Chapter 17
Sierra
The first crack of metal against bone is so sudden my brain refuses to process it. Cain jerks sideways as the gun smashes across his face; blood spills from his mouth instantly, bright against his skin, and he stumbles sideways with a curse swallowed in pain.
My eyes widen so hard they sting. Fear clamps down on me, sharp and brutal.
“Okay, okay, stop!” I scream at him, the words breaking apart as they leave me.
“Okay, okay, what?” he asks, mockingly.
Before I can answer, he swings again. The gun crashes into Cain’s jaw with enough force to send him to the floor. His body hits hard, his head bouncing once against the floor before everything goes still.
“No! Cain!” A raw cry tears out of me. “Please,” I sob, my voice shaking so badly I barely recognize it. “Please, I’m begging you. Leave him alone. Please.”
I’m crying too hard to breathe properly, my chest hitching with every desperate inhale. Only then does he look at me.
He starts walking closer, unhurried, stepping around Cain’s unconscious body as if he’s nothing more than furniture in the way.
Every slow step sends fresh terror crashing through me.
When he reaches me, he lifts one gloved hand and brushes the tears from under my eye with a softness so wrong it makes nausea twist in my stomach.
The slap lands a heartbeat later.
My head snaps to the side. Heat blooms across my cheek so suddenly my eyes water harder than before. His hand closes around my jaw, forcing my face back toward him before I can make a sound. He leans in until I can feel the threat of him all around me, then slowly lifts the visor of his helmet.
The second I look at him, my breath catches. There’s something hauntingly familiar about the darkness in his eyes.
He brings the gun to me slowly, pressing it against the bare skin between my breasts. The cold metal kisses my flesh and sends goosebumps racing violently across my body.
My breath catches as he drags it upward, inch by inch, over my sternum and along the delicate line of my throat until the barrel settles beneath my chin, forcing my head higher.
A dark chuckle rumbles out of him.
“Fighting me is just going to make this more fun for me and a lot worse for you,” he growls, the words hitting me like a violent storm.
“Kill me then!” I yell, the last word cracking apart anyway.
“You think I’m here to kill you? No, kitten. Death would be a kindness—and I’m not feeling very kind today.”
He brings the gun up slowly, dragging the barrel along my lips with a gentleness that feels more dangerous than anything else he’s done.
“Let’s see what else that pretty mouth of yours can do—besides run.”
Then he pushes the barrel past my lips.
“Suck it,” he orders quietly, in a tone that makes it clear he expects obedience.
His other hand begins to roam my bare body, slow and deliberate, like he has all the time in the world, and every inch of me already belongs to him.
I curl my lips around the barrel, praying he doesn’t pull the trigger.
What a stupid way to die.
Giving a gun a blowjob.
“Look at that.” His voice pulls my attention down to where his hand rests now. “Your body already knows who it belongs to, even if that stubborn little mind of yours hasn’t caught up yet. You’re soaking, kitten.”
I try to pull back, desperate to get the barrel out of my mouth, but that was the wrong move.
His focus cuts back to my face instantly, something shifting in his eyes—darker, colder.
His hand fists in my hair yanking my head back into place, while his other hand drives the barrel deep into my throat until I gag around it, eyes watering, lungs burning.
“You stop,” he says, his tone terrifyingly calm, “when I tell you to stop.”
He keeps forcing the gun deeper until my body revolts. A violent gag tears through me, then I’m choking, eyes streaming as I retch helplessly.
He yanks it back at once, quick and careful, making sure not a drop touches the weapon.
A low, mocking laugh leaves him.
“Messy.” He tilts his head, eyes dragging over my tear-streaked face. “We’re going to have to work on those mouth skills, kitten.”
Then he pulls out a knife, slicing through the rope around my wrists and ankles in one clean motion.
He extends his hand toward me—an almost mocking gesture of courtesy.
I look up at him, fear still carved into every bone in my body, yet I take his hand anyway.
The last thing I want is to make him angry.
“Time to clean yourself.”
Before I can process the words, his hand hits my chest—hard—and I’m falling backward.
My back breaks the surface, and the water explodes around me, swallowing me whole. I sink fast, heavy as a stone, until my body meets the bottom of the pool and I don’t come back up—I don’t know how!
The water is still around me, almost peaceful. My lungs are already beginning to burn, and somewhere in the back of my mind, a quiet, terrible thought surfaces.
Maybe this is better.
Maybe drowning is kinder than whatever he has planned for me.
My chest tightens. Stars begin to bleed into the edges of my vision—and just as the darkness starts to pull me under, a hand fists in my hair and drags me up with brutal force.
I break the surface gasping, and then his arms are around me—solid and crushing—holding me against his chest.
He jumped in after me.
I grab onto his shoulders, my lungs stuttering around the sudden rush of air, my whole body shaking. He’s taken his helmet off—and without thinking, without considering what it might cost me, my fingers find the hem of his balaclava and start to pull.
The hand around my throat comes out of nowhere. He drives me under in one swift motion, the water closing over my head again, and those few seconds stretch into what feels like an eternity. Then he pulls me back up and I gasp violently, dragging air into my burning lungs.
“Every act of defiance,” he says, his voice completely unmoved, “has a price. Choose your next move carefully.”