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CHAPTERTWENTY-SEVEN
PERSEPHONE
Standing in the foot of the stairs of the dark basement, I balk at entering through the doorway. I can’t see inside but I can hear the murmur of voices. Constantine dressed me like a hooker Barbie in two tiny strips of pearly white latex and a towering pair of heels. But he vanished soon after, leaving me to be dragged down here by a stranger dressed in black tactical gear and carrying a big black gun on a shoulder sling.
The guard stands behind me now, pushing me inside the doorway with a growl. I swallow, looking around at the black leather-decorated room. My brain glosses over the low black velvet couches pushed near the walls. All I can see are the strange older men who turn to look at me.
The man closest to me wears a neat dark suit and is completely bald. He steps closer to me, a tumbler of whiskey in his grasp, his free hand stretching out toward me. I can see the malicious gleam in his watery eyes and the tiny smirk that curves his thin, papery mouth.
My heart drops to my feet as I realize that I don’t know a single one of these men. Constantine has truly found the most hellish experience for me. I clench my fists, feeling a ringing ache in my right hand.
“Constantine said you were beautiful,” the man closest to me rasps. He touches my arm, making me jump backward half a step.
I glare at him, willing my voice not to tremble. “Don’t touch me.”
“Feisty.” He grins, turning around and grinning at the other men in the room. “I thought he was trying to sell me. But now I see that he described you perfectly. You truly are a beauty… but when we are all done taking turns with you, you will be utterly broken.” He steps forward and grips my forearm, his fingers digging into my flesh painfully. His eyes shine with a dark glee. “I can’t wait to ruin you, you pretty little thing.”
I yank at my arm and back up another step. The guard behind me sticks the ice-cold muzzle of his gun between two vertebrae of my spine which makes my entire body go rigid.
Acid swirls in the pit of my stomach. A fine sheen of sweat breaks out on my forehead and the nape of my neck.
“Where is Constantine?” I ask. The question barrels out of my mouth as a questioning yelp.
The man in front of me gives a careful smile. “I don’t think we need him.” He looks behind him at the other men, arching a brow. “We can take care of her, can’t we?”
No.
There is no way I’m going to just passively let this happen to me. I wish for the first time in my entire life that I had access to a knife or a gun, anything that could be used to hurt these men before they hurt me. Two of them stand up, salacious looks on both of their faces.
God, think! Don’t let fear rule you.
Not like the last time Constantine meted out punishment to you…
The guard as my back presses his gun into my flesh. But I don’t shrink away. No, I think as rationally as I can with blood pounding through my head.
What are the chances that the guard has been given orders to shoot me? Very, very unlikely.
So I only have to worry about the other men. My mouth is dry as the Sahara, but I just swallow when the whole group of men begin to advance on me.
My chin lifts, my expression haughty. I look the balding stranger in the eye, smirking.
The puzzled expression that crosses his face for a moment eggs me on.
He grabs me again, hauling me against him. I let him pull me close, still smirking. Inside, I’m trying to remember what I read about self-defense.
Something like: go for the eyes and the soft, fleshy bits of the face first.
As soon as he opens his mouth, I hit him in the face, raking my nails down in a diagonal swipe. I claw him as hard as I can, no holding back a single ounce of effort.
He rears back, uttering a cry, trying to get away. My nails skim one of his eyes and land in the fleshy part of his cheek. I dig in so hard that I not only pierce his skin but actually break through his cheek with my forefinger.
I can feel the slippery blood flowing into his mouth for a second before he clutches my shoulders and flings me away with a great deal of force.
My head pounds. My heart skitters. I put my hands out to break my fall as I crash to the concrete basement floor. It’s everything I can do not to retch as I scrabble to find my feet.
“Fucking bitch!” the man wails.
The guard’s heavy boots approach me first and I turn, reaching for the heavy black gun. He stops with a surprised grunt, confirming what I thought might be true.
