Page 84 of Bared

More of what, Pixie?

The pleasure. And the permission…

“Never mind. It matters not anymore. The soldask did me a favor. Now, I shall have no worries about being gentle with you, slut. And I guarantee, once my dick is buried in your tight little chanli, you shall never remember anyone el—”

A shriek worthy of an animal broke apart the air. Somehow, despite the muck that was calling itself her mind, she knew it was not her own. She would have been mildly curious about it, but there was no time. Not after the astonishment crashed in.

The yowl belonged to Trystan. From what she had apparently just done to him. He was doubled over, hands cupped between his legs and face seething in her direction.

But he looked different now.

Very different.

His lips were curled and feral, exposing bleeding teeth. His eyes were wide and murderous, though they were eclipsed by the hideous welt between them.

“By the Creator!”

Had she done all of that too? Nothing else made sense, though she could not claim any joy over the triumph. Not a speck of the elation that usually came after practicing the same self-defense moves on Samsyn or Jagger. But this time, it was not practice. She was moving with pure instinct, driven by jabs of raw adrenaline between sickening surges of fear—especially when Trystan wasted no time in lunging at her again.

And capturing her.

“Bitch!” He spat it so hard, her face was covered in spittle as he pinned her down again. “You really want to do this the hard way? I shall be more than happy to oblige.”

“Ummmph.” Somewhere between her brain and her mouth, her vicious no turned into that pathetic grunt. But that was her only moment of playing tame. Rage rose again, becoming her new best friend, as the bonsun spread her knees, crushed them beneath his own, and then clawed at the waistband of her leggings with his free hand.

She swore. And yelled. And bucked. And swung her bound hands up, ready to bash his face with both fists at once.

But Trystan Carris was lean, sinewy, and shrewd—and he knew how to work all three together, anticipating every move she made when they were just thoughts in her head. His deflections were efficient and virulent. His dominance was heartless and vicious.

He jerked harder at her leggings, scratching her lower belly with his fingernails. Her tender skin bloomed with bright crimson, but Jayd ordered the observation to the edges of her concentration. She commanded her sights not to veer from the monster’s greedy leer. Yes, even as the prispoul stared at his gory handiwork like he had won the Tour de France, the Super Bowl, and the World Cup at once.

But Jayd was certain none of those event trophies had to worry about their recipients’ burgeoning erections. Or about those champions slicking fingers through their quarry’s blood, flashing a savoring smile before they drawled new words.

“Did you bleed like this for him too, Princess Slut?” As the words rasped from his lips, the light in his eyes turned into a slimy sheen. He raised his hand, showing her his bloody fingertips before wiping them across her cheeks. “And did he show it to you after he did? The evidence of what he did to you?” He smeared the blood in small but savage circles. “Did he celebrate by tasting it too?” That made him smile better than another fictional trophy, though it dropped as he leaned and pounded on the truck cabin’s back window. “Meh. It does not matter anyway. On our way to the airport, I will make you forget that limpdick. I am going to gorge myself on all your delectable flavors, darling.”

I am not your darling, you preening pig.

But she only told him that with her eyes. Her chattering teeth and trembling lips made it impossible to push out anything more than disgusted huffs. Where was the force of real bile when she needed it? What would this kimfuk think of his little feast if it was covered in her vomit instead of his filthy intentions?

“Gervais!” His vicious bellow broke off her thoughts as he pounded harder at the window. “Creator’s filthy balls! Why are we not moving yet?”

Gervais?

Her brain lost the fight against the awful connection. No wonder Trystan had finessed her so smoothly into this trap. He had procured help. The opportunistic, underground Paris kind. Gervais had probably given him a discount too, eager to have his revenge on the “feisty putain” from the Particulier’s alley, along with her moving mountain of a savior.

“Sorry, buddy. Gervais didn’t get your pings. Or maybe he declined them? I reckon your Uber rider score isn’t very snazzy.”

“Saints and stars,” Jayd rasped. By this point, few new events in the night could astonish her more than the upset about Gervais—but she was ready to ride this pendulum swing.

As she replayed the joy, wanting to make sure all of this was still real, filthier fare burst off Trystan’s lips. “What the hell?”

“Off the mark again, pal.”

“Huh?”

“This isn’t hell, buddy. Least not yet. But if you’re eager for a ticket on that elevator…”

On the surface, Brickham’s voice was a snarky quip—but she already knew better and heard more. Her force of nature was a vast storm hidden by a peaceful mist. She knew that as fact, having already experienced the lusty force of that gale. But from the moment the man rocking the whole vehicle with his next motion, one point was clear. Lust was not on Brick’s mind this time.