His Sin

Chapter Four: His Touch

Fiona POV

I stood on the porch for a full minute, my hand trembling as I reached for the doorknob. My skin felt like it was on fire where Theo had touched me.

Act normal. Just act normal, I pleaded with myself.

I pushed the door open. The smell of roasted chicken filled the air—My father was sitting at the head of the table, his reading glasses perched on his nose as he studied a document.

"You're late, Fiona," he said, not looking up.

"I’m sorry, Father. I... I went for a walk by the river and lost track of time. The sunset was beautiful." My voice came out higher than usual.

He looked up then, his sharp blue eyes scanning me. I immediately pulled my hair forward, letting the thick waves cover the left side of my neck.

"A walk. Alone?" he asked, closing the document.

"Yes, Father. Alone." The lie tasted bitter in my mouth, I hate lying to my father or lying in general.

"Wash your hands. Your mother has been waiting."

I hurried to the kitchen, my heart thumping against my ribs. I caught my reflection in the window over the sink. I looked like a mess. My hair was wild, my lips were slightly swollen from his thumb, and that bruise... it looked like a dark, purple thumbprint on my pale skin.

I splashed cold water on my face, trying to wash away the feeling of Theo’s hands. But I could still hear Clara’s voice in my head. Impressive. A god. Made love for three hours. I felt sick.

I took my seat at the table. My mother served the plates in silence, but I could feel her eyes on me. She was observant—it was how she survived being married to a man like my father.

"Fiona, dear, why are you wearing your hair like that?" my mother asked softly, tilting her head. "It’s all tangled. And you're shivering."

"I'm just a bit cold, Mom," I said, clutching my fork so hard my knuckles turned white.

"It's seventy degrees outside," my father noted, his eyes narrowing. "Fix your hair, Fiona. You look like a street urchin. A daughter of this house should be neat at all times."

My breath hitched. If I moved my hair to tie it back, the mark would be right there. I’d be dead.

"I... I think I have a cold. I’d rather keep it down," I stammered.

"Fiona. Fix. Your. Hair," my father repeated, his voice dropping into that dangerous tone that meant an argument was no longer an option.

I slowly reached up, my fingers shaking. Just as I started to gather my hair, the front doorbell rang.

Saved by the bell, I thought, exhaling a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

"Who could that be at this hour?" my mother wondered, standing up.

My father grumbled and stood up too. "Probably Pastor Thomas. He mentioned needing to discuss his son’s... recent return."

They both walked toward the door, leaving me alone at the table. I slumped in my chair, my forehead resting in my hands. I needed to get to my room. I needed to find my concealer.

But then I heard a voice at the door. A voice that made my blood run cold.

"Good evening, sir. Sorry to interrupt your dinner. I was just dropping off something Fiona left behind at the river."

It was Theo.

My fork clattered on my plate, I’m done for. My father is going to kill me. I didn't just feel fear; I felt a cold, paralyzing dread that started in my toes and worked its way up to my throat.

He wouldn't. He couldn't be that cruel, I thought. Oh boy, I knew this boy was bad news.

I stood up, my legs feeling like they were made of jelly. I had to get there before he said too much. I had to stop him before he made my father crucify me tonight.

"Fiona," my father barked, not taking his eyes off Theo. "This boy says he has something of yours."

"I... I don't know what he's talking about," I whispered, my hand instinctively flying to my collar.

"Is that so?" Theo mused. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, silk hair ribbon—the one I’d used to tie my bun earlier that morning. He held it up, dangling it between two fingers like a prize. "Found this by the riverbank. Right near the weeping willow. I figured a girl like you wouldn't want to lose it”

My father’s head snapped toward me. "The riverbank? You said you were alone, Fiona."

"I was!" I gasped, the lie feeling like it was choking me. "I must have dropped it. He must have found it after I left."

"I saw her leaving," Theo added, his voice smooth as silk and twice as dangerous. He stepped a fraction closer to the screen. "She looked like she was in a hurry. I must say you have such a disciplined daughter”.

The way he said disciplined made my skin crawl. He was mocking us. He was mocking the way my father controlled me, all while he knew that just an hour ago, he’d had his thumb in my mouth and his hand on my throat.

"The ribbon, boy. Give it here and go," my father growled.

My father slammed the heavy wooden door shut. He turned to me, his face a mask of fury.

"Why was that boy watching you at the river?"

"I don't know, Father! He's a stalker! He's a delinquent!" I cried. "I didn't even see him there!"

"Go to your room," he commanded. "I don't want to hear another word. We will discuss your 'walk' in the morning after I've spoken with Pastor Thomas."

I didn't wait. I bolted up the stairs, my heart hammering against my chest. I slammed my bedroom door and locked it,

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the ribbon. It smelled like him. But as I threw it onto my bed, I remembered Clara’s voice. Impressive. He’s a god.

The anger I’d been suppressing finally boiled over. He had come to my house to taunt me, to risk my life, all while he was probably planning to meet Clara or some other girl later tonight. He was playing a game, and I was just a puppet in his sick twisted game.