Vivian
“You are so beautiful,” he whispered, while running his fingers from my shoulder to my neck as tears slid down the bridge of my nose. “Like an angel who has come here to save me after all this suffering.” He slid his hand lower to my breast, and I couldn't take it anymore. Wincing in revulsion, I stepped backward, only to be brought harshly back as he dug the gun into my stomach, fanning his disgusting breath in my face. “Where are you going? You don’t try to escapehistouch. You welcome it. And you don’t even love him!” he shouted and then mashed his mouth against mine. I slapped his chest as he bit my lips painfully, but I wouldn't open my mouth for him.
Never, he would never get any taste of me.
Fucking psycho.
Frustrated, he threw away the gun and pushed me backward hard. I lost my balance and crashed to the floor, where he plastered his body on mine, pressing me to the floor, his hands roaming over my bare thighs and hiking my dress up as he rubbed his hard-on against me.
“My love,” he kept chanting, but I shook my head, screaming wildly, scratching his face and kicking him, even though he managed to block it.
“No, don’t do this.”
He wouldn't listen, ripping the shoulder of my dress quickly as if in a frenzy. I slapped him hard across the face and he paused, stilling in place as I tried to slide from under him, and surprisingly, I managed to do it, and he didn't stop me.
Breathing heavily, I covered myself up with my arms while he rubbed his cheek, which had an angry red print from my fingers.
When he raised his eyes to me, they were clearer than before and reminded more of the guy I used to know.
“I’m sorry,” he apologized, swallowing a ragged breath. “I didn’t mean to hurt you or Tina.” He unbuttoned his shirt and offered it to me, but I just sobbed harder, hoping to disappear, and almost hit the wall with my back.
“Don’t touch me.”
Regret showed on his face. “No, no. You are talking like my mama.”
What the hell did his mom have to do with it?
“Your mom?” Licking my dry lips, I tried to think of how to get out of here and call for help. The hotel phone was located a few feet away from me. If he was distracted enough with his little sob story, he wouldn't notice my movement. I just had to act interested in this conversation.
I reined in my flip-flopping stomach and dizziness from the fall, focusing on surviving and the fact my sister and I would both die if I didn't do something.
John sat down on his ass, hugging his knees, his eyes glassy as if he was in some kind of trance. “My mama was beautiful. Golden locks, blue eyes, elegant posture. People loved hanging around her, and she always baked delicious muffins.”
I slid to the side carefully and slipped my heels off so they wouldn't clack against the floor. I had no clue about his parents beyond the fact they’d both died in a car accident when he was fifteen. He inherited their enormous wealth that had been passed from generation to generation.
“She sounds lovely,” I noted, and went to slide again when he turned his angry gaze on me.
“It was all an act. Once guests left, she’d slap me around all the time, because she had to marry my father. He wasn’t any better either, only he preferred a belt.”
Although my heart hurt for the small boy he had been, who wasn't loved by his parents, it didn't excuse his violence toward us. He could have risen above it, instead of it defining him. Just look at most of the Bratva members or other survivors of abuse.
As he shifted his attention to the window, I slid once again, ending up closer to the phone.
I almost touched the handle to put us on speakerphone, when he pounced on me, cornering me between the wall and him as he said, “Miss Reynolds, my first nanny, was nice. She was twenty years old and loved reading to me. Dad got her for me when I was twelve. I would bring her flowers every day, but she didn't like it. She liked my daddy, so I had no choice but to poison her so he wouldn't hurt her too.”
Oh my God.
He killed his first victim at such a young age?
“Then my parents’ accident happened, and it was like a gift from heaven. They put me in an asylum for a short time, but I was grateful. The pills led me to you.”
Who would let him leave? The guy was mental and belonged in an institution!
Then his eyes softened as he moved some strands of my hair. “I met many women who fell in love with me with just a glance. I had to kill them all, because I didn’t like it. And I’m glad, because you came along.” I barely managed to suppress my gag reflex, imaging what he could have done to them all. At least he didn't mention the details of those killings. “They would always scream,” he murmured. “Their voices were scratchy and hopeless.” He snarled, “What did they expect? Whores!” His mood changed in the span of a second, and I couldn't come up with a tactic to calm him down. “But then I met you… in the ballroom, and you pleaded with me to save you. And you remind me so much of Stacia, my first love. I easily got lost in you.”
I couldn't even recall what he was taking about. He probably had a stalking syndrome, where a person thinks you love him or something, creating an entire relationship in his head.
“When was it again?”
