Sordid (Sordid 1)

Make it right? There was no going back. He was smart, surely he knew that. “There’s nothing, Luka. You can’t undo it.”

He held my gaze for so long, I wondered if he was broken. He didn’t move an inch.

“No,” he said finally, his voice grim. “I can’t.” His posture slumped as if crushed by an enormous weight, and he raked a hand through his dark hair, leaving it askew. “And I don’t suppose there’s anything I can say to change your mind?”

“About whether or not you raped me?” I choked on my words. Why was I calling him out like this, goading him? It was dangerous and stupid.

He snapped up straight and his eyes narrowed. “Don’t use that word again.”

I bit down on my tongue for reinforcement. He turned away from me and paced across the room, then back my direction. His forehead wrinkled as if he were deep in thought.

“Look,” I said. “I’m hungover. I need a shower and a change of clothes. Drive me home and maybe I can move past what happened.” It was a total lie, but I wanted to get the hell out of here.

His motion ceased, and his piercing gaze ensnared me, but it wasn’t like before. There was a new emotion I hadn’t seen. It looked very much like cold, hard fury.

Oh, shit! I stumbled back as he stormed forward, and I slammed into the wall so hard the picture hanging beside me bounced and rattled on its hook. Luka’s hands were rough on my hips, pinning me to the wall, and he brought us nose to nose.

“You don’t lie to me, ever. Understood?”

“You’re hurting me,” I gasped. His grip was uncomfortable on my waist. “Please. Just take me home.”

I shook beneath his hands, but I stopped all movement as he leaned in, placing his cheek against mine, and whispered in my ear, his tone dark and full of malice. “You are home.”

When he released his grip, I was in so much shock I almost slid to the floor. He went to the bedroom door and threw it shut with a loud crash. I pushed off the wall, crippled by panic.

I almost shrieked it. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“This is the situation now. My family can’t afford for you to go to the cops, especially after the shit Vasilije got into.”

“Okay, I won’t—”

He held up his hand, cutting me off. “Maybe you wouldn’t at first, but you could change your mind at any time, and I can’t risk it. You were clear about what you think happened.”

My panic made it hard to stay rational, and hearing him dismiss what he’d done was almost as bad as the act itself.

“You raped me.”

He sneered, and his rage-filled expression was terrifying. “Did I not warn you about that word?”

He grabbed a handful of the shirt I was wearing, his expensive dress shirt, and hauled me up to him. I flattened my hands on the wall of his chest, bracing myself. And then his hands closed on the open collar, one on either side, and he ripped downward. A few of the buttons flew off, while others simply gave way.

I was too stunned to do anything but gasp at the sexual violence. My brain was paralyzed with fear. Instinctively, I tried to get away, but once the shirt had been torn open, he continued to pull it down my arms. It became a rope around my elbows, holding me in place.

“Stop!” My heart was pounding in my ears. My throat was a desert, and I trembled to the point I could barely stand. I fought him to pull the shirt back up and cover my bra. “What are you doing?”

“You’ve lost this privilege.”

No, no! A panicked cry tore from my throat as he tugged the shirt the rest of the way down my arms. At least with them free I could fight back. I swung, slapping at his face and chest, but he quickly snatched up my wrists. He clenched them so hard I yelped and bent to try to alleviate the ache.

“Luka, no,” I yelled. “Stop.”

His face was an emotionless mask. “You don’t have control over this situation. You can make it easier on yourself by accepting it.” His grip pushed me toward his feet, forcing me downward. “Kneel.”

“What? No!”

“Yes,” he snapped. “I gave you an order.”

My response was instantaneous. “Yeah? You and your order can go to hell.”

He let go of my wrists and shoved my shoulders down, forcing me onto my knees. When I struggled to get up, his firm hands held me down. “When I tell you to do something, you do it.”

“Are you out of your—”

“No more talking. Disobey, and you’ll be punished.”

His expression was serious, but . . . really? He expected me to just do as he said, after what he’d done? The words burned in my throat. “Let me go.”