A Mother's Sin

A Mother's Sin

Gavin

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I' ve always known what animals were thinking. It' s a secret I keep, even from my boyfriend. So when my best friend, Chloe, invited me to her cutting-edge Primate Cognition Center, I agreed, expecting just another odd day of animal thoughts. Then I met Brutus. A massive gorilla housed behind thick glass, his thoughts weren't mere animalistic grunts. They were clear, chilling: "Her skin. So smooth. I want it. Tonight. I' ll take it tonight." Hours later, Brutus escaped, his tracker leading straight to my apartment building. Mark was working late, and I was alone. Chloe' s police deputy brother, David, rushed to help. I heard his muffled struggle outside my door, followed by Brutus' s casual thought: "He was strong. Good fight." Then, Brutus used David' s dead body to knock on my door, a gruesome puppet. When Mark called, saying he was coming home, I warned him, but he disconnected. His last terrified thoughts flooded my mind as Brutus ambushed him in the garage. Mark was gone. Brutus was gone. But then "Mark" called me. His voice was off. His behavior was wrong, serving me food I' m deadly allergic to. A horrific truth clicked: Brutus wore Mark' s skin as a grotesque disguise – a calculated revenge against my mother, who had experimented on him. My presence was now the target of his cruel, human-like rage. Chloe arrived at our apartment, yet "Mark" lied about her being late. My gut screamed. I found Chloe on the balcony, bound and gagged. Her terrified plea, once free: "It' s not Mark! It' s Brutus! He' s wearing his skin!" Everything clicked. With a kitchen knife glimmering in "Mark's" hand, it was time to fight for my life.

Introduction

I' ve always known what animals were thinking.

It' s a secret I keep, even from my boyfriend.

So when my best friend, Chloe, invited me to her cutting-edge Primate Cognition Center, I agreed, expecting just another odd day of animal thoughts.

Then I met Brutus.

A massive gorilla housed behind thick glass, his thoughts weren't mere animalistic grunts.

They were clear, chilling: "Her skin. So smooth. I want it. Tonight. I' ll take it tonight."

Hours later, Brutus escaped, his tracker leading straight to my apartment building.

Mark was working late, and I was alone.

Chloe' s police deputy brother, David, rushed to help.

I heard his muffled struggle outside my door, followed by Brutus' s casual thought: "He was strong. Good fight."

Then, Brutus used David' s dead body to knock on my door, a gruesome puppet.

When Mark called, saying he was coming home, I warned him, but he disconnected.

His last terrified thoughts flooded my mind as Brutus ambushed him in the garage.

Mark was gone.

Brutus was gone.

But then "Mark" called me.

His voice was off.

His behavior was wrong, serving me food I' m deadly allergic to.

A horrific truth clicked: Brutus wore Mark' s skin as a grotesque disguise – a calculated revenge against my mother, who had experimented on him.

My presence was now the target of his cruel, human-like rage.

Chloe arrived at our apartment, yet "Mark" lied about her being late.

My gut screamed.

I found Chloe on the balcony, bound and gagged.

Her terrified plea, once free: "It' s not Mark! It' s Brutus! He' s wearing his skin!"

Everything clicked.

With a kitchen knife glimmering in "Mark's" hand, it was time to fight for my life.

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Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles

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I watched my husband sign the papers that would end our marriage while he was busy texting the woman he actually loved. He didn't even glance at the header. He just scribbled the sharp, jagged signature that had signed death warrants for half of New York, tossed the file onto the passenger seat, and tapped his screen again. "Done," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. That was Dante Moretti. The Underboss. A man who could smell a lie from a mile away but couldn't see that his wife had just handed him an annulment decree disguised beneath a stack of mundane logistics reports. For three years, I scrubbed his blood out of his shirts. I saved his family's alliance when his ex, Sofia, ran off with a civilian. In return, he treated me like furniture. He left me in the rain to save Sofia from a broken nail. He left me alone on my birthday to drink champagne on a yacht with her. He even handed me a glass of whiskey—her favorite drink—forgetting that I despised the taste. I was merely a placeholder. A ghost in my own home. So, I stopped waiting. I burned our wedding portrait in the fireplace, left my platinum ring in the ashes, and boarded a one-way flight to San Francisco. I thought I was finally free. I thought I had escaped the cage. But I underestimated Dante. When he finally opened that file weeks later and realized he had signed away his wife without looking, the Reaper didn't accept defeat. He burned down the world to find me, obsessed with reclaiming the woman he had already thrown away.

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