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“There’s already been another request for you. The man who paid for you to fuck that guy wants more.”
I hate the way he licks his lips as his eyes skate down my body.
“He liked the power you pretended to have.”
So he isn’t talking about the guy from tonight, because it was very fucking clear I have no power in that situation.
“You have another scene tomorrow, which is a fucking shame. I want nothing more than to mark up your fucking skin today.”
He doesn’t look at all disappointed, despite his words.
He inches forward until his thighs are bumping the edge of the bed. My pulse races, my heart threatening to pound right out of my chest as he bends closer.
“It just means I have to wait to make you bleed until after the scene is over and paid for.”
I swallow against the threat of vomit as he dips his face, his hot, scratchy tongue licking up the side of my face.
He turns around, leaving the room with only his threat and the wetness on my cheek behind.
It’s a testament of how terrifying it is to be here that all I can feel is grateful that I didn’t get in trouble for taking a second shower.
Chapter 14
Nash
“Wash,” the guy snaps as his hand shoves at my back.
My first instinct is to spin on him and punch him in the throat for having the fucking gall to disrespect me, but I know better. Arguing with the man instead of stepping into the shower basin would be incredibly ignorant when I need a fucking shower more than I need my next meal, which is saying a lot because these people are slowly fucking starving me to death.
I don’t complain about the lack of soap. Being able to run my own hands over my skin is much better than the alternative of them turning that fucking water hose on me again. The water never really gets as hot as I’d like, but it warms enough to take the chill right out of the center of me.
I realized yesterday that the injections they’ve been giving me are antibiotics, and it pissed me off more than being saved should. It only prolongs the abuse and torture I have to suffer. I’m to the point of wanting to die, especially after what was asked of me yesterday.
I look over at the guard standing in the doorway. I heard Pirro refer to him as Rune. The man was never a part of the poker games so I can’t be sure if that’s his name or not. He looks bored, like he’s got better things to do. He’s never been outwardly mean, but he’s no less a piece of shit for it either.
After swiping at my skin and trying to get as clean as one can with only water, I start to catalog my injuries, not planning to get out until I’m told to do so. The cut on my ribs doesn’t seem as infected as it was a couple of days ago, and the way it’s starting to heal around the edges pisses me off.
Pirro knows better. He called my bluff. I don’t know how he knew I was willing to die, but he didn’t even blink when shifting gears to threaten her.
I haven’t been able to keep the woman out of my head. When I passed out from exhaustion, she still managed to infiltrate my dreams.
My nightmares were worse than the reality we faced together. She begged me to hurt her, to cut her, to bruise her and leave scars behind. I complied, my hand shaking as I swiped the blade across her skin. It was the evil laugh that bubbled from my throat that finally had the power to wake me up.
I cut my eyes to Rune once again before checking the gash I can feel pulling against the stitches with every step I take. The threads she wove through my skin seem to be holding. I wonder if he faces his daily tasks with the same level of indifference when he’s having to supervise the women when they shower?
Somehow, I doubt it.
I picture pulling the shower head from the wall and beating him to a bloody mess with it, but I know I can’t. They would for sure kill me then, and that would mean never being able to lay eyes on her again.
Rune looks down at his watch before lifting his eyes to me.
“Only got a minute left, my man.”
My man.
I could slit his throat and piss down his neck with that “my man” bullshit.
I turn off the water, reaching for the thin fabric meant to be a bath towel. He doesn’t watch me, and I see the control in it, the way he isn’t worried about me at all. He’s not afraid of me, or maybe he’s just itching for his own death. Is he someone trapped here like the rest of us? What could someone possibly say or threaten to make a person act the exact way they’re expected even when it goes against everything they believe. Before yesterday, I would’ve argued that there was nothing, but Pirro picked at the scab quite effectively, didn’t he?
