I turn, trying to remember where the front door is.
After getting lost three times, I finally reach it and find the door to the guards’ lounge. I balance the tray on one arm and knock.
Someone opens the door. The moment he sees me, a slow smile spreads across his face. He steps aside to let me in.
I glance around. The room is filled with massive men, their shoulders broad, their presence suffocating. It’s intimidating as hell.
I step inside, willing myself not to tremble. The door closes behind me. I hear the lock slide into place, the sharp click ringing in my ears. I don’t turn back. Just walk toward the table where they’re all seated.
“Avevi ragione, è sotto la media. Ma scommetto che ha la figa stretta.” The man behind me says in Italian, laughing.
(You were right, she’s below average. But I bet she has a tight cunt.)
I don’t know enough Italian to understand everything, but I catch the beginning—“you were right.” And I know exactly who he’s talking to.
The guard from yesterday confirms it when he replies, “Me la scopo io per primo.”
(I’ll fuck her first.)
Do they mean what I think they mean?
Fear spikes through me. I set the tray down fast and turn to leave, but the man who opened the door yanks me against him. My body slams into his hard frame.
I shove at his chest, trying to get free. He doesn’t move, laughing all the while.
“Let me go,” I snap.
He releases me.
But before I can take a single step toward the door, someone grabs my waist and pulls me back.
“Let me go!” I cry out, clawing at the hand gripping me.
I throw all my weight into driving my elbow back, aiming for him. He catches it mid-swing, and with his free hand traps both my wrists in front of me.
“Didn’t I tell you yesterday, princess?” he laughs above my head.
I keep struggling—kicking, twisting, writhing in his hold. Tears stream down my face. My head feels like it’s about to explode from the sheer force of my fear.
“Let me go!” I scream again.
He spins me around to face the others—all of them laughing.
“Look at the face of every man who’s going to fuck you.”
The sadistic bastards roar with laughter.
He throws me onto the table. I land hard beside the coffee tray. I snap my head up just in time to see him unbutton his pants. I grab the tray and hurl it at him.
“Bitch!” he snarls.
Adrenaline makes me dizzy, but it also fuels me with reckless strength. I push myself up, and before he can recover, I yank the gun from his waistband and aim it at his head. I flick off the safety, cock it, and back away, keeping it trained on him. Now they’re all in front of me.
They freeze for a second—then burst out laughing.
“Kitten has claws,” one of them says.
“I’m a king’s daughter. I don’t just have claws.” My voice cuts through the room.
