So much for all the training.
“Come on,” he says with a slick wink as he grabs his crotch. “We can make this easy, and I won’t hurt you.”
“I’ll fucking hurtyou,” I spit out, my stomach souring. “Lay a fucking hand on me and I’ll take your left nut.”
He laughs. Actually laughs and then he lunges forward.
Every single ounce of training, all the moves they taught me, all the sweat and bruises, flees as terror floods my system.
He grips my hair, and I instinctively fall to my knees, punching out wildly. He wails as I land a hit near his groin, then I jerk back as a fist lands on my lips. The shock of pain explodes across my face, and my mouth fills with wet copper. The hit stuns me for a heartbeat, but as he grips my arm and twists, I reach for my boot. My fingers slip around the handle of the knife.Before I can pull it free, another hit snaps my head back and I fall to the gravel.
Then he’s on me. A hand clamps around my throat, squeezing. He moves between my thighs even as I try to kick him away. Another strike to my face makes my nose burn. My vision blurs. His other hand grips my dress and moves it up. Cold night air blasts over my exposed skin.
“I knew you were a little whore,” he rasps, rank breaths fanning over my face. His hand delves between my legs, and when his fingers thrust into me, a scream rips free of my throat.
“Fuck yeah, scream for me, nasty bitch,” he grates. His hand presses down harder on my throat, and I grip his fingers, trying to pry him off as my air gets cut off. His other hand withdraws from between my legs, but then I hear his belt buckle clink, then feel his hardness hit my center.
The realization of what is about to happen makes me freeze.
Stay calm. Even if they are bigger than you, you can get away.
I stiffen my legs.
Stay calm.
His dick slips over my core, and I bring my knee up, which just gives him better access, but I reach down, my fingers slipping along my calf until I reach my boot. He reaches between our bodies, easing his grip on my throat as he aligns his dick to my entrance.
Tears prick my eyes, and I will myself to stay calm as I wrap my fingers around the hilt of the blade. He pushes forward as the little knife pulls free and with a flick of my wrist, the blade springs open, and I drive it down.
His scream cuts through the garden as the knife plunges into his shoulder blade. He releases my neck, his back arching as he reaches for the knife in his back. Keeping my death gripon the hilt, I use every ounce of strength and roll to the side, flipping him off me. The knife pulls from his back as we roll, and I twist it in my palm, and angle it downward.
It plunges into the side of his neck, and his eyes widen. Blood splatters my face. I shove him off, my grip on the knife loosening, and he drops to his back, one hand over his neck, gurgling sounds escaping.
I fall to my ass, gulping down air, watching as he gasps, eyes wide and pinned on me.
Hands clasp my arms, and I scream, kicking and punching, but his deep voice grates across my skin, centering me.
“It’s okay,” Striker says, pulling me back. I turn and bury my face in his chest, gripping his shirt.
“I fucking warned you.” Reaper’s dark growl draws my attention. I turn to find him standing over 57. “You have roughly sixty-seconds before you die, and I’m going to make sure you suffer each and every one of them right before I send you to hell.”
He pulls the little knife free of his neck, and grips 57’s hand and pins it to the ground. Reaper presses the blade against the skin. 57’s gurgling scream cuts like broken glass through the garden.
“What do we do to vile creatures who take what isn’t theirs?” Reaper growls, voice nothing but violence.
“We cut off their hands,” Striker says, letting me go and stalking forward. He grips 57’s other arm and slams it to the ground, using his boot to keep it pinned to the gravel. Another scream rips from the soldier’s throat as Striker leans down, pulling the large serrated knife from his belt.
My hand flies to my mouth as he slams the blade down onto the soft skin at the wrist. Blood coats the blade. Pours onto the grass. A strangled scream fills the garden. Reaper draws hishand back and slams my little knife down into 57’s wrist, then yanks it free. With a chopping motion, Reaper hacks, over and over, slick wet sounds making my stomach roil.
I stare in horror, unable to look away until Striker kicks the severed hand away. I draw my knees to my chest, numbness creeping into my veins as Reaper slowly hacks at the wrist. Methodically. Sawing ruthlessly through layers of flesh with the small blade.
It’s not until he’s sawed the hand off that Reaper stops, tossing the mess aside, that I realize 57 isn’t moving.
Reaper stands, glimmering blood staining his arms. Splattered up on his mask.
“Go tell Father what his soldier did,” he tells Striker, his eyes never leaving mine. “His fucking soldiers can deal with this mess.”
My gaze shifts to Striker. He swipes the blade clean on 57’s pants, then sheaths his knife, his chest heaving, and casts me a look before walking inside.
