But I have changed. I’m not the boy who was raped in prison. I’m a man now. I work out, I know defense techniques, I have replayed what happened in prison in my head a thousand times.
I only need to believe it. Believe this is the present, not an unchangeable memory. This is now, it’s real, and I can fight back.
It takes me a long moment to gather all my scattered wits and feel my body again, solid and heavy, lying on the floor, feel every limb, test every joint.
I’m not a puppet to the memory anymore. I can move. I’m free.
“Hear me, bitch?” the blond is saying, pulling me by the hair. He has a knife in his hand, glinting in the dim light. “I’ll teach you a lesson you won’t forget in a hurry.”
“I never forget,” I mutter between gritted teeth, grabbing his wrist and pulling, throwing him off balance.
I lean back as he crashes to the floor with a shout, barely avoiding his flailing arms. My skull burns where he pulled some hair right out as he fell, but I ignore it as I twist around, bracing for the other guy.
“You wanna play games?” He kicks at me, catches me in the arm, knocks me back. “Then let’s play.”
“I don’t play games.” A sixth sense makes me move, throw myself sideways as a knife slices over my shoulder from behind, leaving a track of fire.
“Come on, then,” the guy in front of me says, as the other one grapples me from behind.
Don’t hesitate. Don’t give them time to get a better grip.
I knock my elbow back, into the blond’s stomach, my fist up into this face, and turn the second his hold slackens, not waiting to see if I’ve done any damage.
Good thing, too, as the knife slices at me again, only managing to cut through the layers of fabric and nicking my arm.
Have to get up. That’s my only chance.
“Need a hand up?” Hard fingers grab my shoulder, pressing into the wound, startling a yelp out of me.
“What he needs is to be reminded who he is,” the blond says, staggering to his feet, wiping blood from his nose.
The brief flash of satisfaction at seeing him bleed fades when he lifts the knife and comes at me.
Fucking hell.
I buck up, try to get my feet under me, but the other guy is pushing me down, the pressure on my bleeding shoulder hurting like a mot
herfucker.
“Not gonna kill you,” the blond says, “yet. First let’s see what I can cut off.”
A surge of panic swallows the pain, sends me turning and pushing the dark-haired guy away. The blond grabs ahold of my hair again, and as I make a grab for the knife, he slices it through the long strands.
What the fuck is he doing?
“I’ll send this to Marco,” he sneers, lifting my hair and sawing it off. He lifts the black tufts like a trophy, grinning widely, like a rictus, his teeth covered in blood.
My head is suddenly too light.
I’m taking him down.
A fist crashes into my kidneys from behind, and I cry out but don’t fall. Turning, I kick at the guy, shatter his kneecap the way Rafe showed me during our training sessions at the gym. Then I bowl into the blond, grappling for the knife.
My shorn-off hair flutters to the floor around us, light like black feathers.
The blond tries to kick at me, but I sidestep him, pull his hand back, putting him off-balance. Then I slam my elbow into his back again and again, kick the back of his knees, and wrench the knife from his hand as he goes down.
A quick glance at the other guy tells me he’s out for the count, clutching his knee and weeping.