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She snaked her tongue inside, and it took everything inside her not to gag. He tasted like nicotine and something sour, something bitter. Then there was something acrid, like sulfur, if left to fester for several days. It was as if the last time he brushed his teeth, a parent did it for him.
His breathing increased, and although she told herself his bodily fluids wouldn’t be enough to break her, she blinked away tears at the last moment. Agony ripped holes the size of bullet wounds in her chest, but this was no time for shame. To have the freedom to experience shame, she first needed to survive.
This couldn’t be it. There was no way she’d last see her children at eleven and four and have her last image of Joel be in his wedding tux.
“Does it feel good yet?” She bit Lavigne’s top lip. “Talk to me, Siriano. Are you close?”
She aimed his cock inside his shirt.
He jerked and grunted, his mouth still on hers. He’d even closed his eyes, and when he came to, the whites had turned glassy.
The next thing she knew, the room shook.
Pain exploded along her cheekbone.
He staggered until he was pressed back against the wall, his cock shriveled and retreating. She tasted and smelled blood, but she’d rattled him. At the moment, he had the upper hand, but the power differential was no longer a solid line.
“Fucking witch!” Pulling up his pants, he stumbled from the room, using the wall for support.
“Siriano, wait! I’m sorry! I’m—” She flipped a middle finger at the empty doorway. “Fuck you.”
Once it was clear he wasn’t returning, she wiped her hand on the side of the bed, though there wasn’t much to wipe. Then she reached underneath the pillow.
Every person on each Black Ops team had a specialty. Giorgio’s was bladed weaponry, and Lavigne was supposed to be Giorgio’s equivalent.
Mo was a sleight-of-hand expert.
Sleight-of-hand was part of Book Club.
Her fingers landed on the knife’s handle, and she squeezed. Lavigne had no idea what she was capable of. There was no way he could have planned for her, and she intended to reduce him to a simpering block of nothingness before cutting out his heart.
* * *
He returned, tossed an ice pack on the bed, and left the room. When he reappeared, it was with food containers, and if she wasn’t mistaken, he checked to see whether she’d placed the pack against her face.
There was nowhere to see her reflection, though she could imagine what she looked like. Her face was swollen and tender, and for her sanity and survival, she prayed her method worked.
There was a ton of research on Stockholm Syndrome. Lima Syndrome was less known, but it could be an effective weapon for someone in her situation, especially when used with pillars of manipulation—gaslighting, misdirection, inception, emotional manipulation, and good old-fashioned brainwashing.
She raised the ice pack to her face, lightly pressed it against the swelling, and hissed. Tears welled in her eyes, but instead of hanging her head in a display of weakness that would only piss someone like him off, she tried again.
Again, she hissed.
Clenched her teeth.
Grunted her frustration.
Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw him pause in the middle of setting the food containers on the bed. So, she tried again, hissed again.
He started for her.
She raised a hand.“I’m competent, Siriano.” Each time she said his name, he flinched. “I’m not weak.”
“I never said you were.”
“Look at my circumstances.” She motioned to herself. “You probably think I’m some useless idiot.”
He dragged the ice pack from her hand, grabbed her chin, and held it against the side of her face. “You are a useless idiot,” he said. “I hit you, and you are now letting me hold ice against your face.”
