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Lacing my fingers together, I closed my eyes and whispered, “I hate you.”
But I didn’t know if I was saying it to him or myself.
The man standing in front of me, who’d backed up one or two steps, asked something in Russian as the liar behind me gripped my hips with large, commanding hands. He answered with a short quip, and as the entire room burst into laughter, he pulled my head back by my hair and thrust himself between my legs.
My eyes shot open, but not in pain. In shock. He hadn’t entered me. In fact, he wasn’t even fully hard.
Leaning forward until his lips grazed the shell of my ear, he whispered, just loud enough for me to hear, “Scream.”
Then, he thrust his hips against me again. My pelvis slammed against the counter, and I did as he’d said. I funneled all my rage, terror, and grief into a single bloodcurdling wail.
It felt good, that release. That unapologetic explosion of emotion. How many times had I wanted to cry out at home but had been too afraid? Or in the cave, where a drone might hear me? I didn’t have to stay quiet anymore. I could let them know exactly how I felt.
I could let him know too.
“I hate you,” I snarled again, this time at full volume as I stared at the place where the wall met the ceiling—the only thing I could see with my head pulled back. “I hate you!”
He said something in Russian that made the crowd chuckle—mocking my pain, no doubt—but if I wasn’t mistaken, he was also stroking the back of my head with a single finger, covertly, beneath the mass of wet hair he was gripping. It felt like an apology, a tiny token of comfort, but I knew that was just my desperate, pathetic mind grasping for something that wasn’t there.
He wasn’t offering me solace; he was patronizing me. Praising me like a good little girl for putting on a good little show. By saving me from being gang-raped, he could absolve himself of any guilt he felt over using and betraying me. He could walk away, feeling like we were even when, really, he’d hurt me more than the rest of them combined.
“Get off of me!” I shouted, suddenly wanting to get as far away from him as possible. I would have rather been touched by strangers than feel his body on mine for another second, knowing that it was all for show. That he was using me again, this time to make himself feel better about everything he’d done before that. “Get off!”
I thrashed and jerked as if I could free myself from my own skin if I just fought hard enough. “I hate you!” I screamed, lifting both feet off the ground as I tried to kick him again.
Releasing my hair, he gripped my hips with both hands, holding me still as he trapped my lower legs between his knees.
Excited shouts burst from the crewmen as he fucked my thighs faster, never pulling out far enough for them to see that he wasn’t inside of me.
But he was. As soon as I dropped my head, letting it hang off the end of the counter, it became flooded with images of him. His perfect body, shivering shirtless against the cave wall after he’d given me the clothes off his back. The lines of my crying face, drawn in his own blood as a token of his sympathy. The despondent shake of his head when I’d offered him food, indicating that he was willing to starve to make sure I didn’t go hungry. The taste of my tears on his lips as he’d shoved me against the wall and chased away my pain.
I was doing it again. I was slipping back into the illusion—my need for love and comfort always stronger than my ability to handle the truth. I knew what was happening, but I was powerless to stop it.
I was too busy picturing the curl of his dark eyelashes against his cheekbones that morning and the way his muscular, corded arms had looked wrapped around my body. I imagined that, instead of letting me go when I’d wriggled out of his embrace, he’d pulled me closer. Touched me. Made love to me.
Promised to stay with me forever.
No longer fighting, I tilted my arse up, allowing his cock to slide across the most sensitive parts of me. He felt thick and powerful between my thighs, fully hard now, and slick with the proof of my delusion. His swollen crown grazed my entrance with every thrust, and I found myself wishing he would breach that final boundary. It was desperate and depraved, but for just a few seconds, I wanted to experience pleasure instead of pain. I wanted to disappear into my fantasy.
But mostly, I wanted to believe that he wanted me too.
His pace quickened, and his viselike hands kneaded my arse as the wet slap of our bodies announced to the room that not only was it almost their turn, but that I was a ready and willing participant. The shuffling of their impatient feet, the shoving, the shouting—it all brought the world crashing back into focus.
He hadn’t saved me from them.
He’d only delayed the inevitable.
Fear rushed down my spine like poison, tensing my muscles and locking my knees as he said something in Russian to the man in front of me.
I stared at the floor as his boots stepped toward me, landing mere centimeters from the blood that had dripped from my wrists.
Again, the balding man jerked my head up, forcing me to look at him, and the grin on his pasty face was only slightly less nauseating than the noisy wad of spit he hocked into his hand before fisting his cock with it.
Wait. What?
The world tilted on its axis as I realized that the man whose warm body was now draped over mine as he rutted against me had just invited his sadistic friend to join in.
I recoiled from his cold blue gaze as he pulled his gun back out and pressed the barrel against my temple.
