Don’t Touch (Not All Men #1)

Maeve

MAEVE

“ S he’s shaking,” a man says with delight in his words. His tone is slimy and shows his older age, with a distinct accent marking him as a native to these lands. “I fucking love that she’s ready for me.”

But I’m not.

I’m not ready for him.

I flinch as loud noises occur outside the house, and he laughs. It’s a manic sound, one betraying his lack of mental stability.

There’s louder noises as a hand wraps around my ankle. My skin feels like ants are crawling on it, but they’re slower and struggling to get through the disgusting sludge of fluids coating my skin.

Bile rises in my throat as heavy footsteps sound down the stairs.

“Shit, we’ve got to go,” one of the other men roars. He was one of the first men to touch me, and he’s been further away from me now, with the rest of the men.

There’s more commotion now, and I hate that I can’t see what’s going on.

There’s loud shouts, bangs, and muffled arguing from a bunch of men—including my stepfather. Some of the men rush out of the house, but I can’t hear much past the sounds in here.

I don’t know if their escapes are successful or what else is happening outside the house.

After the begging and the pleading didn’t work, the only thing I could do to protect myself was to retreat into the dark corners in my mind. I used the shadows as my protection and hid from the people that used to be my protectors.

But now, I can’t hide. My body is running on adrenaline, my blood pumping through my veins, as I prepare for whatever new change is occurring. But with this rush of adrenaline, with this change in sensation, my mind is sharpening, and I’m all too aware of what took place tonight.

Others are throwing things in bags, by the sound of the rustling sounds, zips, and angry snarls. But what they’re clearing out, I have no idea.

“We’re not getting past them,” the calm tone of my stepfather hits my ears, and a chill races down my spine. He’s not in the room, although at least two men are.

Their stench is burning my nose, one of them leaning in close enough that I can feel his breath across my naked chest.

“It’s not fucking fair. I didn’t get my turn with her yet,” the man touching my ankle whines, his voice high-pitched with the strong European accent of my people.

But I didn’t get my turn yet.

Like I’m an object.

Like I’m nothing.

In a matter of minutes, the rest of the men flee, even the one complaining about not getting his turn, although he did need prompting again to leave without taking his turn.

They’re gone, and nobody bothers to help clean me up. Nobody offers to let me go with them and escape whatever they’re fleeing from.

Nobody even offers to untie the ripped piece of my shirt from my eyes so that I can see what’s going to happen to me.

It’s only moments later that I hear splintering of the front door and heavy footsteps, lots of loud voices, and shouts. There’s so many unfamiliar scents, so many powerful animals, and none of them have a discernible accent.

It’s clear who they are—a mythical enforcer team from the Tribunal.

But it’s not clear why they’re here.

“There’s a live one in here,” one of the men shouts.

Me. I’m alive.

Aren’t I?

I wish I wasn’t.

“She’s dirty,” he shouts, still not coming any closer.

I don’t blame him.

I am dirty.

Filthy, even.

They destroyed me.

They hurt me.

They stole my innocence when they tried to make me theirs.

“Looks like she’s a victim,” that same voice says, and I hear him come closer, dropping to his knees beside me. As he pulls the bit of fabric from my eyes and the bright lights hit, I decide I won’t ever let feel this way again.

I was a victim.myself

But I won’t be any longer.