Page 6 of I’m The Worst

“Fuck,” he groans as his hips buck against me.

I dig deeper, slashing down his chest.

“Keep going. Make them believe it.”

The sound of the crowd is deafening.

“Keep fighting, AJ, I’m close,” he pants, thrusting harder, his cock pulsing.

The thought of him coming inside me makes me want to vomit. My nails tear into his back, through fabric, through flesh, until blood stains my fingers.

“Good girl,” he groans.

I strike him across the face, my palm cracking against his jaw. Pain shoots through my wrist.

He barely flinches.

A low growl rolls from his chest as he grabs my hips and hauls me off the table. My hopeless screams shatter the air. He bucks one last time, his whole body seizing. As he spills inside me, a roar rips from his throat, and a sick warmth spreads between my legs. The sensation makes my stomach lurch.

I drive my hand into his face again, harder, all my rage behind it.

He catches my gaze and holds it, his lip curling, blood staining his teeth.

“You did good, AJ,” he whispers.

He lowers me onto the table, his cock sliding out of me. I cringe at the sickening feeling of his cum mixed with my arousal.

The announcer’s voice booms through the air over the crowd’s cheers, “Ladies and gentlemen, what a show!”

The guards step forward and grab my arms, pulling me off the table.

“Time for you to enjoy your private room,” a guard says through a laugh.

Their rough hands yank me away, pulling me off the stage. I’m in a haze as they drag me down the hall, my mind replaying what just happened.

“You’re a tough little bitch, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, she is,” the other guard says, amused. “Let’s see how tough you are after a whole night.”

They drag me into a dark, windowless room with chains on the wall and a bed in the center. My wrists are shoved into metal shackles, my arms wrenched above my head until the strain burns through my shoulders. The cold steel bites into my skin.

“I’ll make sure your owner for the night knows how to use this.” Fingers trail the collar at my neck before squeezing hard. Pain lances up my throat as the pressure forces the collar deeper into my skin.

“It’ll keep you quieter—and it’s a helluva lot more fun.” His grin is wide as warm blood trickles down my neck.

Their laughter is the last thing I hear before the door slams shut.

My breath is ragged. Everything shakes—my arms, my legs, my insides. Tears streak my cheeks, and I let them fall. The collar still stings, and every breath catches on raw, punctured skin.

The door opens.

I tense, choking on a gasp as a figure slips inside. It’s him—the Sovereign. His shirt is torn, blood smeared across his chest where my nails ripped his skin. His cold green eyes drill through me.

He moves fast, crossing to a corner and dragging a chair into position. Climbing up, he yanks an air vent cover loose. A black backpack drops into his hands.

Stepping down, he tosses the bag onto the bed.

My voice barely works. “What are you doing?”