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GENEVIEVE
The robbers become still for a moment, giving me a chance to analyse them for weaknesses. I’m not getting out of here without a fight, but I refuse to lie down and accept it. All my fights and lessons from the streets come flooding back, filling me with anger and determination. I’m going to stop these bastards.
I was poor back then, but I never fucking stole to survive, not even from the rich.
I worked hard. I did what I had to so I could get out of there and look after myself. They are just taking the easy way out, but they won’t take from me. They won’t get a fucking penny of my hard work.
Yes, my fiancé’s betrayal still stings, so my breaking heart might be influencing the slight madness I feel, but I push that away, focusing on now. If I survive this, then I can let my heart break and wallow later.
I could flee, but they would catch me before I reached the elevator. That much is obvious. The two bigger guys remind me of American linebackers. The one with the gun is slightly smaller than the one heading towards me, but his muscles are bigger, and tattoos cover nearly every inch of his skin, even crawling up his neck and onto his face. The side of his head is shaved, styled short, his black locks longer on top. There’s a ring through his lower lip, the glint of metal drawing my gaze. His eyes are a dark piercing green that almost locks me in place, but checking him out doesn’t help me find weaknesses, so I scan his impressive physique. The black clothing he’s wearing does little to hide his impressive muscles, thick thighs, and big arms. He’s a machine. A mask dangles from his other hand as he arches a brow at me. I need to take him down first and get rid of the weapon.
The other man moving towards me is sleek, like a prowling panther. He’s tall, easily over six feet, with muscles to spare. He’s slimmer than the other man, but no less daunting. A balaclava is over his face, so I can’t see much apart from the two honey brown eyes fastened on me. I don’t see any weapons, but he’s clearly a threat as well.
The one who spoke to me, the blond-haired flirt, still watches the show. He’ll hesitate and be the last to attack. I can tell. I take a moment to give him a look of appreciation. Under different circumstances, I might have flirted back. He’s that attractive. Standing there like aGQmodel, with short blond hair swept artfully to the side and deep blue eyes framed by impressive lashes any woman would envy, he makes a pleasant distraction. His big, pink pouty lips tilt up as I stare. He’s taller than either of the other three men, but slimmer and defined. I can see his muscles through his clothes, but he has less bulk and more finesse.
The last man is clearly calling the shots.
He’s the smallest but no less imposing. Out of the four men, he’s the one I can see the most, so I greedily soak in his facial features until they are burned into my brain. This way, I’ll have an accurate description to give the police, but looking at his face, at the sharp jawline that most men would kill to have, I forget for a moment that I’m tracing his features for a police report. He’s beautiful. Like, the man should be in some sort of rugged ad for motorcycles or Renaissance festivals. His eyes are the colour of a glacier, and his nose has clearly been broken a time or two. I’m nearly caught in his gaze when he looks at me. His hair is somewhere between red and blond, as if it couldn’t make up its mind. It’s styled perfectly, brushed back as if he doesn’t like a single strand out of place. Though he’s wearing dark clothing now, I can almost imagine him in a suit instead. A tiny hint of a tattoo peeks from the collar of his shirt, but I can’t tell what the design is. Somehow, I feel like it’s something I wasn’t supposed to see. “Grab her,” he orders.
Well, it looks like it’s now or never.
The big guy tries to grab me, but I duck under his arms and slam my fist into his side. Moving on as he grunts, I rush the man with the gun, knowing a surprise attack is my best chance. His eyes widen as I reach him, slap his hand, and grab the gun before aiming it at him. Arms wrap around me from behind before I can use it, hoisting me into the air as I grunt and kick out at the asshole.
The man before me, now without a gun, slaps my hand until I drop the weapon.
Fuck this.
I slam my heeled feet into his chest, making him groan as he falls to the floor, gripping his pectorals. I didn’t get the heels in as deep as I wanted, but it has to hurt. The big guy walks me backwards as I kick and thrash in his arms.
The leader sighs. “Help him.”
“But I’m enjoying the show,” the blond flirts.
I manage to unbalance the big guy holding me, and he falls back onto the dining table. I use it as leverage to slip from his arms, then I turn and slam my fist right into his cock. With a pained moan, he goes down, cupping his precious jewels.
Men.
“Eric,” the leader snaps.
“All right, all right.” The blond sighs and strolls towards me. “No nut punching, baby.” He wags his finger.
“No? How about I cut them off instead?” I purr. Reaching down to unhook my heel, I flip it to use as a weapon.
“You are a very angry young woman,” he comments. It’s only then that I realise I’m so focused on him, so distracted, I didn’t feel the man behind me get up. He grabs me again and lifts me into the air while blondie, Eric, grabs a chair. The big guy slams me down on it hard enough to rattle my spine, while the leader comes over with some rope he must have pulled out of his arse and ties me to it with a series of quick knots. He restrains my arms and ankles to the wood, even as I continue to spit and kick. I swear and threaten them, but they pay me no mind, only stepping back when it’s done.
I test the bindings, but they are too tight to escape from, so I sag to conserve energy, my eyes spitting fire as I wait to see what their next move will be.
“You okay, Booker?” the leader questions, looking at the man still groaning and cupping his chest. I bet there are nice, small marks there from my heels. That thought makes the corners of my lips curl up just a little.
“That fucking hurt,” Booker snarls. “Who knew heels could be so dangerous? I just thought they looked good.” I straighten at the twang in his voice that definitely isn’t from here. I’ve only heard that accent in movies and TV shows. American?
Who are these people?
More importantly, why are they here for me?
My hair hangs tangled and ruined down my back, my makeup is undoubtedly smeared, my dress is mussed, and I lost my heels in the fight. I must look like a mess, but it doesn’t stop the glare I throw their way, acting like the haughty rich bitch they expect.
Booker finally stumbles to his feet and joins the others as they stand before me, all observing me in various states of impatience and nervousness—all apart from Eric, who looks happy.
