The relief, that ache dissipating, the shadow of the burn fading, is enough to make me cry.
Yet those tears infuriate me more.
I hate that the bucket has to stay close to me. I hate that I can smell it. I hate that I might need to use it again.I fucking hate all of this!
More hours pass and my mind shreds apart every interaction, every body part, every aspect of that night. I’m exhausted and weak and myblood sugar’s low. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this crappy in my whole life and I’ve been kidnapped before!
The door opens, but I don’t bother looking up. “Phone. Call.”
Bordeau walks over to the table.“I was hoping you’d have seen sense by now.”
A part of me’s sure he’ll take away the bucket, and if he does, the likelihood of me throwing my pee on him if he dares to try soars, but that’s when the clatter of a set of keys comes to my attention. I glance to the side without turning my head, rolling my new ring between my fingers as I ponder his game.
I know from my lessons with Brennan that I could end this pasty motherfucker in two seconds flat. At least, when I haven’t been forcibly detained, starved, and dehydrated…
It’s quite within my skill set to bring him to his knees and have him begging for Mommy in less time than it takes for him to swallow his balls.
But I’m trying to get out of here, not gain a new permanent residence in this shit heap.
Plus, I do feel weak.
He releases me from the lock on the table, which at least lets me get some wiggle room back into my shoulders. They’re aching and I’m cold, which was probably another of their tactics.
Is this how the cops treat everyone? Or just me while on this Veronian-shaped field trip?
“Come on. Get up.”
I’m stiff and every joint hurts from being in the same position for this long, so I’m slower than I’d like. Too slow. My reflexes are worse than earlier. When Bordeau grabs me by the arm and drags me to my feet, I can only follow.
The next thing I know, he’s shoving me against the wall, his body pushing up against mine.
I stare at him, knowing full well that if I retaliate, I’m fucked.
I don’t look around for cameras. I already noticed they were turned away yesterday or whenever yesterday might have been.
“Gotta make sure we did a good job searching you.”
His face flushes as he gropes me. Hungry hands smooth over a body that doesn’t belong to him.I stare at his expression, the lust in it, the wild eyes as he uses my frailty against me, the distance between us growing even as neither of us takes a step apart.
The lights are too bright and he’s too warm and his breath is rancid.
It’s like this isn’t happening to me. His disgusting erection rubs over my hip as he rocks it back and forth. It triggers a panicked flutter in mybrain that has me locking down. If I don’t, I’ll start crying. And I refuse to let him see the chink in my armor.
Will I still be a virgin on my wedding night?
That’s the dumb question that flitters through my brain.
But it has no place here.
None whatsoever.
As he dry humps me, I know this situation will only get worse.
The sound of a zipper and his garbled, “You’re going to be mine,” are my triggers.
It’s like my brain kicks that strange out-of-body experience into touch and weakened state aside, I’m facing a pervert who has no decorum and a very low arousal tolerance.
Rather than knee him in the balls, I cup his face. He stills in surprise as I lean forward and brush my lips with his.
