The Wrong Kind of Love

Then, just as quickly as it began, he shoves away from me. Like I’ve burned him. Maybe he dislikes me every bit as much as I hate him. Or maybe he just remembered that I was, in fact, trying to cut his throat two minutes ago.

His silhouette crosses the dark room. And it’s not until he leaves, taking the crackling tension with him, that the shame cuts through my fogged mind.

I wanted him. I liked his lips on mine, the unrelenting grip of his hands on my hips—the same hands that held a gun to my head.

What the hell is wrong with me?

_____

A loud bang and a “Get the fuck outta his bed, bitch” startles me awake the next morning.

The older man who caught me in the woods yesterday lunges toward me, and I scramble off the bed. He latches onto my wrist and yanks me against him. “Jude asked me to handle you while he’s gone.”

Handle me. I knew Jude’s crisis of conscience would only be temporary. My mind falls down the rabbit hole of possibilities attached to those two words–handle me. None of them good.

I should have killed Jude and run when I had the chance, because the look on this man’s face suggests there will be no mercy for me.

I try to wriggle away from him, but he has me in a bruising grip. “Move it.” He drags me through the house to the basement. Then forces me down the windowless corridor.

He opens a door and shoves me into a dark room that smells of mildew. I hear the click of a switch before a fluorescent bulb flickers to life with a hum. The room is a cinder block box. No window, no escape, and no one to hear me scream.

A debilitating sense of fear sets in as I watch him stalk towards me.

“Do you work for Tom Campbell?”

I have no idea who he’s talking about. “I don’t know who that is.”

“Bullshit.” He throws me to the concrete floor and straddles me. I scream and buck beneath him, scratching at his eyes and face.

I beg for someone to help, although I know no one will. This is Jude’s house, his men… His will.

“Might as well go on and fess up, girl.” He pulls a switchblade from his back pocket, then cuts away my shirt. “I know you work for the bastard, and after what he did to my family...It’s only right I fuck up anyone associated with him.”

I have no idea what he’s talking about, and why would I? But he doesn’t give me any chance to speak. This man has already made up his mind.

I fight as he rips away Jude’s T-shirt, exposing my breasts. The sick glint in his eye tells me my answer doesn’t really matter. This man will hurt me in ways that make me want to throw up.

“You make ole’ Jude weak. And looking at you like this…” He holds up the blade, a perverted grin setting on his face as he brushes a dirty fingertip along its edge.“I can see why my nephew’s got a soft spot for you. Nice tits. And probably a real tight pussy.”

The horror of how the next few minutes will probably play out settles over me, and bile creeps up my throat.

“I’ll be doing Jude a favor by killing you. ‘Cause I don’t think he’s got it in him to do it himself.” His fingers brush the inside of my bare thigh. “Maybe I should fuck you with this knife after I get finished.” Then His fingers dip between my legs, brushing against me. I fight and scream, trying to get away, but he’s too heavy.

He’s going to break me before he kills me. At least if Jude had done it, this would have been quick. And I can’t help but hate him for being a coward and not killing me himself.

There is no way out of this. This may be were my life ends, but I’ll be damned if I let this man rape me. I snatch his wrist, fighting for the knife. He won’t let go, and so when it reaches my neck, I push up against it. The sharp edge bites into my skin. Warm blood rushes down my throat, and I smile, falling back against the concrete.

Jude

The morning sun creeps over the pines when I turn off the highway, heading back to my house. The truck tires skid out when they hit the gravel at the start of my drive, and the paper sack of money I collected topples to the floorboard.

Fuck. One more thing to piss me off today. I’m hungover and annoyed. Last night had was some real shit.

Tor—because she is definitely not a Victoria—tried to slice open my jugular, and then I came two seconds away from fucking her. I cock has a thing for volatile women, and fuck is she volatile. I’ve never been as hard as I was with her pressing that damn razor to my throat.