Page 109 of Mad Girl

Of me.

My secret.

That dark flame, deep inside me.

He saw it. Wanted to play with it. Wanted to see how much tampering it could take.

“Interesting,” he said darkly.

I inched back, trying to get away.

Greer grabbed me by the back of the head, his fingers twisting in my hair, and I gasped. “You weren’t lying, were you? You really are fucked up. This is dangerous.”

“Let go,” I said through clenched teeth.

“Okay.” He dropped me—but so roughly I landed on my forearm. He stood and stepped back. “Get up.”

I stared at him, deliberating. How successful would I be at kneeing him in the balls on the first try?

“Get up, Bancroft. Show me what you’re capable of.”

But fear paralyzed me. What if I tried getting past him and he knocked me out? What, then?

What was he capable of with me unconscious?

“What’s wrong?” he asked, taunting me. “You’re tough, right? Or is that only when there are people around and you have a weapon at your disposal?”

My nails pushed into the rug beneath me.

Greer jutted his chin at me. “Rory, get her up.”

Rory slid off the bed and grabbed me by the arm, but I reached out with my free hand, clawing the shit out of the bare skin above his shirt sleeve.

“Fuck!” Rory yelled. He released me and sprang back, eyes flashing as he came at me again, and I cowered—I cowered, Casey, how pathetic is that?—but he didn’t hit me like Greer had. He kicked me instead, the toe of his sneaker colliding with my ribs, knocking me into the nightstand.

While I clutched my side and rode the wave of pain slicing through my body, I learned something important about myself: I didn’t like this type of pain. Pain wasn’t a release unless I had full control. And I had zero control here.

One of them yanked on those stupid braids, pulled me across the floor, and flipped me onto my back.

Greer.

He straddled me as I kicked and fought, and then I couldn’t kick anymore, because he’d pinned my thighs under the weight of his body.

I tried to sit up.

He shoved me back down.

I tried again. He shoved me down harder, catching my flailing arms and forcing them to my chest, crossing one arm over the other.

And this felt worse somehow. So much worse than losing control or being kicked. This was a churning deep in my gut and whole-body shivering. A tightness in my chest and real fear. Trapped. I was trapped. Couldn’t get free. Needed out. Couldn’t breathe. LetmefreeLetmefreeLetmefree.

I didn’t realize I’d said it out loud until Greer leaned close to my face, breath reeking of beer. “What’s that?”

“Get off me!” I thrashed beneath him, struggling to loosen my arms, but he only pressed them harder against my chest. The floor vibrated with the bass of some high-tempo rap song, one that sounded vaguely familiar, shaking my whole body. Or maybe it was me—shivering uncontrollably—I couldn’t tell. “Get off me!”

“Sure,” Greer said. “Right after you apologize.”

“Get the fuck off me!” I yelled—that deep, dark rage bubbling up, boiling over, and seeping out. I needed him off me. Needed free. Needed to breathe. Why couldn’t I breathe?