Daughter of a Killer

by Lexi Archer

A thick hand lands on my throat. I glower at Brett. “You’re going to regret trying to take me down,” he mutters into my ear before biting my earlobe.

“Brett’s the head of the Mutineers.” I burst out laughing. “Mutineers? What the hell is that?”

“This is my school, my rules,” Brett states. “You’ll learn that soon enough.” “And you’ll learn soon enough that I don’t take orders,” I say through gritted teeth. “You just haven’t been given the right kind of orders.” “If you think that I’m into BDSM, you’re wrong.” “Liking direction doesn’t mean that you have to give up your freedom.”

“Do you think she’s a screamer?” Corey asks Brett. “Considering no guy would fuck her, I’ll guess the world will never know.” I roll my eyes and then shut them, cursing myself for reacting at all to their childish insults. “If she lets loose, I bet she would like having her hair yanked, her throat crushed. Probably likes to almost pass out to make her orgasms stronger,” Corey says.

A rose with thorns. Now it’s a beautiful tattoo, honestly, but it’s one I’ve seen before. Several men associated with my father had that same style tattoo. I asked one about it after I realized so many of them had the same tattoo. “It means we spent our eighteenth birthday in jail.”

“What are you looking at?” he grumbles. Crap. I got caught staring. I shift my gaze to his brown eyes and gulp. His eyes are so cold, so fierce. I've seen that look before, and I know what it means. He is capable of violence.

“Listen, you don’t even know me—” Shane starts. “I know that real men don’t spend their eighteenth birthday’s in prison,” I say softly.

I might be pretending to be Erika Armstrong, but I’m actually Erika Slade. I’m the daughter of Brandon Slade. Daughter of Kimberly Slade. I ran away from my old life because I hate my father. Because he’s not just the guy who donated sperm so I could be born. He’s the worst man imaginable. I’m the daughter of a killer.

For the first time since my father killed my mom, I can’t hold back the tears, and they stream down my face.

It had been so much fun. I have zero regrets being Austin’s first and his being mine. But we didn't do it again, and we never became friends with benefits. We had just been friends.

I might regret this, but I lean forward and whisper in his ear, "But I thought you licked me. I'm yours, remember?" He shakes his head. “You aren’t mine until we kiss.” And we do. He crushes his lips to mine, and I can’t say why I do it, but I give in. I kiss him back, and it’s a fierce kiss, a duel almost. Our tongues war, trying to be in each other’s mouths, and a shot of pleasure heads straight to my core. I might moan, and it’s so hard to keep my hands by my side, to not reach up and grab his shoulders or to run my fingers through his hair. What the hell is wrong with me?

“I don’t want anyone thinking you’re a whore,” Tyler murmurs. “You’re not a whore.”