The Fall of V (The Henchmen MC 13)

"You won't be able to," she said when I was silent again. "Remember every inch. When they're done," she added, swallowing hard. "Especially the first few times," she went on, all but confirming what I had thought about her prior innocence, but instead of pity, all I felt was rage. Burning, flooding my bloodstream with gasoline, and striking a match, it blistered through me. "You'll be too hurt, too sick. You won't remember anything else."

"I will," I assured her. Prideful, probably, but I refused to accept any other reality. One where I was too traumatized to even think of escape anymore. "I will remember. And maybe I will be in pain, but I will use that. Do you hear me? I will use that to fuel me. And I will get us the hell out of here."

The tips of her lips twitched slightly at that. Like she maybe found my determination amusing for a moment before grim acceptance replaced it.

"You'll see," she told me as a creaking sounded overhead.

Her body stiffened, so much so that I knew that someone wasn't just happening over us for the first time in hours, that someone was coming. She would know far better than me.

"Ferryn," she said suddenly, shocking me.

"Yeah?" I asked, hearing hesitance in my own voice, the first time I realized it even could be there, that this situation did have the potential to weaken me somewhat. And nothing had even happened yet.

"Go somewhere else," she told me, tone desperate, like it was imperative that she tell me. "Go to the ocean or a carnival. Or to your first kiss. Or Christmas. Go anywhere else."

With that, her mouth closed, and her eyes shuttered, blanked out, letting me know that was what it was. When she went all hollow. She was going to the ocean or the carnival or to her first kiss or her last Christmas.

Click.

Slide.

Click.

Locks opening.

My stomach twisted even as my hands went somewhat frantically to the hem of my skirt, yanking it down as far as it would go, as though the measly material would be of any kind of guard against men such as these.

Stomp, stomp.

Heavy legs on narrow stairs.

My throat felt tight, my tonsils seeming to want to get better acquainted.

My heartbeat didn't speed, but slowed, my breathing following suit, slow and shallow, seeming trapped by some invisible weight of anticipation pressing into my ribs.

A shuffling to the side dragged my attention away from the lower body descending the stairs, solid legs in dark wash jeans, to the side to find the detoxing woman on her knees, eyes huge, sweat making her hair hang limply around her face. If I wasn't mistaken, there was hope in her eyes.

Hope of being assaulted.

Just for a high.

Trading one pain for another.

My spit tasted sour at that as the clomping sounded closer, making my head turn back, but slower, like something inside me didn't want me to look, to see the face of a man who wanted to do unspeakable things to me.

But I wouldn't do it.

Avoid.

Pretend.

Escape.

My chin lifted as his boots stilled, stopping at the bottom of the steps, gaze immediately going to me.

It wasn't the man from the night before.

That was my first realization. His arms were too small, his midsection too pudgy.

And the lack of a limp said he wasn't the other either.

This was someone new.

New meant unknown.

Not that I knew what to expect from the others either. Cracks to my knuckles. Bashes to the head. Punches to my center. Fists to jaw. Comments about putting their hands on me.

But, oddly, I somehow would have preferred one of them.

This man was, I don't know, age was hard for me beyond my own age group, maybe in his thirties with close-trimmed brown hair, brown eyes, a scar through his eyebrow, with arms that were smaller than the man the night before, but still much stronger than mine, I would bet. And even if he was softer in the middle, it wasn't enough that it would slow him down, make him an easier target.

His hands pulsed inward toward their palms, demanding my attention. I found a ring with one key in one, hanging loosely off his thumb.

Carelessly, really.

And even through the dread that was a slimy, sticky thing coating every inch of me, there was hope.

If he wasn't smart enough to hold tight to those things, if he underestimated me that much, maybe this would all be over with before anything truly even happened.

As if hearing my thoughts broadcast, his gaze moved to me, even though the detoxing woman begged for him to Take her.

"Fresh meat," he rumbled, voice deep enough that maybe it would have been pleasing if it belonged to anyone else. "Little damaged," he added, moving across the floor to me, each step corresponding to my sluggish heartbeat. "But that'll fade in a day or two," he went on, clearly meaning my face which must have been more bruised than I could have realized. Vanity was something I usually did possess, spending countless hours trying to perfect a cat-eye liner or find the right red lipstick, shopping for styles that suited my body type, which was practically boyish right now, painting my nails, doing my hair. I probably spent as much time worrying about what was on my body as in my head, which I tried to convince myself was still a fair balance.