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Put together rape centers that were counseling and legal representation.
Fuck, put together rape counseling centers that also offered access to mercs. Let the women get back some of their own without dragging in the male patriarchy and its legal system. Women's choice. Which option do you choose? Your choice.
Make reparations to any woman fucked by this man.
His tongue curled into my ear again, then down my neck.
"Get off me!"
He dug the knife into my ribs. "You don't understand, bitch. Your days of telling a man what do are over. They were over the minute you jacked that car. Yes, I know about that. I know how they found you and I know you fought."
He was gleeful. He was a million years old but he was strong and he was armed and he had a girl who had fought her captivity. That excited him.
Fuck. Get it over with. I couldn't bring myself to try and convince him to make it consensual. There were things even a deep cover wouldn't allow me to pretend. The idea that I wanted this husk of a human, this excuse for a man, to touch me? That was one of them.
But get it over with. Get back to the boredom of the long evening. Wait until he'd had his fill of whoever he called for in another 12 hours before the deep black night turned to green and we had a chance to ransack his office and send all the proof out to Cole and from Cole, to whatever authorities could best put it to use.
Feds or mercs. I didn't give a fuck which.
The idea of him touching me was repellant. Revolting. But I was ready. Get it over with, get it done, get him to the point where we could hurt him.
Even if that meant he hurt me first.
He ripped my shorts off me, put the knife which was wicked sharp between my legs and said, "Get your top off."
I did. T-shirt, jog bra. Naked, in front of him, my arms automatically crossing over my breasts. The smell of something wrong in the room, of Bevington, as if his diseased mind could smell.
And whatever was coming from the bathroom off the bedroom.
He pushed me back on the bed. I was doubled over the side of it, ass up, wondering where he intended to rape me, or if he'd take every hole. I wanted to scream. I wanted to take the knife from him but he knew all the places to hold it. Against my ribs too close to my heart. Between my legs not just in vulnerable areas but against the major artery there. Against my throat by the carotid artery, the very surgical sharpness of the blade proving itself by nicking my skin and making me bleed.
I let out a sob that must have been music to his ears. He stepped back and I heard him unzip his fly. Instinct took over and I started to thrash.
As if that was just me needing proof the blade was instantly there again. Against my spine. I subsided.
He pulled himself free of his pants. I could hear him, incoherent mutterings, and then he was on me again, his body weighing mine down, his spit on my face, his breath in my nose, his knife on my ribs.
His cock soft and useless against me.
He started to shove against me, like he meant to rub himself to hardness on my hip, my backside. I could feel all of him, withered balls and the softness of his flaccid member, and horror took me. Rape would be one thing. Rape by this creature would be bad enough.
But if he couldn't get it up? If he couldn't fuck me after everything he'd set in motion?
"You cunt!"
The fist came down at me, the angle wrong. He didn't have the trajectory to really do damage to my face and I moved the instant I knew what he was going to do, but that was instinct, reflex, and in the long run, not going to do me any good.
Because Bevington had just gone red. Reason had deserted him. He was a spitting, furious, raging thing, with no more capability for reason than an enraged animal. He'd been set to rape me and he couldn't get it up and nothing in me had considered this even momentarily like anything funny. Like anything good.
He was going to hurt me and I couldn't – I couldn't just lay there. I couldn't take whatever he decided to do in place of rape. If I had to kill him, that was what I'd do. I had the proof such as it was of seeing his connection to Evie and Raven. If that was all I got, it was all I got. Because adrenaline was burning through me and I fought.
I turned on the bed, upright with him pressed against me, struggling under his weight. He shoved me down, his hands on my wrists, the knife still clutched in his right hand. I ignored it for the moment, intent on wrapping my legs around him in an attempt to keep him off me. When that pressed him closer, I started to wedge a leg between us, meaning to lever him off me.
His face was inches from mine, his eyes mad, when he lunged past me, catapulting up over me so his chest, as withered and nut brown as the rest of him, flashed past my eyes.
He'd gone for a panic button and hit it before I knew what he was doing. Damn! I had zero time to get the knife away from him and even if I did, I wasn't sure what good it would do, there were at least six guards on duty, they'd surround me and –
And the door was open, and they were already at the bed, pulling him off me but not to protect me.
