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I tremble, opening my mouth again, wanting to beg him to let me go. Ready to promise that I won’t say anything. I swear I won’t.
But I can’t make the words come out. All I can do is watch him, my gaze locked on his. A fierce, wild rage burns in his eyes, and I feel like I’m falling into the swirling gray of his irises, unable to look away. They’re beautiful, in a way that a dark thunderstorm on the horizon is beautiful. Full of chaos and destruction, but breathtaking too.
All of him is beautiful, just like all of him is terrifying, and it makes him mesmerizing in a strange way.
The gun is aimed at my head, and I finally manage to break eye contact with him and squeeze my eyes shut, not wanting to see the moment when he pulls the trigger. He presses the barrel to my temple, and I flinch, my breath coming faster.
“Please,” I whisper.
His breath fans across my face, a soft gust of air. “Please what?”
“Don’t… kill me.”
There’s a long moment of silence, and I’m sure he’s not going to listen to my plea. After all, I’ve seen too much. Why would he let me live?
He doesn’t know me. He doesn’t care about me.
To him, I’m just what the Russian man described their mother as. A piece of trash to be discarded.
But then he shifts his grip on me a little, and the gun leaves my temple. I let out a small sigh of relief, then gasp as the cool metal of the barrel touches between my breasts, tracing the jagged tears the Russian left in my slip.
Is he going to shoot me in the heart instead? Will I die faster that way?
“Open your eyes.”
His voice is low and rough, and I obey the command without thinking, as if it’s an instinctual response. My eyelids fly open, and I stare up into his stormy gray eyes, breathing so hard that I can feel the gun digging deeper into my chest with every inhale.
My entire body is tensed, ready for the moment when he fires, but instead of pulling the trigger, he drags the gun down even lower. The smooth metal glides over my stomach and along my upper thigh, and I choke on my next breath when he moves it to one side so that it slides between my legs.
“What are you—”
The question dies with a squeaked noise as he grazes the barrel of the gun over my clit. My heart is pounding and my skin is prickling all over, as if I’m about to be struck by lightning.
“I’m not going to kill you,” the man named Malice murmurs in that rough voice of his. “Don’t worry.”
I am worried, though.
I’m extremely fucking worried, because he’s got a gun between my legs, rubbing circles against my clit.
I’m worried because… I’m getting wet.
Nothing about this should turn me on. It’s so fucked up, so wrong. But when he eases the barrel of the gun away from my clit, I find myself moving my hips, chasing the touch of the hard, smooth metal.
Malice doesn’t react to that, and he also doesn’t stop. He gives me what I’m silently asking for, slipping the barrel of the gun between my folds and then rubbing it against my clit again, smearing the gathering wetness over my skin.
I’m still trembling, just like I was when he first pressed the gun to my temple, but now I think it’s for a different reason.
“Please,” I whisper, but I don’t know what I’m begging for now.
Do I want him to stop? Or to keep going?
Do I want him to spare me or ruin me?
“Don’t worry,” he murmurs, his voice like gravel. “I know what you need.”
Slowly, he presses the gun into me, deeper and deeper. It hurts at first, since I’ve never had anything other than my fingers in there before, and the gun isn’t really meant to be there at all.
But Malice doesn’t stop. He keeps pushing until he meets the resistance of my hymen.
