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A girl. On my father’s estate.
Not one of the much-younger-than-him women Jack fucks or marries, to bear sons like me, but agirl. Like the daughter he’s always wanted but can’t seem to produce for himself, only a million times better because this girl doesn’t share his asshole DNA.
She appeared in my rage-filled corner of the garden out of the blue. Just standing there. Without any reason to be.
Her eyes are huge when she lifts her gaze from the hatchet I accidentally hurled in her direction when she startled me. The dull blade is embedded in the dirt at her bare feet, where I came within an inch of slicing her pretty little toes right off.
I drop to my knees immediately. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. Sorry. I didn’t…” I gesture at the old tree stump I’d been taking my frustrations out on, and then back to her. “It slipped out of my hand. I swear. I’m so sorry.”
She stares at me, down at the small axe, and then back at me. Her gaze moves beyond me, to the massacred remnants of dead tree, and then returns to me, her face still frozen in disbelief.
I wait for her to say something, holding my breath and hoping this heavenly creature in a white sundress will forgive me.
Her dark braids shine with copper in the sunlight, a delicate spray of freckles graces her rosy cheeks, and the fabric of her pretty dress is pulled tight across her breasts, as if she’s on the verge of growing out of it. The tension in the straining cotton bodice makes her breasts bulge out the top in a very pleasing way, and every breath she takes is a miracle to watch.
She’s seems a little younger than me, but she’s rife with the potential of becoming the most beautiful woman the world has ever seen, and my eighteen-year-old cock swells tragically hard within seconds.
She promptly deflates it for me.
This beautiful, soft, angelic girl reaches down, wrenches my hatchet free of the earth, raises it, and aims, ready to throw it back at me. “If you’re truly sorry, you’ll stay still and allow justice to take its course.”
I gulp. Nod. And prepare myself for impact.
I don’t know what her aim is like, but she seems confident, so her elected punishment is probably going to hurt. And I deserve it. You can’t throw an axe at a girl and not give her the opportunity to retaliate. It’s only fair.
She keeps her wielding arm raised high, while I take a deep breath and close my eyes.
“Keep your eyes open,” she commands. “I want you to see it coming.” Her tone is so cool, she could have been raised by criminals. Irish Mafia, is my guess, from the look of her, and I have nothing but shock and awe to give such a vengeful but innocent-looking goddess.
With eyes wide open, to absorb every moment with her, I lean in and await my fate.
She lowers the axe. “It’s no fun if you’re not going to shit yourself, Red. Why the fuck are you on your knees waiting to be hacked apart? You’re practically begging for it.”
“I’m not begging,” I say, indignant. “I’m awaiting justice. I almost hurt you, and I should be disciplined for it.”
She stares at me, then tilts her head and scrunches her nose. “Seriously?”
I shrug, and a moment later, she raises the small axe, looking ready to really nail me with it.
She fakes the throw, her eyes sparkling with the joke before she loses her grin and sighs. She lowers the hatchet, looking all disappointed and shit. “You didn’t even flinch.”
“Sorry.” My insides feel uncomfortable with the idea of failing her. “You want to try again?” I ask, wanting a second chance to make it up to her. “I’ll flinch this time.”
She studies me a while, and then she raises the hatchet. “I’m really going to throw it this time, but I don’t want to see any stupid fake flinching. Either you’re scared, or you’re not. Get out of the way or don’t. Just don’t scream if I get you. I don’t like screaming.”
I nod my understanding and await my fate.
When I wake up in her arms with my head throbbing, I don’t remember the throw or the impact, but her dress is soaked with red. She’s using it to stem the bleed. And she’s crying.
Her breath comes in a shudder, and I reach up to touch her soft, shining cheek. “Don’t cry,” I whisper.
She cries harder. Blubbering apologies through her sobs.
“I was aiming to the left,” she moans, checking under the wadding of dress she’s holding to my head. “Why do head injuries always bleed so fucking much?”
“Always?” I ask, laughing up at her. “How many people have you concussed?”
She snorts through her tears. “My mom was a nurse, and her stories could be pretty graphic.”
