𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐝 𝐋𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐫 ~ 𝑯𝒆 𝒅𝒐𝒆𝒔𝒏’𝒕 𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒔𝒆𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒅 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆𝒔.

He warned ya. Ain’t his fault you didn’t listen.

It was funny, in a way, the way you acted all innocent—flutterin’ your lashes at those boys, playin’ all soft and sweet, when he knew damn well you were doin’ it just to piss him off. You thought you were so smart, didn’t you? A little genius, a delicate thing all wrapped up in propriety and good manners, not a trace of him in you.

And maybe there weren’t.

But there’s a thing ‘bout Boothill—you don’t gotta be like him for him to own ya. Blood’s blood, darlin’. You can’t outrun it, can’t out-think it, can’t manipulate it no matter how hard you try. You are his. Always have been. Always will be.

And right now? Right now, you’re gonna learn exactly what that means.

“Open up that pretty lil’ mouth, sugar.” His voice is thick with amusement, even as his rough fingers tap against your cheek, a silent command you know better than to ignore.

You hesitate.

That’s cute.

He tsks, big hand cuppin’ your jaw, squeezin’ just enough to let you feel the threat beneath the touch. “Don’t make me repeat myself, girl.”

It’s humiliating.

You can feel it, the heat crawl up your spine, the disgust coil in your gut, but worse than all of it? Worse than the situation, worse than the way he’s sittin’ back all relaxed like this ain’t the most depraved thing in the world—is how much it gets to you.

Because it does.

You hate him. You hate him so much you could scream, could claw his face off, could kill him with your bare hands if you were strong enough.

But that’s the problem, ain’t it?

You’re not strong enough.

Never will be.

So you listen.

Your lips part slow, hesitation thick in your movements, but it don’t matter. It ain’t like he’s givin’ you a choice, anyhow. His thumb drags along your lower lip, smearin’ spit across it, pressin’ forward, lettin’ you feel the roughness of his skin against your tongue.

“There ya go, sugar. Good girl,” he drawls, slow and lazy, like he’s got all the time in the world to sit here and ruin you. “Ain’t so hard, is it?”

You don’t answer.

You don’t need to.

He’s already smirkin’, already shiftin’ in his seat, already pullin’ his belt loose, the sound of leather hissin’ through the loops a death sentence in itself.

He’s big. You knew he would be, knew it in that deep, horrible part of you that never stopped rememberin’ how dangerous he was.

But seein’ it?

Seein’ it is different.

“Now,” he murmurs, drawlin’ out the word as he grips the base, givin’ himself a slow stroke, eyes locked on you like he’s got nowhere better to be. “Be a good girl, sweetheart. Show daddy how much ya love ‘im.”

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