My stomach lurched, and I think it offended him.
He slapped me.
Hard.
The world spun, stars burst behind my eyes.
“Think you’re too good for me?” he spat.
And before I could scream, I was on the ground.
I hit hard. My hands scraped against gravel as my knees slammed into stone. Pain exploded. Crashed. Lit up every nerve inside me.
Then he was on top of me.
His full weight crushed me, pressing me flat into the cobblestones.
I thrashed. Kicked. Screamed.
It didn’t matter.
He caught my wrists again, pinned them above my head with one hand.
The other tore at my dress.
“I gave you a chance,” he snarled. “You could have made it easy.”
“No,” I sobbed. “No, please.”
His hand slid under my skirt. Rough. Greedy. He shoved his thigh between mine, forcing them apart, and pressed me down so hard I thought my ribs would snap.
“I’ll be a gentleman,” he breathed, grabbing a fistful of my hair and yanking my head back. “Split you open nice and slow,” he hissed. “And you’ll fucking thank me for it.”
Everything blurred. My vision. My thoughts. All of it drowned in tears. Then his grip loosened, one hand let go, then the other. Not because he was finished—because he needed both hands to undo his belt.
I heard it. The scrape of leather. The buckle catching, then sliding loose. I will never forget that sound. And he wasn’t rushing, he didn’t think he needed to.
No. In his mind, he’d already won. Vultures always did, remember? He didn’t even look at me. Probably didn’t think I’d dare to move again.
That all the fight had run out of me.
He was wrong.
The belt slithered open.
My hand hit something. Cold. Jagged.
A rock.
I didn’t think. I grabbed it and struck.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
His scream tore through the alley as he rolled off me, clutching his head. Blood spilled between his fingers.
