I don’t want to be used. I’m not some sick masochist who gets off on being degraded, humiliated, and manhandled. Treated like a fucking toy. I don’t want to surrender.
But my body did.
And that’s worse.
I pull my knees to my chest. My leg aches, the stitches on my thigh pulling. A reminder of just how fucked up all of this is. His voice echoes again.I’ll split you in two.
He’s a monster.
And yet…my pulse still kicks when I think of his mouth on my throat, his hand between my legs, his cock sliding against my body.
I claw at my skin, wishing I could peel away the memory. Wishing I could scrape his touch off my body.
But it’s not going anywhere.
Because the sickest part of all of this…I still want to know what it would feel like again.
I lean my head back against the couch, tears streaming down my cheeks, a slow, pulsing ache between my thighs. Closing my eyes, I try to disappear into the silence. Into the past few weeks. Into nothing.
The floorboards creak, jolting me awake.
My eyes snap open.
I lunge for my knife. Gone.
“You sleep like someone who doesn’t value their life.”
I whip around. He’s nothing but shadow at first. A dark shape in the windowsill, the curtain fluttering around him, city neon bleeding through the cracks.
“Planning a little trip?” He flips my knife between his fingers. His gaze drops to the half-zipped bags on the floor.
My stomach twists. The scream lodges halfway up my throat before his weight slams into me.
“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”
I hit the wall hard, his body crushing mine, the air torn from my lungs. I claw at him, panic screaming through every nerve.
“Let go of me! I’m leaving!” I thrash.
His arms tighten around my waist as he lifts me clean off the ground and hauls me down the hall. I twist, kick, bite. Nothing slows him.
“Stop fighting,” he snaps, dragging me into the bedroom. “You’ll hurt yourself. And I want to be the one to hurt you.”
He throws me onto the bed.
I scramble across the mattress for my gun—gone. He’s already cleared the room. Of course he fucking has.
“You had a lot of firepower for a bartender. What else are you lying about?”
I press against the headboard, trembling as he steps closer, a rope coiled in one hand.
“Get the hell away from me!”
I lash out, one solid kick to his chest. He barely staggers. His hand finds my throat, slamming me flat, and in seconds he’s got my wrists bound and tied to the headboard.
“You just want me to hurt you,” he snarls, yanking the knots tighter. “That’s what gets you wet, right?”
“Fuck you.” I thrash beneath him.
