Redix’s new art gallery, and I don’t want to fuck that up. Redix is the man I love
who’s about to marry Cade, the woman I love, and the sex the three of us have together heals me in
ways I can’t explain. No one can break our bond.
So I almost didn’t ask Sloane out, but she came after me like a dog on a duck hunt, and I guess I
was flattered.
Staring at the damning pulpit, I crick my tight neck.
It pops. Nope—that’s bullshit.
I agreed to this date because of this feeling… the one secretly killing me inside.
The ache for true love.
I know how love feels because I share it with Cade and Redix. It’s like you hear songs about it,
read it in books, or see it in movies. That’s a drop compared to the ocean of passion I drown in with
those two. Their love together is deep and raging, and I’m damn lucky they invite me in to feel it too.
To feel the reason we all live—it’s to love.
I’m in their lives, their home, their bed sometimes, and even their coming wedding, and because
of them, I want a love like they have. Like they are first in each other’s hearts, and I need that one for
my heart, too—my first.
Because when the passion is done, and our bodies lay exhausted in bed, I can’t tell them how I
suddenly feel empty. Like I’m missing someone. Like I’ve been searching for years, hoping to find
them, but I can’t.
I know the day this feeling started. It was the day I stopped those boys who were violating that
girl. They had her in my bedroom, suffocating her screams with my pillow, so I never saw her face as
she escaped. It all happened so fast. After I beat the shit out of them, I ran through my house, through
my eighteenth birthday party, to find her.
But I never did.
All I have is the shoe she left behind, and I’ve never gotten rid of this aching feeling since—I’m
supposed to find someone.
Shit, I’m a billionaire. My life should be a fairytale, but it’s not. I can buy anything but the love I
want, so I’m compromising with Sloane to see if she’s the one.
So see. I’m a selfish dick.
The choir stops while we all turn our necks around. Wooden doors open, there goes the organ, and
here come the groomsmen.
That’ll never be me—a perfect southern gentleman in a suit waiting on my blushing, virgin bride.
Not that I assume the bride’s a virgin.
In the South, it ain’t about facts; it’s about fancy. You just gotta pretend.
When Cade and Redix get married, they told me to wear what I want. Then Redix grinned at what
we were both thinking and said, “As much as we love you naked, you gotta wear pants.”
“And a shirt,” Cade added, kissing me while she reclined between us nude in bed. “But no
shoes.”
That’s one of the many ways Redix and I are alike. We hate shoes. And more than him, I have an
allergy to shirts too.
I need the sun on my back, its heat across my bare skin making sweat drip down my neck while
my fingers are covered in marine grease, tinkering with a broken boat engine until I can get it to roar
back to life again.
I guess it’s my calling—fixing things that are broken. Somehow I fixed what was broken between
Cade and Redix, and they fixed parts of me too. They gave me back my parents, who had disowned
me.
But now… I feel broken… or like I’m about to be.
I’m back in my parents’ life. I’m the Van de May heir, and the sole responsibility like I’ll be left
alone in a kingdom to rule; it’s changing me. It’s going to make me fucking crack.
“Ohs,” sigh from the guests as the bridesmaids come next. Parading down the aisle, their
procession is timed to spotlight each.
When Sloane appears in the doorway, my mom grabs my arm like, “she’s the one,” and is she?
Sloane’s the opposite of Cade, and of Charlie, my first love, and dammit, I’m a dick again. I
compare every woman to the ones I love the most.
And it’s not fair.
No one defeats Charlie Ravenel. A former Marine turned bodyguard—if her perfect aim doesn’t
kill you, her badass beauty does. And Cade Bryant’s a former model and now a cop. She’s
breathtaking… literally. Her love for Redix almost killed the men who attacked them.
And good fucking luck finding a man who competes with the global celebrity that is Redix Dean.
He stands alone in my big heart, open to women and men. Cade has my heart too. So does Charlie,
but she’s in love with her husband, Daniel, and though she flirts with me, that’s all it is—an innocent
flirt between lifelong friends.
I’m open about all of this with Sloane.
 Hiding who I am? Who I love?
Hell no.
That part of me will never change.
Yep. It’s official. I’ve become a rich, entitled dick.
Because for my family, I’ll wear these damn suits and go to the fucking board meetings and sign a
shit-ton of contracts in the name of my family’s fortune.
But so help me, I’ll also love who I want and live how I want, and the whole world can kiss my
tan ass because I walk around naked on my boat too.
Because love ain’t a sin.
The world needs more of it.
Love you fight for, lose it all for, give your soul for. I want it big like that and the small stuff too.
Love you cook breakfast for. Love you plant flowers for. Love you build sandcastles with,
because yeah, it’s my favorite thing to do.
Sloane knows who I am.
She started working in Redix’s gallery and sees the throuple I’m in.
Hell, I invited her to the show we gave at a private sex club for Cade and Redix’s thirtieth
birthdays.
Because if someone wants me, they have to love the real me.
So Sloane watched us, and I saw her shocked stare from the audience, but it didn’t stop me. Not
when I’m buried deep inside Cade’s love, and Redix fills my moaning mouth—there’s no stopping us.
Our bodies demand our sex, and our hearts make no apologies for it.
The three of us fit perfectly together… but someone, my one, is missing.
Then, on our first actual date the next week, I took Sloane out for sushi. I asked her what she
thought, and she shrugged, saying, “I’m okay with it.”
But I don’t believe her.
Not when Sloane’s brown eyes shine my way while she glides past my pew, and oh hell. She does
think she’s the one, and…
Do I want to be the perfect son?
Or do I want my perfect love?
Fuck, I can’t be a spoiled, bisexual dick in a famous throuple and a piece of shit. I can’t break
Sloane’s heart. There’s got to be a way. Maybe in time, she’ll accept who I love and love them too.
Is that wrong? To keep trying for love?
I know from experience that loving someone doesn’t kill you; it just hurts like hell when they’re
not meant to be yours.
Or at least,… not meant to be all mine.
It’s a cruel joke—how everyone I love belongs with someone else.
So I keep giving my heart and body away, hoping I’ll find the one for me—the missing shoe to
complete my pair. The organ music crescendos, filling my ears, and a sudden feeling I can’t name
strangles my heart, making my skin prickle—and the bridesmaid who follows Sloane—I don’t even
notice her until she trips right in front of me.
“Fiddle fart,” she sputters as the heel of her shoe catches on the long hem of her dress, dropping
her smack down on her knees as the bouquet in her hand flies from her grasp and her white-gloved
hands quickly brace for the embarrassing fall.
Guests gasp.
The music hesitates.
 Everyone stops while she huffs, “Dern it,” but won’t look up as Sloane turns back to help her.
“Eily,” she sighs like this is the billionth time this has happened. “You okay?”
“Here.” I jump up from the pew, rushing to help her stand, reaching for her tiny arm hidden under
pink lace.
“I’m fine, y’all.” Her hands, she’s the only bridesmaid wearing gloves, and they’re trembling as
she twists from my grasp before I can even touch her. “Just a klutz is all.”
Sloane hands her the bouquet she dropped. “You sure?” she whispers back.
Standing so close to Eily, she’s so small, but I can feel her embarrassment. It’s huge. I barely
know her as humiliation turns her slender neck flaming red, and it starts beating through my veins, too,
racing my pulse and burning my cheeks.
Eily is Sloane’s best friend, and the indigo artist Redix is paying to create art for his gallery.
She’s been working there for months but never speaks to me.
In the corner of the gallery, she quietly brews up weird concoctions in buckets. What comes out
are fabrics swirling with mesmerizing blues and enchanting greens, and it fascinates me.
I tried asking her about it, handing her one of the delivery boxes of blue jars she gets, but she just
muttered, “it’s nothing special,” and turned away.
“Jesus, Eily. Go!” The bridesmaid coming up the aisle behind her hisses, and she’s got to be
Eily’s sister. “You’re such an idiot!”
The way she’s annoyed and not hiding it, they’re sisters of the bride, while Sloane is a close
friend to all.
“Sounding so kind and God-like, Bethany”—Eily straightens her spine, lifting her chin straight
ahead— “making Jesus so proud.”
“Shut up, weirdo,” Bethany bites back, keeping her voice down, but I’m standing right here, very
amused. “Go before you ruin the whole wedding.”
Stepping back into my pew, it’s almost funny how the Reverend’s angelic daughters are fighting
like demons… but I can’t help it.
My gaze follows Eily now.
I stare at a familiar sight, her petite back. She traps my attention the entire ceremony. There’s
something about her. A contradiction. An odd mix of a cute klutz, a sad artist, and a snarky spitfire
with pride; she’s fun.
And something else about her? I can’t figure it out.
But they’ll make us sit together at the reception, and I now like weddings.
 CHAPTER TWO

F iddleYep,
fart?
I blurted it. And, yep, mortification can be a cause of death.
But I can’t control my mouth. Or my shoes. So it’s almost funny—me, falling on my knees at his
feet—but not in the hot way I’ve imagined going down on Silas Van de May.
Nope, it was just me, sprawled in the church aisle in front of hundreds of people. My finest
moment so far.
It’s one of the jokes God keeps playing on me. You know, when you have to decide—while
everyone laughs at you—will you laugh too?
Or will you cry?
Me? No, I won’t cry.
I can sit at this stupid wedding reception while Silas sits across the table from me, and I won’t do
it.
Hearts can shed invisible tears, battered egos don’t show, and horrific memories can go to hell.
Because so far he doesn’t recognize me.
And I gotta keep it that way.
Three months ago, Silas strolled back into my life, and my pounding heart begged, please, God,
you’ve played so many jokes on me, I can laugh about them too.
But I’m begging you…
 Silas can’t know I’m that girl.
The one he saved.
Me and you, God, we can chuckle about the skull earrings I’m wearing at my uptight sister’s
wedding because no one notices me. They won’t care. My black lace thong is funny, too, because we
both know—no one will see my underwear. Then I’ll really sin tonight and eat breakfast for dinner
alone.
That’ll be the extent of my little rebellions. The secret ways I flip my blue middle finger at fate.
Because after the cruelest joke, I cried so hard, hiding in the kitchen pantry while the party raged
outside. No one could see me biting my middle knuckle to choke down my sobs; it hurt so bad. Those
boys almost broke me.
The only thing that finally stopped my tears that day, and why I haven’t shed them since?
My first wish. I wished for Silas to find me there and…
WISHES…
They say if you want something, all you have to do is ask, believe, and receive.
Yeah, right.
I got a row of books in my bedroom on a shelf promising I can “manifest my dreams.”
That only manifests a roll of my eyes while happy couples fill the dance floor in front of me.
The only thing my wish books have manifested?
More books.
Four shelves of steamy romance ones, and the only thing those books have manifested is my
lust… lust that leads to loneliness.
I don’t have romance like my sister getting married today, so my imagination rebels. It’s my hot
nightly date, fantasizing about all the bad things I want to do.
Because I know the big secret, despite what my daddy preaches.
Sex isn’t bad. It isn’t a sin. Not when it looks like it feels SO. DAMN. GOOD.
Yeah, that’s a big fat guess on my part because I don’t really know about good sex. Just what I’ve
seen in porn. And what I watched one night at a sex club.
That’s another joke—I got to watch Silas perform my greatest desires—but not with me. He didn’t
really know I was there.
It’s fucking hilarious, right?
And now he’s sitting across from me, and damn, it’s hot in here. Think anyone will notice if I pour
some ice water down my flaming neck?
Because I can feel Silas watching me, probably feeling sorry for me; they all do.
But I can’t look at him.
Because that’s all I did, God, I looked. I only watched his sex show.
Why? I work at Redix’s gallery, and Silas invited all the artists to his XXX-rated show with
Redix and Cade. He didn’t care if I was there or that I’m the mighty Reverend Dove’s daughter—the
geeky, weird one, I know.
No one wants to be bad with me, and yeah, I’m supposed to be “good,” and, God, I better get a
GET OUT OF HELL FOR FREE card because almost everyone was fucking that night but me.
No, I sat alone.
Like I am at this wedding.
Like I always do.
And tonight, as I did at the sex club, I’ll leave this party alone, still a virgin… and still in love.
Because I’ve got a bad habit.
 I keep wishing for someone I can’t have. For Silas to claim every inch of my flesh but still not
know it’s me, that girl. It’s impossible, I know, but I swear his proximity is tingling my lonely skin
like it’s crying for his touch.
“Excuse me, ma’am?” I jump at the waiter’s voice. “Want another beer?”
“Make it three, please,” I answer while I will my eyes—don’t look at him.
If I look Silas in the eye, will he know it’s me?
That’d be great because I look like Pepto Bismol vomited all over me.
Why do my sisters keep picking pink bridesmaid dresses? And what asshole invented high heels?
They’re custom-made to kill my feet.
And to make me fall.
But still, I won’t cry.
No, I’ll get up and waltz through my lonely life—bleeding, lop-sided, and proud. Because I’m
twenty-four now, and that day’s violation has been a bittersweet gift. It gave me skin so thick not even
a fall across hot, jagged pavement can rip me open. Only my shaking hands betray me, so I grip my
beer tight, gulping it down before I burp.
“Eily, would you like to dance?”
One of my daddy’s younger deacons looms above me. It’s a pity dance. They all ask, and I always
smile and answer, “No, thank you. Joy makes me vomit.”
Once. Once, I trusted a boy.
“You’re pretty behind those thick glasses.” That boy noticed me. No one ever had. “I watch you
all the time, you know, and all I wanna do is kiss you. I swear. Just once. Let me.”
It was a trap.
And with all the romances I read, all the years at school when no one wanted me—I fell right in
it.
Just like I fell today.
That boy never kissed me. He hurt me. He and his friend stole my innocence when I used to trust
men.
Because getting hurt, getting violated, and laughed at—it changed my heart. It went from innocent
and pink to boiling with shades of indigo. It carved a deep crease of pain across my heart, and now I
hide it, always.
My little rebellions started that day.
Because I was angry, but I survived it. Wasn’t that enough? How dare I wish for more?
But I do.
I wish for Silas.
Every morning I manifest it. I write it in archival ink on hand-crafted paper with tiny lavender
leaves pressed into the fibers before I hide each in an antique vase by my bed.
It will come true if your special wish is written on special paper.
Judas Priest, yes, I hear how pathetic I sound, but I can’t help it. Somehow the promise of love in
my romance books seeped into my wounded heart. It reads stories of love and lust and happily ever
after, promising that it won’t happen again if I trust a man.
Do you do this?
Do you keep believing in love even when you feel defeated?
Yeah, me too.
Even though Silas is the handsome prince and I’m the little frog.
Even though my daddy is glaring at him from across the room, seething that a man like Silas Van
de May dares to corrupt his sanctuary.
If I ever get my wish, my daddy will aim a shotgun at him. He’s a southern preacher—that ain’t no
exaggeration. To my parents, Silas is a heathen sinner, and my secret desire for him is my BIG
rebellion.
What does it matter anyway?
Silas is with Sloane, and she gets every man she wants, and she’s my best friend. I may not
believe in my daddy’s rules or damnation, but I believe you never betray a friend.
Especially my only one.
But God, I swear I can feel him, how Silas is staring at me, making me blush, tingling my nipples,
and turning my thighs into lava while wet heat starts soaking my panties. Damn, his sin feels so good.
And that’s just from his stare.
From his long brown hair licked blond by sunshine. His smooth tan skin pulled taut over rippling
muscles hiding under a sexy navy suit. His dominating dark eyebrows over tempting hazel eyes. His
stubbled wide angular jaw pointing to the lushest set of lips. Lips that when they smile, the full moon
swoops down from the sky to steal just one kiss.
He has no idea what he did for me.
I seem obsessed, crazy even, I know. I’m sitting at a table full of people, ignoring everyone while
silently talking to myself, wishing with every beat of my heart I could just go over and thank him. And
fuck him. And love him.
But I swear it’s not crazy.
All I have are wishes. They’re my only hope.
You see, because of Silas, I wasn’t totally destroyed, and I’ve wished for him to appear like
magic again and fall in love with me.
Yep, I watch way too many rom-coms.
But then it happened.
He appeared!
The shock of it silences me around him, which is weird because I usually blurt the stupidest shit.
My rebel mind gets a hold of my mouth, and whoops, there it is!
But my lonely body, my wishful heart, they’re scared to ask, to believe…
Is my wish being granted?
Or is this another soul-shredding joke?
Because, like lots of wishes made, I didn’t think this through.
I want him, but he can’t know I’m that girl.
If I get him, I’ll betray my best friend.
And when pigs fly, and Silas Van de May falls in love with me, my daddy will kill him.
Swigging my beer, I don’t care, so I steal one glance at him… and he’s smiling… at Sloane.
 CHAPTER THREE

“M ore But
champagne.” Sloane taps the waiter’s arm, and that’s the fourth glass she’s had.
I smile at her, trying to be polite while I swirl my Blanton’s. I’m driving, so it’s one
for me.
Besides, I have a security meeting tomorrow morning. Apparently, being the heir to billions has
put a price on my head. The kidnapping and ransom threats scared my parents, insisting I take it
seriously.
For them, I’ll pretend to.
But this afternoon is awkward.
Painful, actually.
I thought I’d like the reception, but this table is full of couples while the chair beside Eily is
empty. Sitting across from me, she’s the bridesmaid Sloane said couldn’t get a date. And by the way
Eily’s cute nose is turned away, watching the dance floor; either she doesn’t care…
Or, no, it’s killing her inside.
I swear it’s like Eily fell in front of me, and now I feel it too—she’s lonely, just like me.
“What color are your bridesmaids’ dresses?” Sloane asks Bethany, and shit, I gotta listen to how
Reverend Dove’s other daughter is also getting married.
So along with the bride, three sisters have love, and the fourth one?
It’s Eily.
 She’s alone.
Swigging beer from a brown bottle while wearing white gloves. Chomping on almonds with her
mouth open. Her chestnut hair is twisted into a traditional bun, and I like her silver skull earrings.
Eily is odd, and the only thing entertaining me while Bethany suddenly sneers at her, “They’re not
wearing indigo, that’s for damn sure.”
Eily turns our way and lowers her beer. “Care to keep your venom in your fangs for one
afternoon? I promise you can slither after the wedding.”
My nostrils flare, shoving down a laugh. Eily’s ignored us for an hour, but it’s funny as hell when
she speaks.
“Why don’t you fall and embarrass us all over again, Eily?” Bethany’s fake lashes comb her
eyebrows, while I notice next how Eily doesn’t wear makeup. She doesn’t need it. “You ruined
Phoebe’s wedding.”
“Yep,” Eily toasts her beer, “and imagine how I’ll ruin yours too,” and then lightly burps, making
me choke down my laugh again with a sip of bourbon.
Sloane grins toward Eily. “Don’t worry. No one noticed you.” She means Eily’s fall, but it
doesn’t sound that way.
“I noticed,” Bethany snaps at Eily. “I don’t want you as my bridesmaid.”
Eily squints. “I’m heartbroken.”
“You’ll only embarrass me too.” Bethany squints back. “You in those dumb gloves. We all know
what you’re hiding, Eileen.”
Damn, why be so cruel to your sister?
Makes me glad I have no siblings.
That’s not true. I got lonely. I knew I was different, that I wasn’t like other boys. That I liked some
of the boys and lots of the girls, but it makes me okay with my company now.
“Careful, Bethany.” Eily leans back with a half-grin, lightly burping again before she says,
“Seems you missed the Bible School class on ‘What Would Jesus Do’ because showing your ass ain’t
on the list.”
I’m one hundred percent Team Eily.
“Whatever, Miss Can’t Get A Date.” Bethany rolls her eyes and answers Sloane, “You’re all
wearing blush pink.”
Eily turns from their bitter exchange and her bottom lip; am I the only one who notices it’s
trembling? That she’s hurt?
I can’t help myself. Why am I feeling Eily’s emotions? I keep watching them ghost across her face,
and I know this feeling too.
How when someone knocks you down, you have a choice—fight back or stay down. But no matter
how tough you act on the outside, it still hurts like a sad, lonely hell.
I’ve been there too.
The wedding conversation drolls on while a hand starts rubbing my leg under the tablecloth. It’s
Sloane’s, and she starts seeking a destination she hasn’t known yet.
And this time, I let her. We’ve only kissed, but something has me feeling so much. Eily has me
feeling so much as Sloane’s hand glides up my inner thigh before her fingers brush my growing cock
bound by thin wool.
Fuck, this always turns me on.
Sex where you shouldn’t have it. Sex others can watch.
I close my eyes, remembering all the times I’ve done it, making me hard as hell, and Sloane’s
gasp is audible to the table. Feeling my length, mainly my width, I know I’m big, and she’s just now
touching it.
And all these emotions I’m feeling like I’m exposed and raw; they make me so damn horny, letting
her give me a hidden hand job, but… we can’t do this. Not at a wedding hosted by Reverend Dove.
Because in these parts, he’s more powerful than a politician, and he’d love nothing more than to make
a “sinner” example of a man like me.
So my eyelids snap open, and for the first time…
Eily’s looking at me.
Is she shocked? Disgusted? No, it’s something else, but what do I know of Eily? Nothing while
her stare grabs me, making me even harder, and this is the first time I’ve noticed Eily’s eye color.
Light green. So light they’re clear water and luring me to dive in, making my cock leak while her eyes
pull me under, and what the fuck?
“Excuse me.” I push away from Sloane’s touch, thankful my suit jacket covers my raging hard-on.
“I need the restroom.”
“Me too.” Sloane stands as if we share a dirty plan.
And why fight this? This is where I belong, right? Trying to make this work with Sloane?
She grabs my hand while we leave the crowd behind, turning down hallways until there’s a lone
restroom. Yanking me in with her, she locks the door while I stand in the center of the pristine, white-
tiled room.
“Now let me finish you, Silas Van de May.” Her glossed lips grin, and she’s not my usual type,
but I’ve fucked all kinds, many times, and still… I’m searching for something real.
Dropping to her knees, she doesn’t even kiss me first. She just drags these tight pants down my
thighs before my gray boxers fall next, and thank god, my dick finally springs free.
It comes to large life before her eager lips, and it’s been a month since a pair has been wrapped
around it.
“Is this what you want? Will it get you off?” I like asking the one on their knees. No matter the
questions in my heart, my body doesn’t waver. It craves anything dirty confessed over sweet lips.
“You wanna wrap your lips around my cock?”
“Yes.” She gazes up at me. “Yes, I want to suck your big cock, Silas Van de May.”
She really likes saying my name. And I really try to let it slide.
Wrapping her hand tight around my shaft, her mouth meets the effort, and she’s any man’s dream.
Sloane’s sexy. She’s a saleswoman. She sells art. She sells you priceless items so well you believe
her estimation of worth, and from the second she met me, she knew my worth.
The question is… what do I value?
Love I can have?
Or the love I really want?
Right now, my cock doesn’t care.
It’s trying to enjoy the blowjob she’s selling like a champ, and I try to make us work.
“Yes, that’s it. You look so hot with my thick cock in your mouth.” My fingers start weaving
through her hair so we can get into this. “You’re doing it so good, getting my cock so fucking hard and
—”
But she yanks back, insisting, “Don’t mess my hair up,” so I pull my hands away and don’t know
where to put them as she returns to the task.
Her fist is pumping. Her lips are plunging. This is the perfect tempo and blowjob.
But I need more.
 Passion. Pleasure. Power. Something real and raw that I can hold onto, or we won’t work.
That’s all I’ve known with Cade and Redix. When the three of us fuck, it’s annihilation. It’s lust I
can’t hold back, and they don’t either. It’s incredible, but then I feel so lonely afterward. Like I need
something that’s all mine.
Is this it?
My cock’s getting sucked by a sexy woman, so why isn’t this working? I’m hard. I’m ready.
I’m not coming like this.
“Sloane, let me taste you too.”
If I can hear her moans and taste her cum on my tongue, then I can find my release too.
Her mouth stops. “Not today.” But her hand doesn’t. “It’s the wrong time of the month.”
“I want to.” I’ve never eaten a woman out then, but I will. Proudly. “Let me taste you too. It’ll turn
me on even more.”
“No way,” she scoffs. “Just let me please you.” And though that’s what most men want to hear…
I’m not like most men.
Because I’m dying to know now. What it would be like, taste like. To be that deeply connected to
a woman. To be so unafraid and buried in her true nature and power. I don’t believe in shame, and I
love pleasuring people, liberating them from any shame they have, but it’s her body, and I won’t push
her.
But mine is trapped.
Closing my eyes, I need to come for her. And when I remember the last two people who made me
come…
Cade with her ambitious full lips. How her spit drips from my shaft, tears leaking from the
corners of her eyes. How she trusts me to fuck her how I want, which is usually hot and hard and
hedonistic.
Redix with his massive, shredded body. His intensity burns my flesh. He loves it when I grab his
long hair, and we both moan as he chokes over my cock fucking his throat. We do it equally to each
other. I crave his salty taste, and when Cade, with her sweet pussy joins us…
“Fuck, I’m gonna come,” I warn Sloane. Opening my eyes, I don’t know how she wants this.
“Ummm,” she moans, not pulling off, so I let go. With flashes of Cade, of Redix in my mind and
grunts making my eyelids drop, I fill Sloane’s mouth with what she wants.
Then I reach down to kiss her when I’m done, to give whatever pleasure she needs. I may be a
selfish dick, but I’m not a selfish fuck.
If anything, I give too much.
But she just smiles with her lips tight, rising from her knees before her nude heels rush toward the
sink, spitting my cum out before rinsing her mouth.
“Sloane, you okay?” I pull my boxers and pants up because it seems she enjoys my name but not
my taste.
“Yep.” She snatches a paper towel, drying her hands before tossing it in the trash. Her peck lands
on my cheek, and is that it? “Shall we?” She opens the door, and it’s back to the wedding.
It makes me feel odd.
Empty again.
Like maybe I’ll never find the one I’m searching for. Or maybe, as I said, I’m a spoiled dick, and I
want too much.
Because even with the billions I’ll inherit, I know it’s not for sale.
A love like I want only exists in art, in books, and in wishes—not in real life.
 WHEN WE RETURN, Eily sits alone at the table while everyone else fills the dance floor.
I pull the chair out for Sloane, and though I can’t see her, I know Sloane’s smiling at Eily, sharing
with no words what we just did. Guess that’s what best friends can do.
But the way Eily quickly looks away while Sloane signals for more Champagne. The way Eily
starts gazing at nothing while her grin is forced.
Why do I feel guilty?
I take my seat, hoping that with her mean sister gone, Eily will finally talk to me… but she’s back
to not looking at me.
So while I sip from my glass, I hide my gaze drinking her in too.
At the gallery, Eily hides under overalls and T-shirts that !t her like an open parachute. She
always wears black Doc Marten boots too, which seem to be the artist’s choice of footwear.
This afternoon though, I can tell she’s got curves, small ripe ones it’s obvious she’s hiding under
her long dress. Wisps of her dark hair fall from a simple bun when usually, she hides under a baseball
hat too. And I can tell by her delicate shoulders tensed to her ears; she wants to escape.
But her face, the afternoon sunlight streams across the room, and honestly… I finally notice her
beauty.
How Eily’s one of those classic paintings of innocent young maidens with luminescent skin, petal
pink lips, and ripe bodies blissfully frolicking in a garden, laughing and waiting to be plucked.
But she doesn’t look happy like in those paintings. A burn hits my throat, and I have to look away
because, no, Eily looks sad.
Very sad.
Like some dark pain is clawing at her insides, and the only way she lets it out is with her snarky,
cute comments. Everything else about her looks innocent and sweet, like a tiny woman you could
easily break.
Is that what happened? Some dickhead broke her heart? It wounds mine with a bruising beat
because Eily won’t leave my mind, and I’m a dick again. I didn’t even hear Sloane trying to talk to
me.
“Silas,”—Sloane huffs—“are you gonna introduce me to your parents?”
She’s slurring because that’s the sixth glass she’s tossed back, and drunk is not how she’d want to
meet my powerful parents.
“Some other time.” I force myself to focus on Sloane, about to ask her to dance.
So then I can ask Eily for a dance.
So then I can make Eily smile.
“Well, I’ll be damned—Silas Van de May.” But a hand clamps down on my shoulder, making my
teeth grind. “If it ain’t the famous D-Pole himself.”
 He plops in the chair beside me, and fuck him for giving me that nickname.
Yeah, we played high school Lacrosse together. Yeah, I was a long-pole defenseman. So yeah, I
played with a long stick, and the team nicknamed me after the one in my pants too.
Once again, dick on my brain.
But this guy’s no dick.
No, he’s an evil bastard, and I never liked him. “Scooter Barnes.” I won’t even shake the hand
he’s offering. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
“Our whole high school is here. Like a reunion. So are my parents.” He gestures across the room,
and I see my parents talking to his.
Scooter sneers, “I thought you’d be here with two dates, D-Pole.” It’s public knowledge I’m
sometimes with Cade and Redix. Hell, there are paparazzi shots of the three of us at parties. “But I’m
delighted to meet just this one.”
His beady eyes land on Sloane, and though I hate him, I like her.
“Sloane Duval, meet Scooter Barnes. We went to school together and—”
“And D-Pole here won us the state championship,” Scooter interrupts.
“Mr. Barnes,” Sloane replies, “it’s a pleasure.”
“Duval?” Scooter squints at her. Here it comes. I can tell by his smirk. “Of Jackson, Mississippi,
right? Your family goes way back.”
“Yes, we do,” Sloane answers.
He’s gonna do it. Scooter is a piece of shit; not even his twill suit can contain his stench.
He leans too close, taunting Sloane, “What would Daddy Duval think of your date?” One more
inch and my Southern manners can kiss my ass because I’ll beat the shit out of him again. “Does
Daddy Duval know that D-Pole here plays for both teams? We never knew that about him in high
school, but it makes sense now.”
“Back the fuck down, Scooter,” I growl low. I got inches, pounds, and billions on him, and I
really want to see him bleed again. “Or I’ll show you just how powerful I play now.”
“All that pussy you got in high school.” But Scooter delights in humiliating others. “They were
lining up for your long D-Pole, but it seems you wanted our dicks in the locker room too.”
“Don’t flatter yourself.” Fuck, my fist’s twisting. “No one wanted your dick. Remember that day,
Scooter, because I do.”
That day I busted him and that weasel, Brett, raping that girl.
They were laughing at her, telling me to join them, but I started beating the shit out of them instead
before I raced downstairs, searching for the girl who escaped. I had to do something to help her, to
find her. But she was gone, and when I came back upstairs to confront them, they were too.
All I had was the worst feeling in my heart ever since and the tiny odd shoe that girl left behind
like a tragic Cinderella.
I kept her shoe, think about her every day, and never trusted Scooter again. I had my eye on him at
every party, and he knew it.
For the assholes in this world who hurt women, they cruelly call that “cock-blocking.”
I called it the right thing to do, and I wanted to rip Scooter’s cock off his bean-pole body. I still
do.
“No one cares anymore about scoring virgin pussy, D-Pole.” And Scooter’s still evil. “All they
care about is the famous men and women you like to fuck now. Seems you got billions and press you
can’t shake these days.”
Goddamn, I want to beat his ass so bad because I hate Scooter, but he’s right.
 Cade’s a local hero, and Redix is a global celebrity. Whoops, not a smart move if you want to
stay low-key as I prefer. And I’m the Van de May; all eyes are on me now. Starting a fight would only
bring shame to my parents.
Glancing up, I see them across the room with Reverend Dove. They’re hawking me while I
realize Eily’s left the table too.
Scooter laughs, leaving, and the irony—how Reverend Dove believes I’m the sinner, the evil
man, while the real devil just left the table.
“What was that about?” Sloane gestures for another Champagne, and she’s getting shit-faced.
“It’s a long story” is all I can say as the next hour lasts forever.
 CHAPTER FOUR

I Don’t Care by Katherine Li

G rabbing for my breath and pride…

Don’t you dare fall again.
Escaping down the hallway, I know my daddy’s office will be unlocked, but I can’t run there. If I
try, tears will fall too, and hell no—I will not cry over him again.
I’m not that girl anymore.
“Let’s get outta here,” that boy said, luring me up the stairs. “D-Pole won’t care. We can use
his bedroom.” His hand was cold and clammy, pulling me so fast that I stumbled. “Watch it,
Quasimodo,” he hissed before he laughed at me… so I laughed at me too.
Finally, someone noticed me. And he was cute in that arrogant, preppy way with a mean smile.
I thought real devils didn’t exist. That bad boys won’t really hurt you. And if they do, they’ll make
you feel so sexy while they fall so deeply in love with you that they’ll change for you, and together
you’ll live happily ever after.
And I wanted to change too.
I wanted him to free me from the good-girl prison. My body was begging to be touched. My heart
was beating to be set free. I was a preacher’s daughter, repressed, sheltered, and destined to lose.
Because it’s not a race, right? Finding love. Finding happiness. Tell me it’s true. That everyone
finds love in the end. It’s what I have to believe because I wouldn’t win anyway.
I’m used to it. Being weird. Being alone. Being the one no one notices. The one who’s never
picked, just picked on.
It’s a lonely world, but I found my smile in it by painting pictures in my mind. It fuels my art,
making my imagination travel so far while my body sat alone at a wedding where I just wanted to die.
That’s not true.
I don’t want to die.
I make myself not care.
Besides, fuck Bethany. She’s my sister, and I love her, but she’s a bitch, so I hate her too.
Who wants romance and weddings and the perfect love? Hell, I’d settle for just one time with
Silas, but I won’t get that wish, either.
The click, clunk of my high heels down the tile of the empty hallway constantly reminds me
why…
It’s because I’m different.
And I love being different. It’s just that no one else seems to.
My hands are different, so I hide them in gloves at public events. If not, I get stares.
My shoes are different. My right heel clicks like normal. But my left? It clunks. Its sole is thicker
than the right shoe to balance my height.
My hands are my fault. They’re blue.
That’s right… blue.
The indigo dye I live for stains my skin into various shades. I gave up wearing gloves when I
create my art because it’s pointless. The dye still gets on me and takes weeks to wear off. Sometimes
I’ll walk around getting weird looks because I’ll forget and scratch my nose, making it blue too.
I’m a human Smurf.
No, a Smurfette because despite all the bullying I got in school, I am small, but yes, I am a girl.
Well… now I’m a woman, and I love my little tits and the dark hair I finally got on my pussy, so fuck
them.
But my legs?
I guess they’re my fault too.
When I was two, my mom was driving us to church, and a truck ran a red light. She didn’t know
I’d figured out how to unbuckle my car seat. I don’t remember, but Mom said I cried every time she
buckled me in.
So when our car got T-boned, thankfully, the only thing broken was my left femur in two places,
but after that, my left leg never grew at the same rate as my right.
Not like I soared to great heights.
I stand proud at five feet and one inch on my right leg.
On my left, I’m four feet eleven inches.
That’s just enough for me to grow up having “angel shoes” made just for me, as my parents called
them, because they chalked it up to angels saving me the day of the crash.
But years later, a real angel appeared in the flesh that day. It was Silas who saved me from that
evil boy.
The one who sat beside Silas today, and I didn’t know my blue palms could sweat so fast. I didn’t
know a ringing would fill my ears. How tears would singe my eyes, but I fought them back.
My saving grace?
He didn’t recognize me either. I didn’t give him a chance. I don’t look like I did in high school
and escaped too fast.
Gone are the nerdy eyeglasses I had to wear. They were thick and heavy, making my nose break
out. Once contacts replaced those, my acne went away.
My hair hangs to my waist now. Back then, me and my sisters had matching bowl cuts my mom
loved, saying we were so cute looking alike.
Cute? No.
We looked like a pee-wee football team of geeky girls wearing brown helmets, and I got to be the
one with glasses and zits too.
Yay, Team Reverend Dove’s Daughters! Go, nerds, go!
So all the stereotypes about preachers’ kids—my sisters lived up to them.
And one day, I tried rebelling too. I wanted to jailbreak from the “good girl” prison, which
backfired in the most terrifying way.
That worst way pulled up a chair at the wedding, and it surprised me.
I’m not scared of him.
No, I want to kill him.
I’m just scared of my secret. I don’t want to be that girl anymore.
But do you ever get stuck in life? Like you want to change, but you can’t because no one will help
you?
Daddy’s quiet office is a familiar comfort. I flop onto the plaid sofa and finish my beer. The view
up here is peaceful. Out of his office windows, I like watching the fuchsia spring petals from the
redbud trees dance across the parking lot as guests slowly leave.

FINALLY, an hour later, I can go back after I’m sure that guy is gone. I know how to shove him
from my mind and move on, so I click, clunk my way back to the reception hall.
The wait staff is clearing the room. The band stopped playing and…
“Damn, I finally found you.” That rich suede voice? It’s only spoken to me once before. “I need
your help.”
I need to breathe.
I need to staple my mouth shut.
I need to pretend I don’t have a pussy.
Turning around, my neck cranes, straining with my eyes wide open, staring right into the solar
eclipse of Silas Van de May.
Because he’s bright and dark and everything the world revolves around, and you’re not supposed
to stare, to get too close to him. Looking at him only draws you closer to his beautiful fire, no matter
how you’ll burn.
 Words? Nope.
Talking? Not happening.
Spreading my legs and letting fate decide just how much Silas can fuck me and my life? Yep.
But I can’t.
Sloane’s my best friend, and even presidents fear my father.
Besides, what if Silas can read my mind? Or what if my mouth blurts out my dirty fantasies?
Everything I wish to do with him now that I’ve seen what he can do. With that chiseled body. With
that huge cock. With those full lips.
Y’all, Silas Van de May makes the fucking Kama Sutra look like a beginner’s yoga class.
“Eily,” he huffs, “did you hear me? I need your help. Sloane’s drunk as hell in the restroom. She’s
locked the door, and I can’t get her out.”
Sloane? Once I hear it’s her, that she needs my help, reason returns.
“Okay.” I glance at the table we’re standing beside. Plucking a lily from a centerpiece, I untwist
the floral wire around it while I ask, “Where is she?”
“This way.” He walks too fast because everyone’s too tall for me while he talks over his
shoulder. “I didn’t wanna make a scene for her. I waited until everyone left, and now I gotta get her
home.”
How do I know how to twist this wire into a poke that will pick a lock?
I raided my cousin’s porn stash, that’s how.
He lived next door, bragged about it all the time, and once he went off to college—all his
Hustlers—I borrowed them.
Because you could be damn sure we weren’t allowed to have phones or be online in our house.
And yes, I was curious. Beyond curious.
Any pictures of hot naked humans can get me off because that’s all I’ve ever had—pictures.
Struggling to keep up with Silas, a tight navy suit covers his luscious body and that ass… and
porn has nothing on him. How I’d love to go back to the sex club, the one where Silas let a room of us
witness just how truly gifted he is— several times. I can’t get the sight of him out of my mind, a
problem my pussy refuses to solve.
“She’s in here.” He stops in front of a door. “Sloane.” He knocks on it. “Eily’s here, okay? She’s
gonna help us.”
Us?
It’s a rusted razor slicing my heart, reminding me he’s not mine.
Sloane groans back, and I’m not worried. She’s done this before. When Sloane starts drinking, she
doesn’t stop.
“I got this.” I nudge him out of the way, trying not to let his sweet smell—coconut and clean man
musk—destroy me. “Sloane.” But this lock’s going to be easy. “We’re coming in.”
Finding the point of resistance in the lock, I don’t think Silas recognizes me while I fiddle fart
with it.
“Fiddle fart,” he hums, grinning down at me, but shit, he can read my dirty mind. “That was the
cutest part, you know.”
“Of me falling in front of everyone?”
Yes, please, let’s discuss my second most mortifying moment in front of him.
“Yeah, I’d cuss up a storm if I fell, but you were dignified about it.”
“I’m a pro at falling.” Can he not stand so close? A ticking bomb would be less distracting. “And
I cuss. I do lots of bad things, but I’m a preacher’s kid and smart enough to hide it.”
 “Cussing’s not bad.” He laughs. “And you don’t look like a kid.”
The door pops open. I ignore his compliment because Sloane’s not as bad as I’ve seen her before.
She’s at least conscious and clothed, and she even made it to the toilet to throw up this time.
Silas gets her to her feet, and by the time we get her to his Bronco parked outside, almost
everyone’s left, sparing her the humiliation.
“Can you help me get her home?” Silas buckles Sloane into the back seat while her chin and
eyelids drop.
Our home is the opulent beachfront house Redix Dean rents for us on Hilton Head Island. Me,
Sloane, and Dennis—we’re the artists Redix selected for the first residency at his new gallery there.
I answer by trying to climb into his passenger seat. I’d never abandon Sloane when she needs me,
but I need someone to get me in his truck. It’s a high step, so when Silas smiles from the driver’s seat,
reaching across the center console for my hand to help me?
Heart attacks can happen to healthy people, right?
Because with his first touch, I’m suddenly dizzy. My eyes lock on his massive, tan hand holding
mine, and sex shimmers under his skin. And though I’m wearing gloves, he makes my pulse triple as
his hand holds mine. His touch is so warm; his grip is so firm and strong that he lifts me, rescuing my
heart from its early grave.
But I let him go. He’s Sloane’s.
Still, the ghost of his touch races my heart for minutes. “What’s your favorite song?” he asks,
opening up the music app on his phone.
It’s a two-hour drive from Charleston to Hilton Head, and I’d rather it be filled with music than
the awkward shit I can say.
“You’ll laugh,” I tell him.
“Promise I won’t.”
“Yeah, you will.”
“If I laugh, you can cut my hair off.”
I laugh. It bursts across my lips because that’s a helluva promise. Silas with short hair? Never.
When he smiles back at me, he’s more beautiful than the sun setting behind him, especially when
he says, “That’s the first time you’ve smiled today.”
“No, it isn’t.”
He cocks his chin while his eyes twinkle. “Yes, it is.” His fingertip hovers over his phone.
“Favorite song, Ms. Dove?”
Here it goes. “Sir Mix-a-Lot. ‘Baby Got Back.’”
“Oh shit!” And he does it! He fucking laughs. “A preacher’s daughter likes big butts and cannot
lie.” To the point of tears. “Oh shit, that’s too funny.” He wipes the corner of his eyes before grinning
my way. “Damn, I guess I’m getting shorn tonight.”
I answer, “Baby’s gonna get back and get a haircut tonight.”
Where all this confidence is suddenly coming from, I got no clue. But I’ll take it. I’ll take this
incredible feeling and remember it always. It’s one I’ve only wished for.
“Alright,” he says. “But only if you sing it too.” “Every fucking word.” I’m free to cuss now.
From Becky to the FELLAs to the red beans and rice to the end, I can tell—Silas Van de May
never laughed so hard in his life. At one point, driving down the Lowcountry High‐ way, it starts
pouring rain, and I swear he’s going to crash us, and I don’t care.
I’d die so happy right now.
I pick up his phone when it’s over. “Top that.”
 He tucks his hair behind his ear before turning the wipers up to top speed. “Alright, Ms. Dove,”
he says. “I gotta know every word?”
“Yep.”
“Do I have to twerk my cute ass in the seat like you did?”
“Yep.”
“What do I get if I make you smile again?”
“My undying friendship and an encore of ‘Baby Got Back’ upon request.”
“Deal.”
He’s about to go for it when “What are y’all laughing at?” rings out from the back seat.
Really, Sloane? You pick now not to be passed out?
I turn around and check on her. “We’re just playing songs.” Her eyes aren’t even open. “Sleep it
off, princess, or you’ll feel like shit tomorrow.”
“I’m fiiiiiinnnnneeeeeee,” she slurs thirty-seven syllables, and I bite my glove to keep from
laughing at her.
Silas turns his head, stifling his laugh too.
In my vast experience going to college with Sloane, she’s either a funny drunk or a mean one.
Thankfully for this trip, she’s feeling funny.
Turning back around to resume our competition, “Stop!” I shout, spotting a distinct shadow in the
road.
“What?” Silas hits the break; luckily, we practically have this side of the highway to ourselves.
“It’s a turtle!” I can see it on the road. It’s so large and old and can’t hide in the pouring rain.
“Yay!” Sloane calls from the backseat. “Turtle soup for dinner.”
“Don’t you dare!” I look at Silas. He wouldn’t, would he?
“It’s just a damn turtle.” Sloane’s bordering on obnoxious now. “Like a big speed bump.”
But I don’t say anything. My eyes plead to Silas, and he hits his hazard lights, parking his truck on
the shoulder of the road.
“It’s raining cats and dogs and turtles, for Pete’s sake,” Sloane whines from the back seat. “Don’t
leave, Silas.”
“Be right back,” but he answers my plea.
Sheets of rain fall. There’s enough light in the last minutes of sunset for me to watch his white
dress shirt get soaked. His hair does, too, falling like a wet mop while he bends over and picks up the
massive turtle from the road. He lifts it from the back, so he won’t get bit, as if he’s done this before.
Then he walks through the tall grass, across a gully flooding with runoff, and sets the turtle down
safely by the edge of the marsh.
By the time he’s back in the truck, I can see through his shirt and hope he can’t see through me.
Because not one inch of him is dry, and not one piece of my heart isn’t madly in love with Silas
Van de May.
I have been since that day.
I hand him the pile of drive-thru napkins I find in his glove box like that’ll help. He only laughs
and pats my knee.
He touched my knee.
With a deep drawl, I put my hand to my chest and profess, “You’re my hero.”
He chuckles as if it’s a joke while my soul sheds a tear because it’s not.
Because I can’t believe I’m sitting this close to him. Because he noticed I couldn’t smile today
until he made me laugh. Because he’s more captivating than I ever imagined he’d be. Because no
matter how sharp my words are, they’re only trying to protect my fragile heart.
The one that secretly belongs to him.
We get no comments from the peanut gallery as I see Sloane’s passed out again. Good.
Sloane gets everything she wants. And I just want two innocent hours of Silas Van de May before
she gets him back.
“Buckle up, Ms. Dove.” He guides his Bronco back onto the highway. “I owe you an L. M. F. A.
O.”
And when he presses play, the first notes drop, and I do laugh my fucking ass off to Silas belting
every word of Shania Twain’s “Man! I Feel Like A Woman.” And when it gets to the “oh, oh, oh,” I
howl it with him, matching his enthusiasm.
Minutes go by too fast when they’re the best of your life. When you didn’t know joy actually felt
like this.
And time is cruel when it’s over, when Silas parks in our driveway and turns away from me to
take care of Sloane.
I help him. I unlock our door and show him to her bedroom as he carries her there.
I mutter, “You’ve got her from here,” because I can’t bear watching how tender he is with her,
getting her settled into bed. Not that I hate Sloane. I love her. She gets my back, and I’d never hurt her.
This just kills me.
To be fair, Sloane doesn’t know why.
Neither does Silas.
 CHAPTER FIVE

I F*cking Love You by Zolita

I disappear into my bedroom next to hers and can hear her giggles and his grunts.
Life is a brutal bitch if I have to hear them fuck next.
I just can’t.
Ripping off my gloves before unzipping this damn dress, I can’t free myself fast enough to wear
sweatpants and a T-shirt. I don’t even put on my special boots. With bare feet, I limp out of my
bedroom, as fast as I can, to the kitchen, to the other side of the house.
It’s a massive home with stunning views of the Atlantic. Redix spoils us. The furniture is modern
but cozy. The bedrooms have their ensuites. We even have a pool in the backyard between the house
and the dunes to the ocean.
Dennis, the painter who lives with us, is on a date. It’s usually early morning before I hear him
come in.
Sloane usually goes out with friends she’s making on the island. Or she’ll have pizza and beer
with me while we watch rom-coms. Or lately, she’s been going out with Silas.
All the while, I go for my usual dates: Cinnamon Toast Crunch and Apple Jacks. I’m dying to go
to one of those cereal bars in New York City. Until then, I’ll make my own.
Using my special bowl, it’s indigo glazed, of course, and only whole milk is allowed. None of the
watery skim shit or stuff made from beetle wings or whatever is the fashionable milk of the month.
Curling up on a chair at the breakfast table and setting the boxes in front of me, I like to solve the
puzzles on the back.
And for a moment… I’m an innocent kid again. The one I was before I tried to rebel, to be bad.
Before I got punished for it.
The sloppy dive of my serving-size spoon. The loud slurp over my lips. The satisfying crunch of
my mouth wide open, munching on cinnamon and apple and cream. This is my—
“Whatcha doin’?”
Do I gulp or choke or slide down this chair and hide under a tablecloth that’s not here?
“Nuffin’,” I answer with my mouth full.
Sitting across from me, Silas’s sexy face appears between the boxes as he slides them apart.
Why does God hate me?
“Doesn’t sound like nuffin’.” Because he’s smiling, making the tiny scar on his bottom lip blanch.
“It sounds like a cow chewing its cud in here.”
I make it worse by cussing with my mouth full again. “Fuff you.”
His chin tosses back, laughing. “Fuff you too, Eily Dove.” He picks up the Apple Jacks. “These
are my favorite. Can I have a bowl before you shave me bald?”
I swallow my pride and cereal. “Cutting your hair off would be a sin.”
“I agree.” He gets up, opening the kitchen cabinets until he finds the bowls. “But I keep my
promises.” And all the drawers until he finds a spoon.
When he sits back across from me, he won’t stop grinning as I realize what’s amusing him—my
blue hands.
“Indigo.” Fuck it. I twirl them like a hand model. “You like?”
“Yeah, I get it.” Half the box of Apple Jacks pours into his bowl. “I hate wearing gloves too.
Mine are usually covered in marine grease. You gotta feel what you’re working on, right?”
Yeah, I wanna feel my hands working your huge cock before I….
I shovel more cereal into my mouth before blurting it.
So does he, and it’s not as bad as I thought it’d be sitting alone with him.
Yeah, my heart’s racing, my deodorant’s getting a true test, and I may pass out in my milk while
my pussy is purring so loud I think he can hear it, but this is normal, right?
Silas Van de May does this to everyone.
My naive body guesses, but my pornified mind is sure— he’s a master of making you feel so damn
good. I’ve witnessed the orgasms he gives, and it tingles my sex, making me clench my thighs.
He asks before his next slurp, “Why was your sister so mean to you today?”
He noticed that too? “Sibling rivalry.”
“Over what?”
“Our parents’ attention.”
My leg injury made them dote on me. Sarah and Phoebe were sweet about it, but Bethany was
always jealous.
“Shit, I’d love to have a sibling take my parents’ attention.”
“You don’t like being a Van de May?”
“I don’t like being the only one.”
“Take my sisters.”
He chuckles, answering, “I’d only want one,” and he doesn’t mean it that way. Not about me.
But still… nervous energy flutters my heart.
 “Good eyes on the turtle tonight,” he says. “I hate to think what would’ve happened if we didn’t
save him.”
Yeah, if you didn’t go around saving things, I hate to think what would’ve happened too.
“I love turtles.” I swirl my spoon through the milk. “When I build sandcastles, I always tear them
back down in case turtles come to shore at night to lay their eggs.”
Suddenly, his chin jerks up while his sculpted body falls back in his chair, making his pants way
too tight across his crotch while he barely mutters, “You build sandcastles?”
His huge package is a magnet to my pupils because I can tell he’s hanging left… and long… and
thick… because I’ve watched the pleasure he delivers with it.
“Yep.” I have to block my guilty stare, so I lift my bowl and gulp down my favorite part, the sweet
milk. Lowering it, he’s too quiet, so I mutter, “Please don’t make a little kid joke about me. I’m five-
one and hear enough of them.”
“I won’t ever pick on you.” The safety in his voice, should I trust it? “I like cereal and sandcastles
too. I’m just shocked, is all.”
And then he’s quiet.
Way too quiet again.
It makes my stare lift from my bowl because I’ve lost my mind and think I can handle finally
looking him in the eye.
I can’t.
After the rain, his hair dried into long tousled waves skimming past his shoulders. His dress shirt
is dry again, but he’s unbuttoned it, teasing with peeks of his sculpted bronze pecs.
But it’s how his magnetic eyes, hazel ringed with gold, draw you to his lips next. The lushest lips
you’ve ever seen on a man, and I wonder what they’d feel like kissing me, every part of me.
And he’s staring at me, and why is his head tilting like that? Why did his smile go from sexy and
teasing to gorgeous and tender?
“You’re full of surprises, Eily Dove.”
“You’re full of shit, Silas Van de May.”
I do it again, making his laugh flood the room, and my heart and I can’t feel my fingertips. Or my
scalp. All I feel is lightning bugs illuminating my chest, and is this even real?
It’s gotta be because only me, with my joke of a life, would get a perfect moment with Silas that
doesn’t even belong to me.
So when he leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, I hold still in my chair so I can hold
time still, too. There’s no safe move for me. Not one that won’t reveal how much I adore him.
“Promise me something.” His eyes lock with mine.
“Anything.”
Why did I confess it?
“When you know how I can make good on my promise, the one that saved my ponytail, you’ll tell
me, okay?”
His warmth, his intensity, I can’t resist his power, and it’s like something’s drawing him too,
making his lips part while he studies my eyes, leaning closer to me, and the pull of him is too strong.
It summons a once-in-a-lifetime cliff. I’m standing on its edge, and I’ll never get this chance again
while my mind and body align, and I can’t stop myself…
“Take me to the sex club.”
My impulsive mouth shoves my lonely heart to its death, but it just blurted out, I swear.
Why? Why me?
 I’ve got a desperate body that’s done nothing but a brave mouth that won’t stop while my request
shocks us both as a terrified look falls down his face, and I try to hide mine too.
“Don’t freak out,” I beg. “I’ve already been, remember? I saw the show you gave with Cade and
Redix.”
Wheels spin behind his eyes with insignificant facts he missed—like me.
“I forgot you were there,” he confesses.
“Story of my life.” I shrug. “But I was there, and I wanna go back.”
He shakes his head. “Why?”
“The same reason everyone goes to a sex club. Well, sorta.”
There’s a courage you get when you have nothing, when life fucks you over—so fuck it—how
much worse can it get?
“Look,”—I lean forward to negotiate—“I don’t wanna have sex with anyone. Or with you.” Liar.
Hellfire is burning your ankles. “I just liked watching. I’m curious, I guess.”
“I…” he stammers. “I can’t take Reverend Dove’s daughter to a private Charleston sex club. The
whole country will condemn me.”
“Too late. You already took me in a way.”
“And our parents are best friends, and they’d fucking kill me if they knew.”
“And yet you still go, so why can’t I? Why do I have to obey the rules, and you don’t?”
“But you’re—”
“I’m twenty-four.” I get this all the time. “Just because I’m small and weird doesn’t mean I’m not
a grown woman.”
His face softens. “You’re not weird.”
“Yes, I am. And I like it. And apparently, after the party you invited me to, I like watching fucking
in sex clubs too. Who knew?”
While he drags his hand down his face, is he aware he’s getting a semi? “So you watched me fuck
Cade and Redix?”
I am.
“We all did.” The flash of the memory volts my sex making my mouth tease, “You seemed to
really like us watching you.”
Suddenly, he coughs, his body tensing, realizing I was there. But he doesn’t ask like a perv, “Did
you like watching me?” He asks gently, like he cares, like there’s more to his question.
“Yes, I did.” So I let myself trust him, the only man who’s proven I can. “Look, I never get to do
stuff like this. I’m a Dove, a famous reverend’s daughter. No one asks me on dates or takes me to
clubs. No one helps me experience anything, so I have questions, and you have answers.” I grin,
trying to sell this to him. “Think of it as a field trip—a triple X-rated one.”
He laughs again. “So I’m your teacher?”
“Yep.” I lean back in my chair. “I’ll be a good student, I promise.”
“What about Sloane?” he asks.
“That’s your promise. It’s just you and me. She can’t know because she has a big heart but a
bigger mouth and she’ll tell my sisters. I’m Reverend Dove’s daughter, right? No one can know I’m
there again. Or with you.”
Yes, I’m doing something secret with Silas. But no, I’d never hurt my best friend.
But I need this because I hurt.
I’ve suffered with no one’s touch for so long, and the night I watched Silas, it was the first time
when I felt pleasure… I didn’t feel so goddamn lonely about it. I felt like I was sharing it with him,
even though I sat alone in a corner.
From across the small table, an odd look sparkles in the gold of his eyes—curious, desire, and
care.
It’s like I’m letting him see me bit by bit, and he’s leaning to dive inside me, to know me even
more.
“I did promise you, didn’t I?” he says, and no one grins like Silas.
No one can stir sexy and sweet with sinful and sainthood into the same expression and sell it like
a gospel truth you’d die for.
And no one’s ever looked so intently at me. His searching gaze burns from the tips of my ears to
the tip of my clit, its ache sending throbs aching for his touch.
“You don’t have to.” The vulnerability of it suddenly shoves me back into my prison, where
loneliness is my cellmate.
But his warm gaze pulls me back. “If I take you to the club, will you smile again?”
I give him another one. “You seem very concerned with my smile.”
“You’re so fucking precious when you smile.”
“Ewww, like I’m a doll?”
“No.” His eyes are drenched with adoration. And serious. “Like it’s rare.” And my insides
swoop. “Like it’s a gift, and only I get to see it.”
This broken thing in my chest, the weight of it lifts away. “So you’ll help me?”
“Did I help you the night you watched me? Did you smile?”
Hey, Mouth, fuck up my world one more time.
“I was smiling until I had an orgasm. It felt so good watching you fuck, but then I felt so lonely
afterward.”
Why do I confess that to him?
Because my pounding tender heart knows… Silas is the only man I trust. And his eyes burn back
into mine, his cheeks blazing too. I didn’t think he could blush. It’s sexy as he answers so intently,
“You deserve someone who’ll make you smile all the time, Eily,” and he isn’t laughing at me.
No, he respects my confession, saying I deserve someone who’ll make me come and who’ll make
me happy. And if I were more sophisticated and had more experience, I’d swear his motive is so
heart-melting and guilty.
If I’m being honest, so is mine.
But feeling one thing, wanting it so bad… but never acting on it?
It’s the joke of my life.
I’d never betray my friend, but I will die in this prison if I don’t do this. My mouth may be free,
but my body’s not. It’s trapped by what it’s survived and all I’m not supposed to do, but I’m aching;
I’m in pain to be free.
“So you’ll help me smile again?” I’m almost afraid of this tenderness, my vulnerability with
Silas.
“Next weekend.” He won’t look away from me. “If you don’t want Sloane to know, can you get
away for a night?”
“Yeah.”
“Then it’s not a date, Eily Dove. It’s my secret promise to help you smile.”
I don’t know anything about men. Or women. But is Silas swallowing down the same intense
feeling? As if I crawled inside him too?
Because something makes his brows pinch. “I should get going. I got a morning meeting. Can you
check on Sloane later?”
And I get slapped back to reality—a painful knot burning in my throat.
He’s not into me. He’s just helping me. Again.
“Yeah,” I barely answer, as if I wouldn’t help my best friend.
“Eily?” He stands up, and his pause is cute. Then it’s heavy. Then it almost hurts before he
surprises me. “Why me? Why do you trust me to help you?”
Why will it always be you, Silas?
“Because you save things like turtles.”
My answer makes him grin. “So you gonna help me to the door then?”
“Nope.”
Hell no, I’m not walking without my special boots on. Then he’ll know who I am. People rarely
see me, but they always remember my limp.
He laughs. “So you’re just gonna watch me leave?”
“Yep.”
“Well, we all know how you like watching butts.” He turns around and gives his one shake as he
walks away, mocking my favorite Sir Mix-A-Lot song over his shoulder, “Oh. My. Gawd, Eily. Look
at his butt.”
A shimmering laugh explodes from my lungs, and who knew Silas Van de May could make you
feel this good?
I did.
“Night, Eily,” I hear him shout from somewhere by our front door.
“Good night, my only wish,” I whisper.
 CHAPTER SIX

T heroomtraditional furniture in the Van de May boardroom makes me feel like a long-tailed cat in a
full of rocking chairs—nervous because this meeting’s going to hurt.
But at least my dad isn’t traditional anymore. My mom brought him around. Well, my mom and the
ten years I didn’t talk to my parents.
Truth is, my dad loves me, but he’s also relieved. He has someone to pass his empire to, and he
didn’t even build it.
It was my grandma, his mother.
And if you think I’m unconventional with how I love.
Well, I’m sorry you never got to meet my grandma.
My grandpa died when my dad was five. That left my grandma a wealthy southern widow and a
single mom. Custom said she had to remarry, and he had to be rich, traditional, and preferably a
widower.
But Grandma was having none of it.
Her family passed down to her a small coal company that she turned into an electric, gas, and
hydro energy empire… and she wasn’t sharing her power with any man.
After all, she loved another woman—Ms. LeeRay. She was like another grandmother, and I was
too young then. I thought they were best friends.
They were… and more.
 When I got busted as a cadet at The Citadel with the first man I loved, Alec, my parents disowned
me but not my grandma. She gave me her summer house on Daufuskie Island and the money to start my
own business.
For almost ten years, I was disowned.
Alec never contacted me again; neither did my parents. My grandma died, and I made a new life
for myself. I didn’t want the Van de May fortune. Or the responsibility.
I wanted my freedom. I wanted my pride. I wanted to fix boats and fish and eat fried shrimp until
the sun set.
But still, I wanted my parents’ love.
Behind all their palm tree upholstery and brass pineapples on every damn piece of furniture,
they’re good people. It cracks me up. Do they know pineapples are a sign for swingers?
But they aren’t.
I’m the one who believes in unconventional love, and my parents adore me. We’re finally close
again, so I want this security meeting like I want to go to prison. Because that’s what it feels like.
My freedom. My privacy. Gone.
For my parents’ sake and Grandma’s memory, I’ll hear them out.
But it don’t mean I like it.
“These are serious threats.” Cade’s scanning the same security brief I’m reading. The threats are
so serious she insisted on joining me today. Cade’s beyond a skilled detective. She’s a trained killer,
but I’ll never rat her out. “You need to take them seriously.”
I smile at her from across the table. “I do.”
“You don’t sound serious.”
A honey-soaked southern woman’s voice calls out from the intercom at the center of the table.
Sitting across from me, my dad’s too set in his ways for video calls. I’m bummed because I’d
really like to see Charlie too, the girl I fell in love with at ten years old.
“Ms. Ravenel.” Thumbing through the brief, furrowing his brow, even my dad answers to Charlie
Ravenel, a former Marine turned bodyguard. “What do you advise?”
“You need a personal detail,” Charlie replies to me, not to my dad, because she knows how
stubborn I am. Pot and kettle—we grew up together. Charlie was my babysitter, and I was going to
marry her one day.
But Daniel Pierce, the Supergod British celebrity, beat me to it—that hot asshole.
And because Charlie can’t see me now, I roll my eyes. But Cade can, and she aims hers at me.
They’re full of love and warning, “Don’t fuck around.”
“You need a team of two.” Charlie won’t let up either, and even though she’s calling from Spain,
where she lives with Daniel, their newborn daughter, and their twins, it’s like she’s right beside me,
knowing this will be a fight.
All stares burn my way.
From my dad across from me to my mom beside him, clutching her pearls, to Cade on the other
side of my dad, leaning back in her chair. My dad’s executive staff is here too, and I’m under the
microscope.
And still, I don’t give a fuck.
“I ain’t taking a team of two guards with me everywhere. I’ll take my chances because that’s some
bull‐ shit, and y’all know it.”
“That’s your responsibility, and it’s time you know it.” My mom slams her palm down on the
table, lowering her stare my way. “You’ve got stockholders and working families with pensions
counting on this company, and you will not fail them.”
When she puts it that way, when she reminds me of what I’ve seen—crews working brutal hours
repairing power lines brought down by storms—I bite my tongue. Thirty thousand employees and
their families depend upon me not getting kidnapped or killed.
“What if he agrees to be tracked and to wear a beacon?” Cade sees my strain, how I’m feeling my
life drain away. “What if we get him a more secure home on the mainland, and he agrees to one
guard?”
She’s asking Charlie. She’s asking because she knows I want to do right by my family, by the
responsibility I inherit.
But Cade knows how much I value my freedom too. I paid a painful price for it. Then I met her,
and ironically, she’s one of the reasons I’m back here, losing it again.
“Can we do that for him?”
She’s advocating for me so I don’t sound like a whining little dick. Because, rightfully so, my
parents and Charlie will listen to Cade’s professional opinion more than my bitching.
“Silas, I know this sucks.” Charlie sounds like she can feel my pain from across the ocean too.
How did I get this lucky? To always love Charlie, though she’ll never be mine. To be with Cade
now because she’s equally a badass, but she’s Redix’s first, and I love that about her too.
“If I assign my best,” Charlie proposes, “someone I trust, and if you listen to him and follow
Cade’s suggestions, it won’t be that bad.” She pauses while all eyes are on me. “Is it a deal?”
“Who’s your best?”
“You already know him,” Charlie answers. “And he’s proven in the field. He took a bullet for
me.”
“Will he do it?”
I know exactly who she’s talking about.
“He will for you,” she answers. “Just don’t give him any shit, you little shit, and you’ll be fine.”
My parents chuckle, their shoulders dropping, relieved. Cade’s grinning at me like, “take the
deal,” and this is the best I will get.
“Alright, Charlie Girl.” I wish I could hug her because we always get each other’s backs. “When
do we start?”
“Rob Vasquez reports to duty tomorrow morning,” she replies. “Nine o’clock. Pick him up in
Savannah.”
The meeting wraps with organizing the surveillance installation at my house on Daufuskie and
searching for a secure home I can buy on the mainland. And confirming they’ll put tracking devices on
my Bronco and boat tomorrow.
I try not to twitch. I agree and stay focused on the one positive.
Rob will be my detail.
He’s qualified as hell. He’s Charlie’s best friend, and we bonded through our secret of how we
helped her.
“I’m turning this on now.” Cade taps my phone, activating the tracking app. Everyone’s left, and
it’s just us. “And keep this on you.” She hands me a tiny black disc. “No matter what.”
“Why do I need this if you’re tracking my phone?”
“In case they destroy your phone.”
“Then they’ll find this too.” The disc is the size of a dime with a barely-there emergency button.
She sits on the table, sighing like she’s exhausted. “Maybe not if you keep it in your sock.”
“I don’t wear socks.” I wedge between her thighs, clad in black jeans. “You know what I wear.”
 “Then tuck it in your tight gray boxers.”
I lean, bracing my arms on either side of her and brushing my lips over hers. “You put it in my
boxers because you’ve been planning this security shit for me the whole time.”
“Maybe.” Her quick kiss is soft.
“Definitely.”
“I don’t want anything to happen to you.” Her forehead nuzzles mine. “Please, Silas. Be safe. I
can’t stand losing you too.”
Cade lost her mom months back. And Redix has left her and come back so many times, he’s back
forever, but I know how vulnerable her heart is.
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll be good for you and Charlie.”
Thoughts of Cade and Charlie have always stirred me in powerful ways. But now? After last
night with Sloane and Eily?
I have new feelings, and I can’t make sense of them.
And I can’t stop thinking about her.
Eily builds sandcastles.
Why did that hit me like a ton of bricks? Why did the sight of Eily’s pain at the wedding grip my
heart so hard that I couldn’t breathe? And why did her laughter later feel like the most incredible gift?
Then she shocked me, asking me to take her to the private sex club I belong to.
Should I be turned on or turned in?
Because her naughty request jolted my cock so hard, I had to fight it down. But with her innocent
eyes and sheltered life, I should be jailed for agreeing.
It was weird… because still… I didn’t give a shit.
I just want to make her smile again—like I want to make her happy… and to make her come.
Last night I couldn’t sleep thinking about it. Lust made Eily’s green eyes appear in my mind, my
fist jerking my cock until I came groaning her name, and then guilt kept me awake.
I shouldn’t want Eily, Reverend Dove’s daughter. I shouldn’t be turned on by her cute, odd ways
when I’m dating her best friend. We shouldn’t keep our plan a secret, but I understand why.
Deep down, I don’t trust Sloane, either.
I kiss Cade’s forehead because we’re both troubled. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m not feeling too hot,” she says.
“Are you sick? Should I take you to the doctor?”
“Oh shit.” Quickly, she pushes me away and darts out of the room, running down the hallway of
the Van de May offices.
“Cade!” I run after her, following her into the restroom.
“Cade!” By the time I’m beside her, she’s hunched over the toilet. “Hey.” I kneel, rubbing her
shoulders. “Need me to call Redix?”
She flushes her breakfast away. “He already knows.”
Now I do too. I smooth her hair back and smile. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks.” She plops back on the floor. “We can do the tests, but I’m ninety percent certain—”
“It’s his. Not mine.” I feel it in my heart. I always wear condoms with her and Redix, and I’m the
only one in their relationship. “And I love y’all and can’t wait.”
“Me neither because it’s gonna be a long seven more months if I can’t keep anything down.”
I sit with her and start rubbing her calf. It always makes her relax. “What do the doctors say?”
“That I gotta eat small meals all day and rest more. But if it gets worse, I gotta go to the hospital.”
“What can I do to help?”
 “Take care of him.” She opens her eyes. “This is freaking Redix out. Like we’ve been through so
much, and now he’s scared he’s gonna lose me and the baby.”
The thought of losing Cade? Of losing her baby? Or of Redix suffering? Damn, it’s like a wound
getting punched.
“What’s wrong with you?”
She sees my heart. She always could. “I’m worried about y’all.”
“And?”
I love this about her.
“And, Sergeant, I think I fucked up.”
“Good. I’m so damn tired of you being the perfect one.” Gently, she kicks my leg. “It’s Sloane,
isn’t it?”
“How’d you know?”
She cuts her eyes. “Really? Like I don’t feel the daggers she stabs in my back whenever she sees
me at the gallery with you.”
“No, she doesn’t.”
“Wake up and smell the shit you’re shoveling. Yes. She. Does. Sloane’s not okay with us. The
three of us. And we love you. We want you to find your love, but I call it like I see it.”
“What if I’m getting feelings for her best friend?”
“What?” Cade didn’t see that coming. Neither did I.
But I felt it.
I’ve never laughed so much. I’ve never smiled for so long. I’ve never been so goddamn enchanted
by the most unlikely tiny creature before me. Especially with how Eily sings about big butts, eats big
bowls of cereal like a horse from a trough, and says the funniest shit.
And especially with the vulnerable way Eily confessed she got off watching me with Cade and
Redix. And then how she felt lonely afterward. I know the exact feeling. It’s the one secret I keep.
Eily is beyond cute and way past beautiful.
She’s a lure. A mesmerizing sparkling little one dangling before me, and if I bite, would she be my
beginning or my end?
“You mean, Eily? Sloane’s best friend?” Cade can’t believe it, either. “What happened?”
“Sloane got drunk, and Eily helped me get her home, and we just kinda hung out last night and…”
I rub her other calf, lost in thought until… “Fuck. I’ve had dates with Sloane and felt nothing, and in
only four hours with Eily, I felt—”
Cade grins. “What?”
“Happy.”
“She’s hot, you know.”
“You think Eily’s hot?”
“Hell, yes. It’s sexy how she’s different. How she doesn’t give a shit.”
“She asked me to take her to the club. She liked our show and wants to watch another one.”
Cade’s eyebrows shoot up. “You serious?”
“Yeah. But she’s Reverend Dove’s daughter, and all hell will break loose if he finds out. If anyone
finds out. She’s too pure and innocent for me, I can tell.”
“Don’t do that.” Her tone drops. “Don’t cage a woman with labels before she’s even free. Eily
defines her sexuality, not you or her parents. Take her, let her explore and decide, just like you did
with me. Yeah, y’all are different, and that may be perfect.”
I chuck her chin. “You’re beautiful when you defend another woman, you know.”
 “And you’re beautiful when you love one.” She chucks my chin back. “She is hot.”
“You talking about Eily being hot turns me on.”
“Yeah, well, hot stuff, turn it back off because I’m too sick and pregnant, and if you come between
best friends? Best friends who live and work together? At Redix’s gallery? It will be a very hot
fucking mess.”
“So, how do I fix it?”
“Slow your roll and be fair to Sloane,” she warns. “And focus on this security shit too because,
Silas, someone either hates you or they want your money. Or both, and that makes me even sicker.”
She reaches for my hand.
“I’m serious. I have a bad feeling about this, and it scares me because it’s never wrong.”
“I’ll be okay.” I hug her, feeling like the biggest dickweed. My safety isn’t about me. It’s about the
people who love me. “I’ll be a good boy, I promise. Besides, have you met my new bodyguard, Rob
Vasquez?”
“No. But I saw him on the news. The night he protected Charlie.”
“Well then, you know, with him around… I’ll make it.”
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
The Project Gutenberg eBook of The martyrdom
of Nurse Cavell
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States
and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no
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you are located before using this eBook.

Title: The martyrdom of Nurse Cavell

Author: William Thomson Hill

Release date: May 22, 2022 [eBook #68149]

Language: English

Original publication: United Kingdom: Hutchinson & Co, 1915

Credits: Tim Lindell and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at

https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images
generously made available by The Internet
Archive/American Libraries.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE

MARTYRDOM OF NURSE CAVELL ***
 Frontispiece.
By the courtesy of the Illustrated London News.

NURSE CAVELL.
 The Martyrdom of
Nurse Cavell.
The Life Story of the Victim of
Germany’s Most Barbarous Crime.

By William Thomson Hill.

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS.

LONDON: HUTCHINSON & CO.

PATERNOSTER ROW ᛭ 1915
 NURSE CAVELL’S
LAST MESSAGE TO THE WORLD.

“But this I would say, standing as I do in view of God and eternity, I

realise that patriotism is not enough. I must have no hatred or
bitterness to anyone.”
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

The latest portrait of Nurse Cavell. (From Photo

(see cover)
Copyright Farringdon Photo Company)
Nurse Cavell (Photo by courtesy of Illustrated
Frontispiece
London News)
The Rev. Frederick Cavell, father of Nurse facing page
Cavell. (Daily Mirror Photograph) 16
Mrs. Cavell, mother of Nurse Cavell. (Daily
” 17
Mirror Photograph)
Nurse Cavell when a child, with her mother
and elder sister. (Photo Copyright Farringdon ” 32
Photo Company)
The Rectory, Swardeston, where Nurse Cavell
” 33
was born. (Daily Mirror Photograph)
Nurse Cavell in her garden. (Daily Mirror
” 48
Photograph)
Nurse Cavell, from a photograph taken in
Brussels. (Photo Copyright Farringdon Photo ” 49
Company)
 CHAPTER I.

CHILDHOOD.
In the early seventies there were living at the country rectory of
Swardeston, near Norwich, a clergyman and his wife and little family.
There was a “New” and an “Old” Rectory. Both are still standing,
much as they were then, except that the trees are older, and the
“New” Rectory has long ago lost any signs of newness. It is one of
the ways of Old England to call some of its most ancient things New,
as if it could never learn to tolerate change kindly, even after
centuries of wont.
There is a Newtimber Place in Sussex whose walls were built
before the Armada. There is a New Building in Peterborough
Cathedral which was completed before the Reformation. New
Shoreham took the place of Old Shoreham before Magna Charta
was signed.
The Rector, the Rev. Frederick Cavell, lived with his family at the
New Rectory. It is a pleasant sunny house with a large garden. Such
parsonages are common in all the unspoiled rural parts of England.
A little gate leads to the churchyard close by.
In a great city no man would live willingly close by a cemetery. In
such a village as Swardeston the nearness of the graveyard is a
consecration. New graves appear among the old ones from time to
time. The oldest of these others have faded gently into the grass.
Nobody is left to tend them or to remember whose bones they cover.
Yet the history of many a family can be traced back for three
centuries on the lichen-covered stones.
 Some day, when the war is over, another grave may be dug in this
quiet spot. If the poor mutilated frame of Edith Cavell is ever
permitted to be brought back home, her countrymen will come here
to look upon the place where she lies. In this October of 1915 she
sleeps in a land ravaged by war, and those who killed her will not
stoop even to the tardy pity of giving back her body.
But in those early seventies the village churchyard was not a place
of sadness to the Rectory children. They played hide-and-seek
among the sloping tombstones. The church and churchyard were, as
they still are, the centre of the village life. Gay doings, such as a
wedding, took place under the shadows of the elms and yews.
The whole community assembled there on any day of special
interest. The churchyard was the Trafalgar Square of Swardeston.
For it was not remote from the houses, as many village churchyards
are. Norfolk labourers swung their heels on the wall in the long
evenings of the days before village institutes and reading rooms
were invented.
In these early seventies the village talk still harked back
sometimes to the War of the French and Prussians. Its politics dealt
with such names as “Dizzy” and Gladstone and Joseph Arch, the
agricultural reformer—and, what was more to the point, a Norfolk
man. In later years the village church saw the celebrations of Queen
Victoria’s two Jubilees and King Edward’s Coronation—“a Norfolk
landlord, and a rare good ’un,” as they liked to say in Swardeston.
 CHAPTER II

LIFE IN THE RECTORY.

Home life in the Rectory was tinged, as was that of most English
homes at the time, with Evangelical strictness. On Sunday all books,
needlework, and toys were put away. The day began with the
learning of collect or Catechism. As soon as the children were big
enough they attended services in the morning and afternoon.
Evening services were not yet introduced in Swardeston. Light
was not cheap, and the way across the country fields to church was
no adventure for Sabbath clothes on dark winter nights. Thus the
closing hours on Sunday were home hours for Rectory and village.
Let those who have no memories of such times scoff if they think fit.
A memory is better than a jest.
Edith Cavell’s father was Rector of this parish for more than fifty
years. He is dead now, but the villagers remember him well. His
portrait shows him with a mouth and chin of unusual firmness. His
eyes are kindly, but there is little sense of humour about them. It is
notably the face of an upright man. Surely capable of sternness, he
would be just to the point of inexorableness unless his face belies
him. A sense of duty is implicit in every line; and we have the best of
reasons for knowing that he transmitted this part of his character to
his daughter Edith.
“The clever Miss Cavell” she was called in later years when she
worked at a London hospital; but a more dominant characteristic was
a rigid insistence upon what she deemed to be right. This was the
constant theme of the father’s sermons to his village flock. He would
not hesitate to reproach from the pulpit any member of the
congregation, whatever his station, whom he considered guilty of
grave fault.
The mother (who is now eighty years old, and lives very quietly at
Norwich) brought a gentler influence to bear upon the Rectory life.
There is a picture of her with two of her little girls. The mother wears
the wide flounces which to-day are among the earliest memories of
the “Men of Forty.” Flounces that were a protection and a promise.
Something for little hands to cling to when the legs were not yet sure
of their way. These flounces made a royal road from earth to the
children’s heaven. The grown-up world far out of reach was always
within call of a pull at the ample skirts.
Mrs. Cavell was a happy mother, and her children were happy too.
So early as the days we are speaking of her eyes had something
wistful in them. It was almost as if some inner consciousness had
told her then of the distant, poignant future.
So the family grew up in a contented, well-ordered home, with
plenty of outdoor games and sunshine, such as country children
have. Long afterwards, in the midst of London slums, Edith Cavell
would talk of the ripening blackberries far away in the Norfolk lanes,
and of the great jam-making times which followed.
 CHAPTER III.

WORK IN LONDON.
Like Charlotte Brontë, another vicar’s daughter, Edith Cavell first
learned something of the wider world in a Brussels school. It was
commoner then than now—meaning by “now” before the war—for
English girls to be sent to Belgium to school. Charlotte Brontë’s
Brussels life has left us at least one imperishable book. Edith Cavell
has left no written memorials of those times; but if we would
reconstruct her life we may imagine some such background as that
of “Villette”: the strangeness of a foreign city, fascinating by its
novelty yet repelling by alien atmosphere.
The lot of a school-girl is not too happy at the best among new
companions. When their language and ways are those of a foreign
country they can become a source of torture to a sensitive child.
Some of these school-girl irritations Edith Cavell had to bear; yet
such early annoyances evidently left little mark on her, for she
returned many years later to Brussels of her own free will, and
conquered the affections of the Belgians a second time.
Edith Cavell’s early womanhood was spent in London—at the
London Hospital, the St. Pancras Infirmary, and the Shoreditch
Infirmary in Hoxton. Her training was obtained at the London
Hospital, the great institution in the Whitechapel Road which is now
nursing many wounded soldiers. The women who train in this
hospital pass through a hard school. All hospital nurses work hard,
but the nurses who come from “The London” think they know more
of the strain of their calling than any others.
“The London” proposes to raise a memorial to Nurse Cavell. It is
their right and hers that this should be done. For “The London” gave
her the thorough training which enabled her to become the skilful
teacher of others, and to instruct the nurses who should succour with
equal care the wounded of all nations.
At the end of her arduous training at the London Hospital in 1896,
Miss Cavell went to St. Pancras Infirmary as Night Superintendent.
She stayed there for a little more than three years. Then she became
Assistant Matron at the Shoreditch Infirmary in Hoxton. She left
Hoxton in 1906 to start the work in Brussels which ended only with
her cruel death.
Including the training years at the London Hospital, Edith Cavell
had given twenty-two years to nursing the sick. She was twenty-one
years old when she began this work. She was forty-three when she
met her death. Thus she had given up the best years of a woman’s
life without a break, save for the occasional precious holidays, of
which we shall say a word presently.
The work in London was one of unvarying routine in the most
dismal surroundings. Nothing but a real devotion to the task could
have made the monotony tolerable.
The writer asked one of those who worked with her for part of this
time what was the reason that decided Edith Cavell to become a
nurse. “She felt it was her vocation,” was the simple answer; “isn’t
that enough?” The vocation, in these great London infirmaries,
consisted in preserving a cheerful face day in and day out; in ruling,
with kindness but also with firmness and an unfaltering tact, old men
and women, children from the poorest slums; in being constantly in
contact with pain and suffering and in the near presence of death.
Those who remember her work in London—and they are very many
—speak of her unselfishness and of a shy pride about the details of
her labours.
What she did for her patients she liked to be a secret between
herself and them. She would follow up the “cases” to their homes.
The Matron and her fellow-nurses guessed some of these acts of
week-day holiness; but Nurse Cavell never spoke of them. She went
about doing good among the neat beds of the wards and in the
unlovely surroundings of the neighbouring streets, doubtless thinking
sometimes of the Norfolk village where the sun was shining beyond
the fog, yet never letting the patients see that she had any thoughts
except for them.
But with this sympathy went a rare strength of mind. Her name
“Clever Miss Cavell” was not used in envy. It was a simple
recognition of the fact that she had what is called a capable brain.
She always knew what to do in a difficult situation. A fellow-nurse in
trouble was always advised to consult Miss Cavell.
 CHAPTER IV.

UPHILL WORK IN BRUSSELS.

Edith Cavell needed all her strength of character in her first years
in Brussels. When she went there nine years ago as Matron of a
Surgical and Medical Home, English nursing methods were not
appreciated on the Continent as they are now. Nursing was regarded
as one of the functions of the Church. Miss Cavell was a Protestant
as well as a foreigner. She was felt to be a rival of the nuns and
sisters working under religious vows.
The authorities of the Catholic Church looked coldly upon an
enterprise which, from their point of view, had an aspect of irreligion
and freethinking. But it was not long before the Matron’s efficiency
and tact carried the day. A well-known priest trusted himself to the
English lady. His tribute to her devotion and skill brought public
opinion to her side. In 1909 she established a training home for
nurses. The authorities recognised and encouraged her; and shortly
before the outbreak of war she was provided with a modern and
well-equipped building.
The first warning of the war came when she was spending a
holiday at home with her mother at Norwich. During these years in
Brussels two holidays a year had been spent in England. They were
happy halting places in a rough journey. What made them so
pleasant to Edith Cavell was that she could spend them with her
mother.
The love of the younger woman for the old was one of the most
beautiful aspects of her character. “People may look upon me as a
lonely old maid,” she said once to a friend; “but with a mother like
mine to look after, and, in addition, my work in the world which I love,
I am such a happy old maid that everyone would feel envious of me
if they only knew.”
That was her secret—her love for her mother and her work. It was
that which enabled her to look upon the world as a beautiful garden,
where there was always something to do for sickly plants. The real
flowers, and the care of them which could only be given in English
holidays, were almost a passion to her from the earliest Rectory
days.
Her success as a nurse, both in Brussels and the slums of
London, owed three-parts of its efficacy to her overflowing sympathy.
“It was her gentle way,” said an old patient, “that did most to make
me well again; I felt she was a minister of God working for my good.”
And there are wounded British soldiers who have pressed the
doctors to send them back quickly to the firing line. “We will go back
willingly,” they say, “to avenge this great woman’s death.”
 Daily Mirror Photograph.

THE REV. FREDERICK CAVELL, FATHER OF NURSE CAVELL.

 Daily Mirror Photograph.

MRS. CAVELL, MOTHER OF NURSE CAVELL.

Every holiday in England was spent with the aged mother, who
looked forward to these meetings as much as the daughter. Without
warning, the war broke into the last of these holidays in the full
summer of 1914. Edith Cavell made her mind up promptly. Her
holiday was not yet over, but she hurried back at once. “My duty is
out there,” she said; “I shall be wanted.”