Corrupted By The Sargent – Rica Lane

It cuts through the darkness like a beacon, mocking the shadows I usually call home. I shouldn’t want the light. I’m a creature of the dark, built for vio- lence and silence. But my feet move before my brain gives the com- mand, drawn to that glass pane like a moth to an incinerating flame. I step closer, keeping to the shadows—old habits die hard—and look inside.

Bianca is there. Air rushes from my lungs, driven out by an invisible sledgehammer to the ribs. She sits on the rug in front of the fireplace—the same spot where I claimed her, where I felt her pussy milking my cock until I saw stars, her tight, wet walls clenching around my shaft in a frantic, desperate rhythm that almost broke my control. She’s surrounded by a chaos of crayons and paper. Maddie is curled up against her side, small head resting on Bianca’s soft thigh, fast asleep.

Bianca reads a book, lips moving silently as she traces the words while one hand idly strokes my daughter’s hair. This scene belongs to a life I don’t deserve, a ghost I thought I buried years ago. My daughter looks like a wildflower growing in a grave- yard, and Bianca… Bianca is the sun that’s making her bloom. She wears one of those oversized, ridiculous sweaters she loves— bright teal, hanging off one shoulder, revealing the creamy skin of her neck. Leggings cling to the curves I’ve obsessed over for days.

Every time I close my eyes, I see her drenched and begging. Every time I breathe, I smell her—that seductive wild orchid and rain scent —clinging to my house, my furniture, my mind. I grip the railing of the porch, the wood biting into my leather gloves. I claimed her last night—branded her on that rug until she screamed my name—but I told myself it was just a physical release.

A way to quiet the beast. Looking at her now, holding my daughter with a tenderness that makes my chest ache, that lie crumbles. I didn’t just claim her body; I’m starting to crave her soul. And that is a far more dangerous territory for an SAA to traverse. I push off the railing and storm toward the door.

I need to be inside. I need to be in that room, breathing that air, or I’m going to snap. The front door opens with a heavy creak I’ve been meaning to fix. The sound cracks like a gunshot in the quiet room. Bianca’s head snaps up.

The GPS on my phone died ten minutes ago, right around the time the paved road turned into a rutted, gravel track that looked less like a driveway and more like a tear in the earth. My little hatchback, a bright yellow Beetle that fit perfectly in the city’s concrete grid, rat- tles like a tin can full of nails.

I remember the old man at Harrison’s Hardware shaking his head as I bought a map of the switchbacks. “You’re the fourth girl the club has sent up that ridge in two weeks,” he’d muttered, his eyes full of pity. “The Sergeant doesn’t want a nanny; he wants to be left alone in the dark with his ghosts. You’ll be back down the mountain by sun- down, just like the ones before you.” I’d ignored him, but as the trees thicken around my little car, his words feel less like a warning and more like a prophecy.

The road narrows into a slick, muddy climb that makes the moun- tain feel like it’s tilting against me. My engine wheezes, a rhythmic, concerning rattle that vibrates through the floorboards and into my heels. The shadows of the pines stretch across the hood like skeletal fin- gers, and the silence of the woods becomes a heavy, physical weight. “Come on, Bumble,” I mutter, gripping the steering wheel until my hands cramp. “Don’t die on me now. We need this gig.” We really, really need this gig.

Outside, the Pine Valley wilderness looms, oppressive and magnifi- cent. The trees here aren’t the manicured oaks of the city parks I’m used to sketching. These ancient pines, towering giants that block out the midday sun, cast long, bruised shadows across the snow- dusted ground. This is the Grizzly Peak District. Even the name sounds like a threat. I remember Frank, the old guy at Harrison’s Hardware where I stopped for directions, giving me a look that was half-pity, half- warning.

“You’re going up to the Gunnar place? Alone? Best keep your head down, missy. That’s deep territory.” Deep territory. I didn’t ask what that meant. I was too busy staring at the zeros in my bank account balance and the eviction notice tacked to my studio apartment door back in Philadelphia. I fled because the shadows in Philly were starting to reach for me. Between the mounting debt and a predatory gallery owner who didn’t take ‘no’ for an answer, I was drowning.

Pine Valley is my fortress. I needed a place where the world couldn’t find me—and looking at the jagged peaks of Grizzly Peak, I realized I’d found a place where the world was simply afraid to go. So, I’m answering an ad. Nanny needed. Live-in. Good pay. Discretion required. Discretion usually means the kid is a brat or the dad is a celebrity.

I’m hoping for the latter, though looking around at the dense, claus- trophobic forest, I doubt any celebrity is hiding out here unless they’re on the run.

This is a short excerpt from the opening of “” by Unknown, quoted for review and introduction purposes. All rights belong to the copyright holders.

Book Information

• Unique ID: aa2f434e839724a7
• File Extension: .pdf
• File Size: 1,731,401 bytes (1.651 MB)
• Title: –
• Author: Unknown
• Pages: 129
• Language: English (en)

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• Estimated Reading Time: 180.53 minutes
• Total Words: 36,107
• Total Characters: 197,114
• Average Words per Page: 279.9
• Average Characters per Page: 1528.02

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