Page 4 of Sinful Honor


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He drew me closer until his rancid breath touched my skin, then he turned me around until I faced him—like a puppet on a string.

His smile was menacing, and he was missing a tooth.

If the situation wasn’t so shitty, I might’ve laughed, because he really looked like a caricature of what a gangster in a bad Mafia movie would look like—including the broken nose, sans a fedora—but as it was, it took all my self-control not to vomit, sob or break down.

His eyes remained cold and black.

Lifeless.

Not an ounce of humanity there. The way he looked at me was weirdly twisted.

As if I wasn’t even a human being.

I loathed him.

“Shoot me because I won’t,” I said to the hairy Ape.

From the corner of my eye, I could see anger reddening the Ape’s face, then he immediately replaced it with a sneer.

“Feisty. I love to break feisty one.” His broken English, together with the sneer on his face, and the fact he wasn’t the one touching me, despite being naked, but instead was orchestrating this strange situation, had my heart racing.

Was I ready to die here? Like this? By the hands of these men?

Shit.

“On your knees,” Ape said.

I stared back at Bull-neck defiantly.

Nope. Not gonna happen.

Didn’t my father tell us that ‘those damn Mafia bastards’ liked to shoot people’s kneecaps off?

I never thought I would get the chance to find out the truth behind the stories my father had used to scare us into obedience.

“No.”

Bull-neck shifted his gun again until it pointed directly between my eyes. Then he released his grip on my hair, opened his pants, and lowered them until his dick sprang out.

I looked down and shuddered.

“On your knees,” the Ape said again, and I could feel him come closer.

An uncontrollable shudder swept through my body and left my skin covered in goose bumps. I swallowed rapidly.

What should I do? What could I do?

Bull-neck spit in my face.

I shuddered, and bile rose in my throat.

Was I willing to die just to avoid sucking him off? What if I vomited all over him?

Not my problem.

Or maybe—I remembered the weapons training my father insisted upon.

We were taught how to disarm an attacker.

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