DON’T STOP

Taking her innocence 2

Lila

I stood on the porch, arms crossed, watching the dust cloud rise behind my parents’ car as it disappeared down the gravel drive. I didn’t wave. I didn’t even lift a hand. Mom had tried one last hug, all teary-eyed and “call us anytime,” but I’d just nodded. Dad, predictably, had waited until the last second to roll down his window and launch into the lecture.

“Respect your elders, Lila. Help out around the house. No attitude. And stay out of trouble.”

Classic Dad. Like I was still twelve.

I didn’t reply. I just watched until the car was a speck, then nothing.

The screen door creaked behind me.

“Ready to see your room, sweetie?” Delaney’s voice was bright, like she was trying to fill the silence my parents left behind.

I forced a small smile and turned. “Sure.”

She led me upstairs, chattering the whole way about fresh sheets and how she’d put extra pillows because “city girls like options.” The room was at the end of the hall—big, airy, with a quilt on the bed and windows looking out over the pastures. It smelled faintly of lavender and wood polish.

“It’s perfect,” I said, setting my bags down. It wasn’t a lie; it was pretty. Just not home.

Delaney beamed. “I’m so glad. Now, how about I give you a quick tour of town? It’ll be fun—just us girls. We’ll be back before you know it.”

I opened my mouth to say no politely, and firmly, but she was already grabbing a light cardigan from the hook by the door.

“It’s tiny, Lila. One main street. Ten minutes, tops.”

I sighed. No choice.

We walked.

The town was exactly as small as she’d promised. One dusty main road with a general store, a post office, a feed supply shop, a diner with a flickering neon sign, and a big community hall at the end that looked like it hosted everything from weddings to livestock auctions.

Kids, maybe six or eight years old were playing some kind of makeshift baseball in a field beside the hall, shouting and laughing as a dusty dog chased the ball. Delaney waved at them, and a couple waved back.

Everyone knew her. Everyone knew me, somehow.

“That’s Mrs. Hargrove. She runs the library on Tuesdays,” Delaney said, steering me toward an older woman watering flowers outside the store. “And this is Lila, Sarah’s girl. All grown up now.”

Mrs. Hargrove’s eyes lit up. “Lila! Lord, last time I saw you, you were knee-high, chasing fireflies at the Fourth of July picnic.”

I smiled. It was tight, and automatic as hell. “Hi.”

More introductions followed. Mr. Jenkins at the feed store. The diner owner, Carla, who insisted I come in for pie sometime. Two old men on a bench outside the hall who tipped their hats and said I’d “turned into a real beauty.”

I nodded, smiled, said “thank you” and “nice to meet you” until my cheeks hurt.

All I could think about was how far away the city felt. How trapped I was here, surrounded by people who remembered me as a gap-toothed kid in pigtails.

Delaney looped her arm through mine as we headed back toward the ranch. “See? Not so bad. Everyone’s excited to have you.”

“Yeah,” I said, forcing one more smile. “Excited.”

Inside, I was counting the days until I could go home.

Sixty left.

Fifty-nine if I was lucky.

And Ryder still hadn’t shown up.

Back at the house, Delaney turned to me with that same bright smile, though it felt a little strained around the edges now. “You hungry, sweetie? I’ve got some chicken baking. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s hearty.”

I shook my head, exhaustion pulling at me like weights on my limbs. “No, thanks. I’m not that hungry but I’m really tired. Long drive.”

“Of course,” she said quickly, touching my arm. “Let me show you back to your room.”

I followed her upstairs again, murmuring a quiet goodnight as she lingered in the doorway for a second, like she wanted to say more. Then she left, and I closed the door softly behind her.

The bed looked too inviting. I kicked off my shoes, flopped onto the quilt, and stared up at the wooden ceiling beams. The room was quiet after the constant hum of the city. No traffic, no sirens, just the faint chirp of crickets outside.

My phone buzzed weakly in my pocket—low battery warning. Great. I wanted to text my friends, send a dramatic “I’ve been banished to the wilderness” message with a crying emoji. I sat up, rummaging through my bag for my charger.

Plug in first, complain later.

I slipped back into the hall, charger cord trailing from my hand. The house was dim, just a soft glow from downstairs. As I reached the landing, I heard Delaney’s voice—low, urgent, coming from the window nook at the end of the hall.

“Pick up… please pick up…”

I froze, instinctively stepping into the shadow of the wall.

She was pacing a little, phone pressed to her ear, biting her thumbnail. She dialed again. And again.

Finally, a click on the other end.

“Where are you?” Delaney whispered, voice tight. “Your sister and her husband just left. Their daughter is here. I had to lie and say you were out fixing fences or something important. Can you just come home already? At least come see your niece?”

My heart stuttered.

I backed away silently, pulse racing, and hurried upstairs on tiptoe. I slipped into my room, closed the door without a sound, and leaned against it for a second, breathing hard.

What the hell was that?

Why did she have to lie about where he was? And why did she sound so… desperate for him to come back?

I crawled into bed fully clothed, pulled the quilt over me like armor, and set my phone and charger on the nightstand. Sleep. That’s what I needed. Sleep would make this place feel less strange.

It worked, eventually. The exhaustion won.

I woke to darkness and the pressure in my bladder.

The clock on my phone read 12:47 a.m. Battery at 3%. The house was pitch black, silent except for the faint tick of an old clock somewhere downstairs. I grabbed my phone, turned on the flashlight, and crept out of the room.

The hallway was creepy in the small circle of light—long shadows stretching across the walls. I padded downstairs, bare feet cold on the wood, trying to remember where Delaney had pointed out the guest bathroom earlier.

There, past the kitchen, a door on the right.

I reached for the handle and pushed it open as quietly as I could, but the moment the door swung wider, a low sound drifted out. It was deep, rough, almost pained. A groan. Then another, longer this time, followed by a ragged exhale that sent a shiver racing down my spine and made the hairs on my neck stand up.

My heart started hammering, loud in my ears.

Was someone hurt?

The thought flashed before I could stop it. I hesitated only a second, then pushed the door open wider, phone flashlight sweeping across the room.

And I froze.

The man standing in the moonlight wasn’t hurt.

He was… touching himself.

Broad back to me at first, muscles flexing under tanned skin as his arm moved in slow, deliberate strokes. His jeans were shoved low on his hips, belt unbuckled, just enough to free himself. One big, calloused hand wrapped around a thick, hard c**k—long, heavy, flushed dark at the tip. He pumped once, twice, head tipping back with another deep groan that rumbled through the quiet room.

My breath caught so sharply I nearly dropped my phone.

He turned, just his head, at the sound, and the light caught his face fully for the first time.

Ryder Kane.

My step-uncle.