Martinique (The Acolyte Book 1) Read Online Free PDF

over onto her back, grabbing her by the legs and yanking her toward him as he buried himself into her again, pistoning just as violently as she wrapped her legs around him.
    I could see the witch lifting her hips from the bed to cleave to him, her belly rising and falling, obviously increasing his pleasure. His breath was heaving. One hand was toying with her clit as well, and she yowled with enjoyment, like a cat caught in the briars. He leaned over, taking one of her breasts in his mouth and tugging on it, as I heard her whisper, "Bite it," and he did as she commanded. The master was not the master at all. She was playing him like an instrument, using his own lust as her weapon, and even I was mature enough to realize it.
    After a joining that seemed to go on forever, he threw back his head with a roar of triumph, pumping and twisting even harder, and I was sure it was what I felt beneath the covers at night, except that, rather than soft and achingly sweet, it was violent, primitive. Perhaps it was my father, or perhaps all men, I had no way of knowing. I only knew, with a heavy heart, that I had lost him. Worse, that he had never been mine, and never would be.  I could bear to watch no more. Turning away, I slipped over the railing and into the greenery, walking across the turf, my face wet, flooded with tears.
    I don't know how my father sensed my awareness of the situation, although, at that age, I suppose I wasn't particularly subtle. For the first time tension settled between us, and I spent as much time as possible out of the house, and even more time with the Ducasses, knowing it would anger him if he heard of it.
    It was a heavy tension but a silent one, though it was bound to erupt at last. And it did, one day in the kitchens, as I was pressing one of his shirts, a task that now left me petulant. My father entered the room, to ask the cook about dinner, and glanced aside, seeing a coil of smoke rising from the cradle of the iron.
    With no real censure, he said, "Careful, Létice. You're going to burn that."
    It wasn't his fault. He couldn't possibly have known, couldn't have understood, that he had struck to my very heart, like one tiny spark to an island distillery, turning sugar to an explosive inferno that could rage for days with volcanic fury.
    I lifted my face and stared at him only a moment, before I flung his shirt to the floor, shouting, "Then why don't you have Solange do it for you? If she can learn how! All she does is sit on her ass anyway!"
    I think, in that moment, he was so stunned that discipline and anger had been driven from his mind. But just as his face darkened, I turned and ran from him, upstairs to my bedroom. I locked myself in the rest of the night, refusing dinner, even refusing Nana admittance. Consumed with rage and grief, I had no subtle instinct of warning in the laden silence, and no idea the calamity about to befall me.
    Two sullen weeks later, the axe descended, at breakfast.
    "In one month's time your uncle will be arriving in Fort-Royal to load my first shipment of coffee. You will accompany him, back to France. I've written to l'Acadamie des Femmes at Saint Geneviève. It's the finest Catholic girls' schools in France. They had already said they would welcome you at any time. You will finish your education there. You're becoming a young woman. It's far past time for you to see something of the proper world." Softening but little, he added, "It's for the best."
    I had been dismissed. Like a servant who hadn't been satisfactory. The shock and pain of it was something that, even now, I truly cannot bear to dwell on.
    I had no idea why, in my bitterness, I was determined I would not leave my island home a virgin. I believe I was trying to punish him. If he had no desire for my maidenhead, I would offer it up elsewhere, to someone who cared enough to take it.
    I began plotting that very night, to ease the rage that was holding sleep from me. I knew from Nana's wisdom that I would