All For Him

CONTENTS Content Notice All For Him Playlist Prologue Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Epilogue Acknowledgments About the Author CONTENT NOTICE Please be aware this story deals with a character who has a traumatic past. Themes of sexual violence are included. There is no on-the-page trauma, but rather memories of it. In the end, this story is about celebrating life, survival, and ALL love. ALL FOR HIM PLAYLIST Available on Spotify PROLOGUE Until It Happens To You by Sasha Alex Sloan She lost me—her clunky black shoe—when one of the boys pinned her kicking ankle down. I fell to the floor while terrified screams shredded her lungs, while the sound of her pain would break anyone’s soul. But the other boy silenced her. Kneeling between her legs on the bed, he suffocated her with a pillow. Her cries. Her breath. Her body. He took it all while his violence did not stop. She was little. She was innocent. She fought like hell, but it was no use. It was happening. Until the prince burst into the room. Horror then rage twisted his handsome face while he fought for her. Throwing punches, he took them too across his face while she escaped. And the boy who hurt her the most? He laughed at her pain until the prince’s fists silenced him. Without me on her foot, she ran limping from the bedroom. Crying and bleeding, no one noticed her while she disappeared into the party downstairs. The prince ran after her with his bleeding knuckles and a busted lip, searching for her. I saw him. I laid on the floor where she lost me… where she lost so much. But he never found her. By the time he returned to his bedroom, the evil boys were gone, and only I remained. Her odd left shoe. The prince kept me. He hasn’t been the same since that day, like he lost something too, and now he must find it. All these years later, I’m still sitting alone on a shelf in his closet, like his heart, hoping to find her again one day. CHAPTER ONE since i was young by Wrabel with Kesha I’m a dick. “Are you guests of the bride or the groom?” A sweet lady asks me while these damn dress shoes choke my feet. Because I want to say, “I’m here with my nice parents and perfect date who’s also a bridesmaid, but you see, I’m a dick. I’m a spoiled, horny dick because I hate weddings. I’d rather be fucking right now, searching for love I know I won’t find in a damn church, so give me a seat in hell where I belong.” Instead, I answer, “The bride, please,” while offering my arm to my mom. Like a queen, she’s so proud, hooking hers over mine in the cashmere suit she bought me as I escort her down the aisle. Yeah, I’m twenty-eight. I’m a grown-ass man who owns his own house and business, but my mom picked my suit out for me. “Silas Henry Van de May,” she had fussed at me, and when moms use your full name… watch-the-fuck out. “You’re not going to Reverend Dove’s daughter’s wedding in boardshorts. And the two suits you’ve had for ten years look like it.” She plucked one of my long hairs off the shoulder of my navy jacket while we stood in a store where all proper southern gentlemen get their suits tailored. “You’ve got all sorts of events now, and I won’t have you looking like you just dropped your surfboard to join us. You’ve got a name to uphold.” Then she cut me a look in the mirrors, twisting her lips while the tailor marked the hem of my pants; I knew what she was eyeing. It’s always a point of contention. “You can dress me like an asshole prince all day long, mom.” I grinned. “But you ain’t cutting my hair.” “Then why do you have to wear it like that?” Her eyes narrowed. “All pulled up in a messy knot like a cat’s been kicking up litter in your hair?” She made me laugh, and I chuckle now as my dad sits in the pew first. I gesture for her to sit next because Mom’s doing it again, eyeing my hair, but I note her slight approval because I actually pulled a comb through it and kept it down. Taking the seat closest to the aisle, I scan the huge sanctuary. This ain’t no quaint, southern church. No, this is a stadium built for God with rows of pews in a circle and a massive pulpit on the center stage. I half expect a “Heaven vs. Hell” scoreboard to be hanging somewhere from the ceiling. But instead, this place is plastered with pink flowers, and everyone who’s someone in South Carolina fills the room. With a sanctuary like this, people must follow Reverend Dove like he’s their savior, not just God. All the millions donated to build this place? Some were from my parents because they’re his loyal congregants too. And they’re close friends. It’s an uncomfortable alliance because with a son like me—my parents ain’t welcome in Reverend Dove’s traditional world. But it seems if you got billions, you’re treated like royalty. You get exceptions and invitations. Like today, we’re here in Charleston to witness Reverend Dove’s youngest daughter get married, but I don’t know the bride. I went to high school with her older sisters, and I don’t remember them either. We ran in different circles. They ran in the pure preacher’s daughter circle,