Bratva's Brat (Loftry University Playthings 2)

Chapter 14

Chelsea

The next timeI wake up, it’s not by rough hands mauling me, but the sounds of movement at Jane Doe’s bed. Ducking my head back under the covers, I peak out through a slit, forcing my breath to stay even. They move about her various tubes, poking and prodding, trying to get a response.

She moans and writhes against their touches, obscene sounds pouring out of her as she twists about. I hold my breath, desperate to not draw their attention to me. One of the men pokes at the clear bag hanging above her, muttering in Russian. As he turns the knob, the drips slow down a touch, but not by much. They must be weaning her off of whatever it is she’s on.

I wait for them to leave before wrapping the sheet around me and tiptoeing closer. Her eyes flutter a bit more than they had been, confirming they’re lessening the drug in her system. I have no medical training, so I’m not sure if my actions will harm her or not, but I have to at least try. “Righty tighty,” I whisper, turning the job just a touch more. Hopefully, it will help her break out of it quicker.

A creak sounds near the door, setting my heart racing. Flying back to the bed, I pull the covers back over me as the door opens. Breathing in deep, I force my body to relax. I can’t tip my hand now.

Rough hands drag back the covers, and I blink up at my tormentor, looking past his face to give me that hazy, out-of-focused look. He buys it like he does every morning. Dragging me to the shower, I force my feet to fumble, to make myself weak and helpless. What was the point of all that training if I can’t even use it?

Once he props me in the shower and turns on the lukewarm spray, he leaves me alone, slumped on the chair as the water beats down on me. There’s no soap or shampoo, just a never-ending stream of tepid water sluicing over my body. He comes back with a washcloth and pries my legs open.

Laying my head against the cold tile, I’m grateful to have whatever this drug is as a crutch to let my mind fly. It’s so easy to pretend I’m not here. What he’s doing is just to a body. It’s not me. I’m not here. As he wipes the rag over my mound, the rough cloth abrading my skin, I slip further in this haze of nothingness.

His fingers pry me open, shoving the rag as deep as he can go, swiping it about, leaving burning fire in its wake. No doubt these assholes have given me an infection by now. The only mental relief I have is that no one’s put their cock in me. For now, it’s just been fingers. That’s bad enough, but at least I won’t get an infection simple medicine can’t wipe out.

My fingers twitch as he rams inside me. Training flies through my brain. From this position, I could incapacitate him. He’s so intent on getting his rocks off that he wouldn’t know until my thighs squeezed his head that he was in danger. It’s a battle of wills to keep still and compliant.

Master Girgori must have known something was going to happen to me. Why else would he insist on this training? He had armed guards that could have followed me anywhere; why teach me to fight? Perhaps he didn’t know I’d be drugged, thinking I could just worm my way out of things. Well, fuck him, and fuck his training. As the days keep blending into this hellacious eternity, it’s becoming more apparent he’s not coming. No one is coming for me. If I somehow manage to escape this, I’ll have no problem going back home to my family. Even at its worst, it was never like this.

I drown out the sounds of his grunting with memories of hot showers and warm blankets - good food in my belly. I will have those again. It doesn't matter what these men have in store for me. It doesn’t matter that Master Grigori left me here to rot. I will rise up and find my freedom. Anger is the only emotion I allow myself to feel right now; anything else is too dangerous. It’s the anger, though, that keeps me alive, that keeps me from sliding into nothingness.