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Over the last four years, our connection’s only grown. Eve trusts me, needs me. After losing her mom, and then Roman, we’re all we have.
I can’t fuck this up.
She can’t lose someone else.
I can’t lose someone else.
With a thick swallow, I let the daunting weight of the realization sink in. Though it kills me to pull my gaze away from her and the sinful body that’s urging me to stray from my path, I do it. I have to. Without another word, I turn away from Eve, putting some much needed distance between us.
But with every step, my cock throbs, and I know I need much more than the strength God can grant me.
I need church. Now.
I need The Lord and all the grace he can possibly offer.
I need a motherfucking exorcism from the demons that have infected me—my temptress stepdaughter.
“What did the doctors in Mammoth say?” I ask, fighting the urge to run my hand through my hair in frustration as my eyes flit between the whimpering baby in Charlene Johnson’s arms and the four other hellions wreaking havoc on my office.
She sniffles and tugs her child closer to her chest as though her presence alone can protect him and my heart squeezes, reminding me of the reason we’re here.
“He has C.O.M.'' At my blank look, she expands. “Chronic Otitis Media. It’s the ear infections. He needs surgery.”
She shakes her head and tears leak down her thin, pale cheeks. I quickly hop up and pass her the box of tissues sitting on my desk. She lifts her lips in a grateful but exhausted smile just as a pile of books topples from my shelf in the corner.
My head whips around, finding her middle two children standing over the mess with sheepish expressions on their faces. I swallow the acid clawing its way up my throat until it settles deep in my gut.
I hate messes.
“Jasper. Izzy. Clean that up right now,” Charlene hisses, clearly embarrassed on her children's behalf. Rightfully so.
The children ignore her, their eyes never leaving mine. I’m sure they’re tracking the way my jaw ticks increase with every passing second. When it’s clear they’re not going to listen to their mother, I cock a brow, giving them a meaningful warning look and letting my serene expression slip momentarily. Their eyes widen and the children immediately drop down to clean up.
This.
This is why women and children need a man around. Protection. Guidance. Obedience.
Letting out a tired breath, I retake my seat and turn to Charlene. Her oldest child, a twelve-year-old daughter named Bonnie, is sitting next to her and holding her toddler, Austin, with one hand and texting with the other, oblivious to her surroundings. Austin’s using my favorite pen to aggressively scribble on the newspaper I’d sat aside to read later. His little tongue is peeking out between his gapped teeth in concentration and while some would find it cute, all I can focus on are his sticky hands and cheeks.
Are they all sticky?
What did they eat to make them look that way? Candy or maybe ice cream? Why would she feed them that so early?
Were they like that all throughout church?
Are my pews sticky now?
As the questions cycle through my brain, my palms begin to sweat and my right eye twitches repeatedly. I need to get this shit over with ASAP. I need them out of my office and then I need—
I need this entire place sterilized.
I might need to just abandon this office and find a new one. It’ll never be clean again. Never clean enough.
A wail pulls my attention from where I’d been absently watching Austin miss the newspaper by a mile and mark up my newly polished cherry desk. Harvey, the sick baby in question’s face, is scrunched up and nearly purple from how hard he’s holding his breath. His tiny hand is tugging harshly on his right ear, turning it red.
Charlene cries harder, the sound grating down my nerves.
Her family continues their destruction—unrepentant and uncaring of the chaos they’re creating or the state of their mother.
