As he read, I noticed his hard-on through his wool trousers. Without looking up from the book, he took my hand and guided it onto his lap. Lifting his hips, he pressed himself into my palm. I felt my face flush.

“Do you want to see how hard you make me?”

I didn’t know what to say, so I just nodded.

Standing, he undid his belt, button, and zipper, letting his pants flop to the floor. His erection sprung free. “Get on your knees.”

I did as I was told.

He edged forward. “Open your mouth.”

Parting my lips, he jammed himself deep inside my throat and I gagged, my eyes filling with tears. I peered up at him, but his eyes were closed, his hands on the black of my head, his fingers entangled in my hair, controlling me. My gaze drifted to the bookshelf, and I started counting the spines.

I had reached sixty-five by the time the front door opened.

Pulling myself free from him, I scrambled to my feet, wiping my eyes and mouth with the back of my sleeve.

“Hello?” my father called.

“Hi,” I answered as my English teacher yanked his pants back on. “We’re upstairs.”

My English teacher shot to the other side of the room, frantically adjusting his pants to hide his erection, and snatched the bright orange book once again. He braced himself against the mantle with my snow globe collection.

My father was in the doorway. “What’re you guys doing up here?”

I stared at my father, attempting to communicate what had happened with a secret Morse code of blinks—one I knew only someone I was made of would be able to understand.

“Just telling Grace here what she should be reading next.” My English teacher ran his fingers through his hair.

My father glanced at me, then at my teacher. “Anyone ever tell you you’re supposed to leave your job behind when you walk out that door?”

“You know me.” My English teacher smirked.

Chapter 61

The pain was what woke me that night. Razor-sharp serrations cutting through. I pulled myself into a seated position and clenched my swollen belly as a series of guttural moans escaped me. It felt as if I had swallowed a bag of scorched knives and was trying to digest them. I was being torn apart from the inside.

Jack was asleep next to me. I staggered out of bed, trembling and light-headed, and stumbled to the bathroom. Beads of sweat clung to my forehead and upper lip. I could taste the salt as I fell against the door, landing on my hands and knees on the cold tile floor; one hand shot to my stomach instinctively. I crawled to the toilet and pressed my back against the cool porcelain. Spreading my legs, I saw red. My white underwear was covered in blood. It was pouring out of me. Thick and bright. I’d never seen blood like it before, and I knew it was too much.