The hair on my neck stands up. I try to swallow, but my throat is raw.
“I’m sorry,” I say, voice thin. “I’ll leave.”
I move to step past him, but his hand clamps on my arm—tight, bruising. I gasp, more shock than pain, and look up into his face.
His eyes are blue, almost grey, and so perfectly still it makes me want to scream.
“Let go,” I say, but it comes out a whisper.
He smiles. “I don’t think so.”
He hauls me forward, so fast I almost fall again, and then we’re nose to nose. His breath is sweet and rotted, like something left in the sun too long.
“Colton could do better than you,” he says. “Hell, my dog could do better than you.”
I try to jerk away, but he only tightens his grip.
“You’re nothing,” he whispers, and then, louder, “Nothing.”
He shoves me. I go down hard, palms scraping the dirt, knees stinging from the impact. My phone skitters out of my pocket and across the grass, my backpack slips off my shoulders, landing next to me with a small thud.
Before I can even move, he’s on me. He kneels, plants one hand on my shoulder, and leans in so close I can see every pore in his face.
“Do you know who I am?” he says.
I don’t answer. My mouth is too dry to work.
“I’m the reason you’re still breathing,” he says, and there’s a giddy pleasure in the way he says it, like he’s reciting a favorite line from a play.
He rips the collar of my shirt, popping the buttons so fast I don’t even feel them go. The fabric opens, cold air on my chest. I gasp, the sound ugly and high-pitched, but he just laughs.
“I see why he likes you,” he says, eyes flicking over me. “That skin. That attitude.”
I swing at him, nails out, but he dodges easy and pins my wrist to the ground.
“Fiesty,” he sneers, “I like a girl with a little fight in her.”
He puts his knee on my chest, crushing the breath from me. His free hand yanks my skirt up, bunching it around my hips.
Panic flashes white-hot in my brain. I buck and kick, but he’s too heavy.
“Don’t,” I gasp, and for a second I think he might hesitate.
But he just laughs again, low and ugly. “I’ve been watching you,” he says. “Watching you let my boy put his filthy hands all over you. Is that what you want? Is that what gets you off, being used like trash by the Ellis family?”
He forces my legs apart, one hand bruising my thigh.
“Please,” I say, “don’t.”
He ignores me, instead licking the inside of his cheek as if the word itself is delicious.
“I’ll tell you a secret,” he whispers, mouth at my ear. “I don’t expect you to survive my son, and looking at you now… I want a taste before he destroys you.”
He shoves my panties aside, his hand rough, fingers cold.
I scream.
He clamps a hand over my mouth, the other pinning my wrists above my head.
