27. Russian Roulette
Russian Roulette
twenty-seven
E m e r s o n
Tightly knotted rope digs into my wrists, chaffing my skin and making it bleed each time I move. But I still try to break free from the restraints.
Sprawled out on a bed, my legs are spread, and my ankles are bound with thick leather straps to the bed posts, preventing me from going anywhere. A pair of my underwear that Damon had stolen are bunched up into my mouth to muffle my screams, held in place by a thick belt looped around my head. The only part of me that's free is my eyes, but I'm forced to look at nothing but darkness as it swallows every inch of the room.
I'm fucked.
The random rainstorm had derailed my plans and gotten me hemmed up, making things go fucking easy as shit for Damon. I wasn't even off my bike for a minute before he came up from behind and hit me with something hard in the back of my head. I collapsed in the parking lot of the bar, so fucking close to finally ending this shit. But Damon was watching me—behind me every step of the way. So when I stopped at the bar because I couldn't see through the intense rain, he saw an opening and took it, catching me completely off guard.
I had to think fast. My mind raced as I tried to come up with a plan. But with my hands and feet bound, it seemed impossible. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, trying to calm the fear and panic that threatened to overwhelm me.
I had to stay strong. I couldn't let Damon win. As I lay there, I focused on the sound of the rain outside, the only familiar comfort in the darkness. My mind searched for any possible escape route, any weakness in Damon's plan. And then, an idea began to form. It was risky, but it was the only chance I had.
After moving my head around so much that the belt ended up sliding down to my chin, I began to work on the restraints, trying to loosen the knots with my teeth, straining against the pain in my wrists. It took what felt like hours, but finally, I felt the rope loosen. With a surge of hope and trembling hands, I began to work on the straps around my ankles.
Finally, I broke free. I removed the gag from my mouth and the belt from around my neck, and I scanned the room for any sign of Damon. But he was nowhere to be seen. I knew I didn't have much time. I had to get out of here before he came back. Struggling to regain my composure and push the fear to the back of my mind, I climbed off the bed and snatched my backpack up off the floor, bolting for the bedroom door.
I dialed my brother's number and swung open the door. There, waiting for me on the other side, was Damon, wearing a devilish smirk on his face as he dangled a revolver between his fingers.
"Going somewhere?" His smirk never falters; if anything, it gets even more twisted, making me cringe.
"Leaving," I whisper in a hoarse voice, my throat sore and dry from screaming.
"Nice fucking try," he laughs, backing me up into the room I was trying to get out of.
The lock on the door clicks, and all hope drains from my body. Damon shoves me toward the bed, causing my phone and backpack to fall from my grasp to the floor. He hovers over me, pushing the gun between my lips as he tears at my pants to pull them down.
"Damon, please let me go," I plead with him, hoping that a part of him still has a shred of remorse left.
"I give you props for breaking free, but I still can't let you leave." He shoves my pants down to below my knees and grasps my thong, violently ripping it off of me, cutting my delicate skin with the sharpness of the lacy fabric. I whimper, and he laughs with nothing but evil dripping from his lingering tone.
"Now, you're going to listen to what I tell you to do, or I'm going to pull the trigger." He cocks the gun and winks, letting me know how fucking unhinged he really is.
"Give me your fucking hand," he orders, keeping the gun on me while taking out a pair of leather cuffs, securing one to the post near the headboard.
Swallowing hard and even slower, I raise my arm for him to take, wincing as he tightly secures the other cuff around it, making sure I can't move.
"Alright, now the other one." He grabs a pair of cuffs already attached to the post at the bottom of the bed, waiting for my other hand.
But I refuse to give it to him, knowing what's about to happen when I do.
"Give me your fucking hand, Emerson." Spit sprays all over my face as he hisses, growing angrier by the second.
"No, Damon." I refuse, gripping the blanket under me in my hand, trying to stay grounded to the bed.
Without saying anything, his frown turns into another twisted grin, making me feel wicked uneasy. He sighs and shoves the gun further into my mouth until the muzzle hits the back of my throat and makes me gag.
And then he pulls the trigger, the sound of the empty click echoing in my ears.
I breathe heavily, feeling panic surging through me as little beads of sweat form on my brow.
He tried to shoot me. I mean, fuck, he shot me, but there wasn't a bullet in there.
"I told you that I'd pull the trigger if you didn't listen. Did you think I was fucking joking?" He brushes his lips across my cheek and presses his cock into my stomach, slowly easing the gun out of my mouth.
He opens the gun and spins it, showing me that, in fact, there are bullets in the gun—two, to be exact.
"You wanna play a little Russian roulette, I see. Well, baby, I'm fucking game," he laughs coldly, putting the gun back between my lips. "Now give me your fucking hand." He glares at me, his eyes dark and diabolical.
Fearing him, I comply, giving him my hand so he can secure it to the post.
I squeeze my eyes shut as he works his pants off, feeling his naked body against mine. He violently rips my thighs open as much as he can since my pants are still half on, and he maneuvers between them, guiding his cock to my pussy. I squirm, trying to fight him off, but he slides the gun out of my mouth and hits me across the forehead, drawing blood immediately.
"You wanna play another round?"
"No, Damon," I cry, refusing to look at him. "Please don't do this."
"It's too late for all of this begging shit. You're fucking mine, Emerson, not Seven's, not Kane's, no one's." He licks the blood dripping from my forehead, groaning in satisfaction. "You know what's funny?" he asks, and I can tell I'm not going to like the answer just from the tone of his voice. "I had no idea that it was me who hit and killed your parents until I watched my dash cam footage the next morning." He forcefully thrusts into me, painfully ripping through my pussy.
My jaw drops, and my entire body stiffens, tears filling my eyes until everything I look at is blurry. I ignore the fact that he's inside of me, taking what he wants. I focus on his admission, feeling my heart shatter all over again.
He was the hit-and-run. He was the drunk driver who ran into them, killed them, and then took off. It was Damon.
I gasped in shock and disbelief, feeling sick to my stomach at the revelation. All this time, the person I had been in love with was the person responsible for my parents' deaths. The intense hatred I felt towards Damon welled up inside me, intensifying with every thrust he made.
But at the same time, I knew I had to play this smart. I had to get through this and lull him into a false sense of security.
Damon continued his sickening assault, the weight of his body pressing down on me, taunting me with his cruel laughter. My mind raced with possibilities, each second feeling like an hour. As if sensing my hesitation, Damon tightened his grip on the gun, pressing it into me even harder, a twisted smirk dancing on his lips.
Despite the fear coursing through my veins, I knew I had to be strong. I couldn't let him break me. I had to find a way out of this, no matter what it took.
So with a gun to my head and my wrists tightly bound to the bed, I just laid there while he ruined me, praying through every vicious thrust he delivered that an opportunity would come for me to escape.