“What was that, girlie?” he asks, his head shifting a bit to hear me better, mocking me. Dick. “I’d be careful what you say.” His eyes roam the length of my body. The immediate outward repulsion that radiates from me at the gesture causes him to sneer.
“Think you’re too good for me, little lamb?” he mocks. “Women like you were born to be whores. Just like that littlefriend of yours. I got a real good taste of her before they sent her off.”
Well, he has this slap coming.
A bubble of gleeful smugness comes over me at the sight of my handprint slapped across his shocked face. Then it pops, cold fear washing over me at Eduardo’s narrowed eyes. His hand comes up to touch my cheek, the gentleness belied by the rage streaked across his face.
“You’re gonna regret that,” he snarls as he turns and makes his way toward the cell door.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Maybe he’s leaving? Fat chance of that moron.
“Do you know the instructions my boss gave me to punish you?”
I don’t have to see his face to know the fucker is feeling rather jovial about the turn of events. He’s been looking for a reason to use Christian’s threat of punishment, and I’ve given him the perfect opening. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to read between the lines and know exactly what the pig has in mind.
“Said I couldn’t touch that sweet pussy of yours, but everything else was fair game.”
My eyes widen at his threat, throat constricting in fear as my hands grow clammy and my breath becomes short.
“Don’t.” I internally wince at the tremors that rack my voice as Eduardo slams the cell door shut. He turns to face me, a sick, twisted grin on his dry lips. I swallow past the lump in my throat. “Please.”
“I love it when they beg.” He stalks toward me, licking his lips in what I’m sure he considers a seductive manner. His heavy footsteps fill the room. All I can do is shake my head and back away from his advance as far as I can manage.
Which isn’t far at all.
A small gasp leaves my lips when my back collides with the cold stone wall of my cell.
Fuck.
He stops right in front of me, his hand coming up to caress my cheek. I flinch as his offensive odor spills over me. Choking me. Eduardo smirks as he grabs my arms, pulling me flush against his body as he buries his face in my hair, inhaling deeply.
Futilely, I push against his large chest, turning my head away from him in an attempt to create distance where there is none. One hand travels to the tie that holds my bun in place, roughly pulling it out, causing my hair to spill down my back and over my shoulders.
Then both his hands begin to roam my body, tugging and pinching to the point of pain.
He smells like alcohol, sweat, and sewer waste. I hold my breath as I fight against him, trying my best to ignore the putrid stench wafting off him.
I squeal in pain when Eduardo’s hands grab at my breasts roughly, squeezing hard enough to no doubt leave significant bruising. Where are the other guards? Has Christian authorized this stank of a man to violate me? He’s always been so possessive. It doesn’t make any sense.
Unless—I think back to the cruel smirk he gave me as Eduardo led me away.
Has he planned this as a way to break me?
Taking a deep breath, I suck as much air into my lungs as I can. My intent is to let out an ear-piercing scream to alert someone. Anyone. Eduardo must sense my plan because my sudden scream is cut short, muffled by his meaty hand pressing tightly against my mouth while his free hand hitches up the short skirt of my dress.
His stubby fingers pry at the folds of my opening, forcefully finding my entrance.
Christian, that rat bastard, hadn’t given me any panties to wear.
Panicked, I wiggle and kick against him, twisting and turning my body against the wall, trying to dislodge his hold. It’s not enough. The gluttonous pig outweighs me by a hundred pounds at least. The only thing I manage to do is lose my heels.
“Just give it up, whore,” he spits at me, spittle landing in my eyes. Nasty. Who knows what fucking diseases he has. “We all know you gave it up to that Russian cur, so don’t be such a fucking prude.”
My blood simmers beneath my skin at his insults. With all the strength I can muster, I rip my mouth from under his hand and chomp down on the tender skin between his thumb and forefinger.
“Puttana,” he swears at me in Italian, calling me a bitch. His face darkens as he pulls his body slightly away from mine. Sure, I’m the bitch for biting him when he’s trying to rape me. Makes sense. It’s hard to believe I’m the first female to snub his unwanted advances.
