“Shhhh,” he says, mock soothing. “It’ll be over soon.”
He unzips his pants, and I thrash, desperation giving me a surge of strength. I claw at his face, catch his cheek with a nail. He grunts, blood blooming on his skin, and slaps me hard enough to make my head ring.
“Bitch,” he spits, and then he’s forcing himself between my legs.
I bite down on his hand, taste copper and salt. He jerks away, just long enough for me to scream again.
He recovers, face twisted with fury, and slams me back into the ground. My vision flickers black at the edges.
He leans in, crushing my mouth with his, teeth scraping my lip until it splits.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “After this, you won’t remember anything else. You won’t want another cock.”
He lines himself up, and I brace for the worst.
But then his weight is gone.
He’s hauled off me so fast I barely register the change. For a second, the world is all sky and sound, the roar of my pulse so loud it drowns out everything else.
Then I hear a new voice. A familiar one.
Colton.
He stands over us, eyes wild, chest heaving, fists bunched at his sides. There’s blood on his knuckles, and I realize it’s not mine.
The man—Colton’s father, I finally understand—staggers to his feet, suit messed up, hair askew.
They stare at each other, a long, deadly silence.
Then Colton says, voice cold, “Touch her again and I’ll kill you.”
His father laughs, wipes the blood from his cheek, and steps forward, hands raised.
“Is that any way to talk to your old man?” he says.
Colton doesn’t move. He just stares, a muscle in his jaw ticking.
His father glances at me, sprawled on the ground, shirt ripped, blood on my mouth.
He grins. “You’re fucking lucky we signed the papers already, Son.”
Colton’s fist connects with his jaw, the sound as loud as a gunshot. His father goes down, hard.
Colton turns to me, eyes softer now. He kneels, careful not to touch me.
“Eve,” he says, “Are you okay?”
I can’t answer. My throat is raw, my body numb.
He takes off his jacket, drapes it over me.
Then he picks me up. Not like a boyfriend or a nurse, but like a soldier, practical, fast, urgent. His hands are shaking. I can feel the tremor in his arms as he wraps the jacket tighter around me, then pulls me into his chest. He never looks at me, not once, not even when I whisper his name.
Behind us, footsteps crunch over the dead grass.
Colton spins, keeping me behind him. Harrison Ellis stands up, brushing dirt from his knees, suit a horror show of blood and grass stains. His face is unreadable. It’s almost calm.
He wipes his hands on his jacket, then claps slowly, once, twice. “Good instincts,” he says. “You always had a killer in you.”
