The Dark Forest: A Collection Of Erotic Fairytales(14)
The memory of how she’d looked on the news flashed behind her eyes. The form-fitting royal blue dress, the tasteful jewelry, her long pale hair falling to her waist, that perfect Sinclair smile – she’d looked more like she was trying out for Miss America, not preparing to be the heir to one of the most successful companies on the East Coast. Fuck, she wouldn’t even take a girl like that seriously if they said they wanted to run Monarch Systems.
Damn it all.
“Let’s just drink until we can’t think. How does that sound, Rebecca?” Talking to herself, again, she grabbed the whole bottle of wine and headed back to the couch. Glass refilled, cold and biting as she swallowed, she zoned out on the newscast. Something about a shooting, police looking, blah blah blah. So much chaos in the world, so many angry people. As she took another sip, she heard the click of the door behind her and she smiled to herself.
Speak of the devil and he shall appear.
“Hey Dad,” she called over her shoulder. “I want to show you something, come in here before you run off to your office!” Pressing the rewind button on the remote so she could show him the news report, she set the wine down. The stupid DVR went too fast and she had to stop it and fast-forward, cursing under her breath. “They were just talking about the facility on the news. I looked like a complete idiot, but you did great. Hold on, I’ll show you. Did Patricia tell you this was airing tonight?”
He didn’t answer her, but she clicked pause as soon as the image of the new building filled the screen. Was he on the phone and ignoring her again? Asshole.
Turning to find her father, she caught a dark shape in her vision, too close, and then the sharp pull of someone’s fist in her hair made her gasp. Panic flooded her with an overdose of adrenaline and she kicked out, her foot colliding painfully with the coffee table, but she was caught. Her struggles only sent her wine crashing to the floor, and an instant later she was hauled over the back of the couch. Rebecca landed hard on the tile, but the adrenaline was now a live wire in her veins and she made it onto her knees, planning to run, when the hand returned to her hair. Air hissed between her teeth, a whimper rising up as the man tightened his grip and then forced her flat. A knee behind her shoulder blades pinning her painfully against the cold tile.
“Let me go!” she screamed as soon as she caught a breath, her voice breaking, but there was no one to hear her in the empty building. No one is coming. Fight. Reaching back, she dug her nails into gloved hands, trying in vain to tear his grip free. A growl rumbled above her just before he cracked her forehead against the floor. Pain flashed like a firework behind her eyes, turning her stomach while she tried to protect her face. Her ears were ringing, and for a moment she was so stunned that she didn’t notice the jerking motions at her waist until she felt the cool tile on her lower belly.
Oh God, he was taking off her pants.
Nightmares in Wonderland
by Addison Cain
An Alice in Wonderland Story
When darkness falls, Alice hears the tick-tock of the grandfather clock, and the hosts of Wonderland come out to play: the Red Queen soaked in blood, the laughing Madman of Cheshire, and a nasty pair of little boys who itch to bite and scratch. Of all who haunt Alice, one devil’s false friendship is far more insidious. The Hatter has all the power, loves to twist and taunt, and is eager to draw sweet Alice into a never-ending nightmare of degradation and fun. Tea anyone?
Nightmares in Wonderland Warning:
How deep into the woods are you willing to stroll? For the story ahead is truly dark and twisted. The horrors of thorny thickets and poisonous swamps await. You’ve been warned.
This is where the romance ends and the nightmares begin.
Love,
Addison Cain
Publishers warning:
This story is not a romance. It is a wonderfully written tale of horror.
Excerpt from Nightmares in Wonderland
Every childhood memory, every last horror over the years held one object in common: a stuffed white rabbit. Since I was a baby, the snowy toy sat on a shelf above my reach, high atop the nursery’s sprigged walls. I had many playthings I was not allowed to touch lining that shelf, the china faces of dolls with golden ringlets like mine in plenty. My mother was the one who told me to only look, never touch—that like me, these dolls were expected to remain immaculate and beautiful.
There were other rules: I was not permitted to muss my frock and pinafore, nor was I ever allowed to touch my hair. I was to be always clean, starched, crimped, and expressionless—my overlarge blue eyes lowered in a demure position should someone address me. It was never phrased so bluntly, but even as a small child I understood that, like the jewels of my nursery, my purpose was to serve as a pretty item for others to enjoy.
Often, I was put on display.
When Mama and Papa would throw their soirees, our house would transform into a fairyland—flowers, exotic foods, extra staff bustling about our London brownstone. After dark, the magic of music would seep upstairs, above the crowds of gentlemen in their dress coats and ladies stuffed in taffeta and ribbons. My nanny would spend the entire day preparing me to be seen for five minutes. In my fresh dress, scratchy lace at my throat and at the cuffs of my sleeves, she’d take my hand and lead me down the twisting staircase to where my proud parents waited.