Page 6 of Ricochet

Michael’s head cut to the left, and he nabbed a pen from his desk. “Did I show you my new pen?” The black and gold object spun between his manicured fingers. Odd thing, the psychopath, how he could so easily weave something totally benign into an otherwise perfectly dysfunctional interaction. “Best pen in the world, if you ask me. A Montblanc Meisterstruck. The craftsmanship is … remarkable. Here, hold it.” He offered the pen, holding it out toward me, as if I had any other choice but to receive it. “You won’t believe how it feels in your hand.”

Every instinct told me no. That was the cruelty of Michael. Whether I accepted the pen, or declined it, the end result would be the same.

Pain.

However, my father also once told me that to instill fear was power, so I lifted my hand, holding my steady palm out to him.

“I have to say, the design is sleek for such an obnoxious price. But what I love most is …” His fingers curled around mine, tightening his grip, and my muscles tensed in alarm.

As he hammered the tip of the pen toward my palm as if to stab it, but stopped short, even I was surprised when I didn’t flinch.

For a moment, his jaw fell slack, before sliding into a wide grin. “You see?” He licked his lips and set the pen aside. “It’s like we’re … soul mates.” He released my hand and clutched my chin, peering deep into my eyes. “If you ever try to leave me, Aubree …” His words hushed to a whisper. “I will hunt you down and stab you a thousand times with that pen, until you bleed out of every hole I’ve punched in your body. And when you’re on the brink of death, I’ll dump you in some cold and abandoned shithole, where you’ll drown in your own blood before the rats can eat you to bone.” Like a lunatic, his mask flipped back to cordial, eyebrows winged up in a smile. “Understand?”

He could have any woman he wanted. It just so happened, I’d have left in a heartbeat if I could’ve, which made him want to keep me. Not because of love. The asshole didn’t know a damn thing about love. It was control. The more I longed for escape, the happier he was to keep me chained.

With my tongue caught between my back teeth, I swallowed the salty blood and nodded.

“Good girl.” He hooked a finger beneath my chin, lifting my gaze to his, and brushed his thumb along my jaw. “Now, suck my dick.” Shoving his tight briefs down to his thighs sprung forth his pathetic cock—flaccid, as usual.

Opening my mouth, I leaned forward and damn near puked at the sensation of his flimsy organ passing my lips—like one of those gel-filled snake toys. Disgusting. Taking his weak shaft in hand, I cupped his balls.

He jerked, releasing a small gasp, while I took some pleasure in the discomfort of my ice-cold hands on his skin.

A whack to the back of my head had my nose slamming into his groin and the tip of his cock hitting the back of my throat. The gag reflex set in, and I tried to hold it back. I’d once made the mistake of throwing up on him, a meal he attempted to force me to consume twice, until he’d walked away with a nice fat split to his lip, and I a broken rib.

“Next time, blow on your fucking hands before you touch me.”

Wrenching my head away from him, he stepped out of his pants, grabbed a drink and his cell phone, then sprawled himself out on the leather couch at the opposite side of the room. He jerked his head for me to follow, and I did. Hell, if I could justify a good enough reason, but I did. While scrolling through his phone, he casually took a sip of his scotch. “Get me off. And be sure to lick every drop of cum.”

I took a seat in the small space he’d given me between his splayed legs and lowered my face to his groin, acid gurgling in my stomach as I clamped my lips around his shaft.

“Bet you’d do anything for a gun, wouldn’t you?” He exhaled a hiccup of laughter. “Pretend my dick’s a pistol and blow me away.” The wet gulp, as he sipped his drink while stroking me, grated on my spine. “Ah, good girl. You’re such a good girl.” Fingers threaded through the back of my head, gripping tight to my crown, and he pushed with each bob.

For years, I’d dreamed of biting down and tearing the flesh clean off of him. Fantasized the spray of blood in my face and the victory of watching his features twist in pain.

Doing so would mean death, slow and painful, but I knew the opportunity would come. I held out for it every day. Patience, I reminded myself, as his fingers dug into my skull.

“I didn’t tell you …” A quiver to his voice reminded me of a high school kid getting his first blowjob. “You were lovely today. Daddy’s good kitten. If you play nice tonight, I’ll reward you.”

Michael’s phone rang over the sounds of his grunts and moans. He ignored it, slamming his hips upward as he fucked my throat.

It rang again.

“Motherfucking cocksucker!” He lifted his cell to his ear. “How can I help you, Chief Cox?” After a minute’s pause, his body planked beneath me, rigid as stone, while he tucked the phone against his shoulder and patted the floor.

Chattering voices erupted across the room, and I sat back onto my ass.

“What the fuck am I looking for?” The irritation bled through his voice as he flipped through the internet channels of the Smart TV and landed on his email.

The chill of leather brushing against the back of my thighs hardly registered, as my gaze remained fixed on the wall-mounted TV screen behind Michael’s desk. Because there was only one thing the corrupt son of a bitch, Cox, would dare interrupt Michael’s beloved office time to report.

Another video had leaked.

Achilleus X.

A tingle climbed my spine at the chime of his name inside my head.

Dramatic music, like something out of a horror movie, accompanied the vertical movement of numbers zipping over a three-dimensional skull overlay that appeared to be talking. Blackness crawled over the white bone, engulfing the numbers, morphing into a ski mask with red stitching across the mouth, before the screen faded to black.