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His expression turns feral when I spit in his face.
I shouldn’t do it. I shouldn’t rise to it. The pain that follows will only be worse, but I can’t help myself. I’ll do anything I can to let every single one of these disgusting men know that I’m not a willing participant in this. Even if my fight gets them hotter.
I will not back down and let them think I’m okay with this.
His angry roar fills the room before he rips my shirt right down the middle, exposing my bare breasts to him and the creep standing next to my head.
“Now those surely make up for it,” he murmurs, studying me closely. Jealousy darkens his eyes, his lips thinning, as the bleeder reaches for me.
Bile rushes up my throat as his cold, rough calloused fingers dig into my skin.
“We’re going to have so much fun with you, princess.” He groans.
“Fuck you,” I gasp before his fingers cut my air off completely.
Their dark laughter bounces around the room as black spots dance in my vision.
My eyes narrow on the bleeder while he continues to laugh at me.
“Yeah, princess. That’s the fucking idea. I’m glad you’re on board.”
The darkness takes me and the next thing I know, Mav’s there.
The relief is like nothing I’ve ever known. I focus on him, letting the other men in the room disappear as if they never existed.
But Mav never comes closer, he just stands in the doorway watching. His top lip begins to peel back, disgust filling his features as if he can’t believe what he’s seeing.
“Mav, please,” I cry, desperate to reach for him, but my arms are still pinned back. I buck and fight, but their hold on me never loosens.
And then my worst nightmare happens. He starts backing away.
“Please, Mav,” I beg. “Help me. They’re holding me captive. MAVERICK.”
I wake with a start, my skin covered in a sheen of sweat and my heart pounding an unsteady beat in my chest.
Ripping my eyes open, I blink against the bright sunlight streaming in from the slightly open curtains.
“Please,” I whimper, still seeing Mav walking away from me as clear as day, “come back.”
Footsteps race up the stairs, making them creak loudly and I scramble up the bed, clutching the sheets to my chest.
I want to hide. Drop down and cower behind the huge mattress.
But I don’t because that’s not who I am.
I’m Alana Murray.
I was born to fight, raised to endure whatever was thrown at me.
My body trembles as the footsteps get closer. My head still swimming in my dream, alone and fuzzy as shit.
Where am I?
The second the door is pushed open and someone steps in, reality begins to crash around me.
“This is your room,” I state, feeling stupid that I didn’t figure it out earlier.
He stands there in a white t-shirt that is sprayed with more than a little blood. It should be terrifying, but after the life I’ve lived, I barely give it a second glance. Honestly, it’s more shocking if the people I spend time with aren’t covered in the stuff.
