Page 55 of Reclaimed

A letter H.

“I have a feeling you’ll be earning the other letters soon enough,” he says, setting the knife aside. Then he shuffles in closer, shoving my thighs apart and lowering his zipper.

My brain catches on a second too late.

I open my mouth to scream, fear cinching around my throat and drawing tighter with every breath, but then it suddenly stops. Everything goes dark.

… did I die?

Murmurs of voices ripple around me, joined by surprised shouts and muttered profanities.

Not dead.

The power’s just out, and from the way it sounds, it’s not on purpose.

Harris grumbles a curse under his breath, and I feel him shifting away, moving off the platform to investigate whatever caused the power outage. I blink into the darkness as I sit up, hands tracing over the rug beneath me until one of them closes around something cold and sharp.

The knife.

This is it– my chance to run.

I shove up to my feet with a burst of adrenaline, surging forward blindly. I make it four steps before colliding with someone, my free hand fisting the fabric of some expensive suit. My other hand swings in, the blade of the knife sinking into the guy’s fleshy side.

He shouts, and I pry it back out with a squelch, shouldering past him and taking off again.

“Rabid bitch fucking stabbed me!” he chokes.

My bare feet slap against the cement, a soft tug pulling at my neck as my leash drags against the ground.

I can make out the outline of a door, and I go for it, misjudging the depth and smacking into the metal. I stumble back in a daze, then lunge forward again, blindly reaching for the knob. My fingers close around it, and like an actual fucking miracle, it turns in my grip, pale moonlight slicing inside as I shove it open and spring out into the night.

I stumble a step, sweeping my gaze around before taking off towards a thicket of brush ahead. There’s a field beyond, dense walls of trees framing each edge.

The woods, thank fuck. If I can just make it to them, I might actually lose him.

Adrenaline mingles with the drugs in my system, something chemical and volatile reacting, contorting my thoughts into tattered pieces that stitch together impossible things. Like that when I ran out of that building, I saw a familiar hulking form lurking in my peripheral. A six-foot-something callous blond Repo Man with a jawline that could cut glass.

It’s fucking bizarre that my mind has turned him into a savior during this drug-induced delusion. Why the fuck would I want him, of all people, to come save me? It’s not like the night he broke into my cell was the first time in years my needs were put before someone else’s. Like me and my pleasure actually mattered when he made me come, giving without taking anything in return.

Nope.

Haven’t given him a second thought.

Repo Man, who?

The sound of my own footfalls grows louder, the cadence increasing, until I’m sure someone’s chasing me. I whip my head around, meeting a set of icy blue eyes and a familiar predatory grin that ignites something low in my stomach. Riggs.

Is he real, or a hallucination?

I can’t tell the difference until he’s lunging towards me, arm banding roughly around my waist as he tackles me to the ground.

Real.

“Found you, little stray,” he growls, his weight sinking onto mine to pin me down. His hard-on prods at the apex of my thigh, throbbing with excitement as he grinds it against me.

I blink up at him in a daze, fingers brushing over his face before threading into his hair. “Are you real?”

He pauses, lips pressing thin. “What’s wrong with you?” Then realization dawns, his nostrils flaring as murderous rage etches into his features. “Did he fucking drug you?”