“You will be.” He stops a step out of reach and tilts his head, evaluating. “Don’t worry. I decided I’m not gonna put you back on the bed.” The smile says the bed is a reward I haven’t earned. “Not tonight. We’ve got the floor, the wall…” He looks at the excuse for a table. “The box there.”
My hands are shaking. I force them into fists so it looks like rage instead of terror is taking over my body. The truth is, it’s both. I don’t want him to touch me, but there’s nothing I can do about it. Not if I want to survive whatever he has planned.
He moves first—no warning, just a lunge. One hand clamps my wrist; the other slides around to the back of my neck, hard. He uses his weight like a tool, slamming me into the wall. Corrugated steel kisses the meat of my shoulder, and pain flashes, hard. I bite it back, but he likes the sound I make—something like a whimper, raw and anguished.
“Say ‘sir,’” he breathes near my ear. “Beg me, Phoenix.”
“Fuck…you?—”
I twist my wrist against his thumb the way you’re taught to break grips. He shifts and keeps me. He’s stronger and heavier, and he’s angry I made him bleed.
I slam my heel down on his instep.
“Son of a bitch?—”
His grip on my neck tightens, fingers digging, and his thigh wedges between mine. His knee presses into me, hard, and panic tries to climb my spine. I slam it back down.
“Get your hands—” I start.
His open palm cracks across my mouth. It’s quick, efficient, and surprises the shit out of me. The sting is white and hot. My tongue tastes copper. He leans his weight against me and hisses, “What did I tell you? You talk when I tell you to talk.”
I drive my forehead into his nose. It’s only a bad move if you miss. I don’t.
He grunts, reels, then snaps back harder, angrier, fresh blood bursting along the healing split. His hand goes to my face, pushing, and I snap at his skin because teeth are tools, too. I catch the meat of his palm and hold on when he yanks away with a bark. The sound turns me inside out with a vicious little satisfaction.
He hits me again—lower, rib-high, a fist meant to take breath. It does. Air wrenches out, and I release my hold, the world going fuzzy at the edges. He feels the give and presses into it, lifting me off the floor and slamming me back to the wall. I hear something in my back complain. I keep my head tucked so it doesn’t bounce.
He’s done this before, reading the way I move.
“Still got tricks I see,” he says, panting now. “Let’s see how many of those tricks hold up when I teach you how to act.”
He goes for my waistband with one hand, the other pinning my arm high. He’s not careful. He doesn’t need to be. I wrench my pinned arm, feel the skin at my shoulder pull. Pain sharpens everything. My free hand dives into my pocket, finds the wrapped screw, and drags it out. The fabric snags. I rip it. The screw bites into my palm.
He notices the change in me before he sees the metal. A little tension. A little purpose.
“What is that?” he asks, gaze fixing on my hand. “Is that what you got me with earlier, you little bitch?”
I don’t answer. I drive it forward, short and savage, aiming for soft. He anticipates just enough to take it in the meat of his side instead of the belly. It sinks deep. His body jerks. A sound leaves him that lives somewhere between surprise and fury. He shovesme off the wall and I use the recoil to stab again. This one rakes across his ribs, opening fabric and skin. Blood runs hot and slick over my fingers.
He snarls, grabs my wrist, and slams it into the steel. The screw clatters away, skittering under the bed. My stomach drops, stupidly, at the sound. He sees the look and laughs.
“There she is,” he says. “Whatcha gonna do now, huh?”
He crushes me to the wall with his chest and hips, pinning my legs with his. His breath is too hot, too close, too human. He rucks my shirt up with one hand, the other fumbling once again at his belt. I twist. He uses the twist to fold me, to make more room where he wants it.
The lamp’s hum seems louder. The ship’s thrum moves through the floor into my bones. I think of the girls below. Of Luis. Of the way the woman held the humming girl and didn’t let go.
Of Conrad.
Maverick.
Storm.
Atticus.
No. NO.
I don’t realize I’m saying the words aloud until he chortles. “Beg all you want, pretty.”
