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And I was a wet, naked lamb on a plate.
I was suddenly grateful for the dripping ropes of hair that stuck to my face and blanketed my hunched shoulders. It prevented me from seeing their predatory stares. But I could still hear them, circling, laughing. I could still feel my captors’ hands groping and kneading my body as they presented me like prize livestock. But it was one particular set of footsteps, approaching at a slow, deliberate pace, that really caused my adrenaline to spike.
These steps didn’t have the same shuffling, aimless quality as the others. These were steady and heavy, and the louder they got, the quieter everyone else became until the only thing I could hear between the footfalls was my own thrashing heart, pointlessly pumping blood through my veins, screaming at my muscles to fight or flee when all they could do was tremble in their bindings.
A pair of black combat boots stopped directly in front of me, and I shrank away from them instinctively, curling in on myself as another sound replaced the footsteps—the sound of my wobbly wooden stool shaking against the concrete floor, broadcasting my fear for all to hear.
The man turned to face the crowd. Through my downturned gaze, I saw him pull a piece of paper out of his back pocket, and when he held it up, they all cheered.
Then, he turned back around and jerked my head up by my hair.
My eyes flew open in shock, landing squarely on the face of the man who’d been flying the drone—the balding one, who I assumed was my captors’ superior. He sneered at me with a mouth full of tobacco-brown teeth before pursing his lips and making a kissing sound. Everyone laughed as he held up the paper again, this time showing it to me. It was a photo of Alexi Abramov, Russia’s president, and no sooner had I recognized who it was than it was being smashed against my mouth. The men erupted with cheers and more kissing sounds as their boss dragged the photo over my breasts and shoved it between my legs. The edges of the paper sliced my inner thighs as he rubbed it up and down, grinning as he watched himself touching me.
I slammed my eyes shut and strained every muscle in my body as I tried to squeeze my legs closed, curl into a ball, elbow him away, but I was completely immobilized.
A scream built in the center of my chest, but I didn’t dare let it out. Every time I screamed, things only got worse. But also, what would be the point?
There was no one left to save me.
My eyes, blurry with fresh tears, flew open again when I felt the stool lift off the ground. The two men who’d brought me in carried me over to the long counter. The laptops had been pushed off to the sides, and in their place lay an assortment of what I assumed were torture devices—an electric rod, a stun gun, a knife, a pair of pliers. There were more tools, some I didn’t recognize, but I couldn’t take them all in. The moment they set me down, the two men held my arms still as their boss used the knife to cut through my wrist restraints. Two more men stepped up to secure my lower legs, and my ankles were freed as well.
Liv’s words from earlier echoed in my mind.
“Fight back.”
“The longer you stay alive, the worse it gets.”
I considered her advice. My muscles ached with unspent adrenaline. My helpless, violated body shook with rage, begging for an outlet, dying to explode. The urge to thrash and bite and kick and scream possessed me like a virus, clouding my thoughts and seizing my muscles. But when I closed my eyes and prepared to let it take over, I found myself right back in that cave, paralyzed at the sight of him—clutching his side, covered in blood, holding me hostage with those pleading platinum eyes.
These men weren’t my only captors. They might have been in possession of my body, but my life was tethered to a man whose name I didn’t even know. If I died, he died, too, only much more slowly and painfully. Thirst. Hunger. Infection. He would be in agony for days before his heart finally gave out.
So, when the men placed my feet on the ground and held them there, I didn’t kick.
When they shoved my chest down on the stainless steel counter and bound my wrists to a metal shelf below it, I didn’t thrash or claw or hit.
And when the first two fingers shoved inside of me—rough and hateful, a gleeful public stabbing—I damn sure didn’t scream. I swallowed all the rage, all the pain, all the humiliation, just like I’d been doing since I had been seven years old.
People hurt me. That was what they did.
The only power I had was denying them the satisfaction of knowing they’d done it.
I closed my eyes and let my head hang off the end of the counter, going to that forest in my mind where the moss grew like carpet and the sun-speckled bluebells swayed in the breeze. The edges of a misty lake had just started to take shape when my head was jerked up by my hair.
This time, when my eyes flew open, the boss was in front of me again, only instead of holding a picture of his president, he was holding his own hard cock, pumping it in his fist as he tightened his grip on my hair and steered my head toward the leaking tip.
No.
I could take them violating me from behind, where I couldn’t see, where I didn’t have to participate. But this?
I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t make myself fucking do it.
Acid erupted from my empty stomach, coating the inside of my mouth with my own searing bile as my body recoiled against my will. I couldn’t fight the fear any longer. I’d tried rationalizing it away, compartmentalizing it away, dissociating it away, but they’d stripped me of my final coping mechanism—my happy place—and reduced me to a panicked, caged beast.
My wet feet slid across the floor, and my delicate wrists sliced open from the cable ties as I thrashed and bucked and yanked at my bindings. Angry Russian shouts filled the room as men struggled to hold my kicking legs. Others reached for the weapons on the counter to my left and right. The clicking of a stun gun being turned on—the same sound I’d heard before Mr. McCormick was shocked—buzzed in my ear as something cold and hard prodded against my exposed arse.
Gripping my hair even harder, the man in front of me pulled a gun out of his holster and pressed it to the side of my head. He barked a command, his fully erect cock pressing against my tightly sealed lips as a chunk of my hair tore out at the root. Everything was happening all at once, and I couldn’t escape any of it. I needed to scream, to release some of the terror boiling over inside of me. So, with my jaw clamped shut and tears streaming down my face, I gave them the one thing I’d sworn I wouldn’t. Without opening my mouth, I sucked in a deep breath and released a high-pitched squeal so loud and so raw that everything around me just stopped.
It sounded like the bats of hell were pouring out of me—a furious, inhuman, deafening shrieking—and when it was over, I realized that, aside from the hand gripping my hair, no one was touching me anymore.
