Tempting Little Thief


 CONTENTS
 Title Page
 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
 Chapter 37
 Chapter 38
 Chapter 39
 Chapter 40
 Chapter 41
 
 Epilogue
 About the Author
 More by Meagan Brandy
 Copyright
 Prologue
 Four Years Ago
 The deepest, darkest shade of red runs in a steady stream, filling in the cracks of the concrete, not stopping when it meets the burned grass, but soaking into the roots and panning out like a flame with no fire.
 So why the fuck is there a man in yellow trench pants standing ten feet from me, eyes wide and hands raised in the air? His mouth is moving, but if he’s speaking, I don’t hear shit.
 No, that’s not right.
 I hear something deep in the back of my mind.
 Screams.
 Cries of pain.
 Cries for help.
 Cries for mercy.
 My vision blurs, and it’s as if time rewinds, my fucked-up head forcing me to relive what led me right here, right now …
 “Please, no. Please, don’t. I’ll be good. I’ll be quiet.”
 “You’re worthless.”
 Smack.
 “Useless.”
 Smack.
 “Trash.”
 Crash.
 More cries.
 The scream that tears from me is damn near unrecognizable as I wrench my hands free of the zip ties, a few layers of skin tearing as I do. The electrical cable he used to tie me to this chair holds strong around my middle, but the brutal sounds coming from downstairs tell me there’s no time to find something to cut the thickly covered copper digging into my ribs, so I lurch awkwardly to my feet and spin so my front is facing the bed.
 Pulling in as much air as the position allows, I run backward with all the speed I can manage, slamming the cheap wood into the wall. A guttural shout rips from my throat as my shoulder crunches against the wall, but I do it again.
 “Fuck,” I hiss. “Come on, come on, come on …”
 Wood splinters pierce my bare back, digging into the fresh welts there and tearing open half-healed ones. I do it again. And again, my back teeth at risk of cracking from clenching them so hard.
 I gasp, my entire body shaking with rage, as the screams from the first floor grow even louder.
 Warm liquid trickles down the entire right side of my body now, and my chest heaves, but I don’t stop. I draw on as much adrenaline as I can, and with one last crash, the back bars of the chair split, snapping from the base and left arm enough for me to wiggle my body and crawl out of the restraints.
 “You want to cry?!” he screams. “I’ll shut you up!”
 “No!” she weeps.
 My heart pounds wildly as I run toward the voices, the cuts on the bottom of my feet tearing open more and more with every step, but I don’t care. I can hardly feel the pain anymore.
 I can hardly feel anything. A new, darker form of rage bleeds into my bones, numbing me from the inside out.
 “Get back here, you little bitch!” he demands, the front door slamming against the hinge.
 “Fuck!” I hurry down the stairs.
 She ran outside.
 We never run outside when he’s like this—or after—but then again, it’s never lasted this long before.
 My stomach leaps into my throat as the living room comes into view.
 The broken glass littering the floor mocks me, the bloodstains on the shitty shag carpet a constant reminder, as if I fucking need one, of what he’s capable of doing to her, to me.
 My mother hugs the now broken frame of the door, cowering against it, and the moment she hears me coming, she attempts to keep me from stepping through, but I shove her away, breaking free when her hand darts out, attempting to latch on to my wrist.
 Horror slams into me, and I jerk to a stop on the porch.
 My sister’s face is even more swollen now, blood seeping from the side of her head where he pistol-whipped her before tying me up, the bullet meant for her still buried in my flesh. She struggles to keep her eyes open, her body growing limp at our father’s side as he drags her back toward the house by the hair.
 I have to get to her.
 I have to free her.
 I will save her.
 He spots me and comes to a halt, eyes flicking over my shoulder.
 And then my mother’s body is crashing into me from behind, knocking me unsteady. She’s hysterical, afraid for the man she loves more than her children and stumbles. With a slight nudge of my elbow, she tumbles into the dirt, scrambling back and hiding behind a flowerpot when my father pulls the trigger of the gun gripped in his left hand. The harsh “pap” rattles in the trees, the bullet burying itself into the dirt near his feet.
 “Son, stop this right now! You’re bleeding everywhere! Get back inside before someone sees!” she cries, begging, yet again, for us, the victims, to “be good” and take the fucking whipping we “deserve.”
 Of course I’m fucking bleeding. I came home to chaos, saw a gun pointed at my sister’s head, and with the look of acceptance in her eyes, I jumped in front of her just before he pulled the trigger.
 Where I fucked up was turning to see if my sister was okay and trying to check the wound on the side of her head from his beating. He capitalized on my rookie mistake, tackling me from behind when I wasn’t looking.