{"id":257020,"date":"2026-07-13T15:13:25","date_gmt":"2026-07-13T12:13:25","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/1kitap1.com\/en\/corrupted-by-the-sargent-rica-lane\/"},"modified":"2026-07-13T15:13:25","modified_gmt":"2026-07-13T12:13:25","slug":"corrupted-by-the-sargent-rica-lane","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/1kitap1.com\/en\/corrupted-by-the-sargent-rica-lane\/","title":{"rendered":"Corrupted By The Sargent – Rica Lane"},"content":{"rendered":"
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It cuts through the darkness like a beacon, mocking the shadows I usually call home. I shouldn’t want the light. I\u2019m 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\u2014old habits die hard\u2014and look inside.<\/p>\n

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\u2014the 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\u2019s surrounded by a chaos of crayons and paper. Maddie is curled up against her side, small head resting on Bianca\u2019s soft thigh, fast asleep.<\/p>\n

Bianca reads a book, lips moving silently as she traces the words while one hand idly strokes my daughter\u2019s 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\u2019s making her bloom. She wears one of those oversized, ridiculous sweaters she loves\u2014 bright teal, hanging off one shoulder, revealing the creamy skin of her neck. Leggings cling to the curves I\u2019ve obsessed over for days.<\/p>\n

Every time I close my eyes, I see her drenched and begging. Every time I breathe, I smell her\u2014that seductive wild orchid and rain scent \u2014clinging 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\u2014branded her on that rug until she screamed my name\u2014but I told myself it was just a physical release.<\/p>\n

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\u2019m 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.<\/p>\n

I need to be inside. I need to be in that room, breathing that air, or I\u2019m going to snap. The front door opens with a heavy creak I\u2019ve been meaning to fix. The sound cracks like a gunshot in the quiet room. Bianca\u2019s head snaps up.<\/p>\n

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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\u2019s concrete grid, rat- tles like a tin can full of nails.<\/p>\n

I remember the old man at Harrison\u2019s Hardware shaking his head as I bought a map of the switchbacks. “You\u2019re the fourth girl the club has sent up that ridge in two weeks,” he\u2019d muttered, his eyes full of pity. “The Sergeant doesn\u2019t want a nanny; he wants to be left alone in the dark with his ghosts. You\u2019ll be back down the mountain by sun- down, just like the ones before you.” I\u2019d ignored him, but as the trees thicken around my little car, his words feel less like a warning and more like a prophecy.<\/p>\n

The road narrows into a slick, muddy climb that makes the moun- tain feel like it\u2019s 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.<\/p>\n

Outside, the Pine Valley wilderness looms, oppressive and magnifi- cent. The trees here aren’t the manicured oaks of the city parks I\u2019m 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\u2019s Hardware where I stopped for directions, giving me a look that was half-pity, half- warning.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re going up to the Gunnar place? Alone? Best keep your head down, missy. That\u2019s deep territory.\u201d Deep territory. I didn\u2019t 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.<\/p>\n

Pine Valley is my fortress. I needed a place where the world couldn’t find me\u2014and looking at the jagged peaks of Grizzly Peak, I realized I\u2019d found a place where the world was simply afraid to go. So, I\u2019m 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.<\/p>\n

I\u2019m hoping for the latter, though looking around at the dense, claus- trophobic forest, I doubt any celebrity is hiding out here unless they\u2019re on the run.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

This is a short excerpt from the opening of “” by Unknown, quoted for review and introduction purposes. All rights belong to the copyright holders.<\/em><\/p>\n

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