BOUND, BRED, AND BROKEN BY THE DEVIL

CHAPTER 1: THE DARKNESS THAT CHOSE ME ELODIE’S POV Have you ever found yourself drowning in a darkness so thick it wraps around your lungs, choking the air from you, pressing down on every part of your body until you’re gasping, begging for release? A darkness that doesn’t care how hard you fight, doesn’t care how desperately you try to push it away—it just seeps deeper, coils tighter, and claims you as its own. It sounds absurd when I put it into words, too strange, too unreal. And yet it happens. It comes for me, hard and fast, swallowing me whole on the eve of my eighteenth birthday. I don’t know how to explain it, how to classify it. Is it hormones raging through me, my body betraying me as it slides fully into womanhood? Is it some twisted part of my femininity clawing its way to the surface? God, maybe. But when it comes, it is unlike anything I have ever felt before—violent, overwhelming, utterly indescribable. Where do I even start? I should probably admit the truth. I’m not the good girl everyone thinks I am. I never have been. I’m depraved, reckless, shamelessly immoral. I chase the thrill of things that are wrong, broken, forbidden. Comfort comes to me only in sin, in testing boundaries, in indulging what I know I shouldn’t. So maybe that’s why the darkness finds me. Maybe that’s why it singles me out—like a predator sniffing out its prey. It comes to teach me a lesson, one I will never, ever erase from my life. It begins the night before my eighteenth birthday. And it begins with the one obsession I should never have allowed to exist. I have always, for as long as I can remember, harbored a dangerous crush on my father. Yes—my dad. My own blood. Even saying it makes bile burn my throat, makes shame wrap sharp claws around my ribs. It’s disgusting, irrational, unforgivable. And yet the seed has been planted years ago, buried so deep in me that no amount of clawing or crying can dig it out. It only grows, twisting, thriving, flourishing into something darker with every passing year. Obsession—that’s the only word for it. My father is in his early forties, but age doesn’t dull him. If anything, it sharpens him. God, he’s beautiful—so achingly handsome it hurts to look at him sometimes. The kind of man who turns heads wherever he goes, who commands attention without even trying. His face, his body, the way he carries himself—it’s too much, almost unfair. Women crave him instantly, shamelessly. Married women, single women, young women, old—it doesn’t matter. I see them, all of them, circling like wolves, desperate to sink their teeth into him, to steal just a taste. But he never falters. My father is a man of iron control, of unshakable boundaries. No matter how blatant the seduction, how relentless the pursuit, he never strays. He never once entertains them. He stands tall, loyal to his wife, immune to temptation. And God, how I envy him for that. I always wish I could be like him. Strong, unwavering, moral. But instead, I am the opposite. Weak, trembling, a slave to urges I don’t understand and cannot escape. He resists with ease. I collapse with shame. And nothing makes the difference clearer than this thing festering inside me. It should terrify me that girls my age also notice him, also want him, just as I do. But it doesn’t. That’s how wrong, how broken I am. I want him. I crave him. And in my quiet, stolen moments, I imagine him wanting me too. I fantasize endlessly. Him kissing me, his lips grazing mine as he whispers that I’m beautiful. His hands roaming my body, lingering where no father’s hands should ever go. Him pushing me down, pressing into me, taking me until I’m wrecked and sobbing and begging for more. The thought of him buried deep inside me drives me to the edge again and again until my fingers are my only salvation, trembling between my thighs as I moan his name into the dark. I try to stop. God knows I try. But the seed is rooted too deep, and he’s everywhere—living with me, breathing near me, existing in every corner of my world. His face, his voice, his presence—it’s inescapable. And so the craving grows stronger, more unbearable, until I’m nothing but a vessel for it. And then, on that cursed night, the darkness comes. A force so heavy, so suffocating, I can’t fight it. I don’t even understand it. It’s just… there. I lie on my bed, fingers tangled in my hair, frustration coiled so tight in my chest it threatens to tear me apart. My body burns with need, the kind of restless ache that won’t fade no matter how I shift or curse or clench my fists. I want to touch myself, as always, to ease the unbearable tension by crying his name into my pillow. But I resist this time. I force myself to resist. I tell myself no. Over and over. No more. This has to stop. It’s wrong. It’s vile. It’s destroying me. I will not give in tonight. But my body doesn’t care. My body screams at me, claws at me, begs me to surrender. My panties are already damp, shame slicking down my thighs as I writhe against the mattress. And then— A knock. Soft, deliberate, startling against the silence of my room. My heart jerks, my entire body freezing. I frown at the door, every nerve on fire, my pulse hammering. My throat is so dry my words scrape when I manage to speak. “Who’s there?” Even as I ask, I feel sweat prickling down my back, pooling at the curve of my spine. Not the sweat of exertion, but of raw, merciless torment. “Elodie, dear—it’s your dad. Are you in?” The words slam into me like a fist. My heart lurches, stutters before it races out of control. Of all the people in the world, it has to be him. Here. Now. I swallow hard, panic thrashing inside me. “I—I’m coming. Just… just give me a minute!” Frantic, I dart around the room, straightening sheets, wiping at my face, doing anything to make the space less damning. But nothing can hide what I feel, what I am. And when I glance down—God. The wet heat between my legs makes my stomach twist with both shame and need. Pathetic, Elodie. You’re pathetic. I close my eyes, inhale, exhale, try to steady myself. Try to bury the chaos. But when my hand grips the doorknob, it trembles violently. I open the door. And there he is. My father leans casually against the frame, hands tucked into his pockets, posture so effortlessly confident it looks almost staged. He could be waiting for a date, not his daughter. And God help me, that thought alone is enough to make my pulse riot in my veins. I blink rapidly, paste on a shaky smile. “Hey, Dad. What’s with the impromptu visit?” He chuckles softly. And then he smiles. But it isn’t his usual smile. I know his smiles—I’ve catalogued them all, memorized every flicker of expression across his face. This one is different. Darker. Sinister. My stomach drops, ice threading through my veins even as heat coils tighter in my belly. I step back instinctively, my hand falling from the door as he pushes it open further and slips inside, closing it behind him with deliberate ease. “Hello, my beautiful Elodie,” he says. His voice slides over me like velvet, low and smooth, tinged with something I can’t name. Something wrong. Something that shouldn’t be there. My breath catches. What the hell is happening? “Aren’t you happy to see me?” Sweet Jesus.