Chapter 12 #2
I turned onto my side, trying to ease the nausea and will the soreness away. If I could just catch my breath, maybe I could think straight.
The door opened, and light from the hallway spilt in. It wasn't much, but it may as well have been a spotlight that hit me in the face. I snapped my eyes shut and raised a hand to block the brightness, my heart thudding at the sudden change.
Footsteps moved across the room, quiet but deliberate.
I squinted up through the light, blinking to make sense of the shape coming toward me.
It took a second to recognise Marcus – shirtless, hair tousled, his joggers riding low on his hips.
I couldn't make out his expression, but something about the way he moved made my stomach knot up.
"You woke up quicker than I expected." Those words were barely audible. I wasn't even sure I'd heard him right.
I tried to sit up but only made it so far before I had to stop. "What... What time is it?"
He didn't answer. Instead, his hand closed around my shoulder and shoved me back against the bed. I hit the mattress with a jolt, and the sudden push knocked the air from my lungs.
Before I could speak, he swung one leg over and straddled my hips to hold me in place. His hands came down again, this time to grab both of my wrists and force them above my head. His grip tightened instantly, and his fingers dug in hard.
I gasped at the sharp flare of pain that shot through my arms. All of this movement made my head spin. "Marcus! What are you doing?"
He didn't answer that, either. He stared down at me, his chest rising and falling slow and steady.
That's when the pieces clicked into place. The wine. The way it hit too fast. The fog that never quite lifted. The soreness. My clothes being out of place.
No. No, no, no, no, no...
"You – " The word cracked out of me. I strained against his hold, panic clawing up my throat fast and hot. "You did something. While I was out. What the fuck did you do?!"
His thighs squeezed around me as he used all of his weight to force me deeper into the mattress. My body arched instinctively in protest. If he tightened his grip any more, I was afraid he might break my wrists.
I twisted as hard as I could to try to throw him off, but it barely budged him. His weight was solid, braced fully over me. My legs kicked, caught nothing. I jerked my arms again, but all I did was pull the muscles in my shoulders.
"Get off!" My voice cracked from the force of the shout. "Get the fuck off me!"
He didn't. His face didn't change, either. If anything, he looked bored. Detached.
I could see it now. The part of him he'd always kept so carefully masked. The part that didn't care how much I struggled or what I said. The part that had been hiding behind all his careful words and calculated movements.
I fought harder. Twisting, kicking, trying to throw my weight in any direction that might shake him off. My shoulders burned, and my wrists hurt from the way he held them, but I didn't care. I needed to get free.
A rough, wordless shout tore from my throat. Just raw noise, loud and sharp and desperate. Anything to startle him. Anything that might make someone hear what was going on. Anything to make him stop –
His hand clamped over my mouth and nose so fast it knocked the breath right out of me.
I choked on the sudden lack of air. My free hand flew to his arm, clawing, nails digging in. My legs kicked wildly, but it did absolutely nothing. He was too damn strong, and his grip on me only tightened.
He leaned down to put his mouth close to my ear. His voice was low. Cold. "Don't wake the neighbours."
My whole body froze. I knew exactly what that meant. If I kept yelling, if I made too much noise...
He'd make sure I stayed quiet.
Marcus must have thought that was enough. After a long, tense second, he eased his hand away from my face.
I didn't scream.
But I didn't stop fighting, either.
The second I could breathe again, I lunged. I bucked beneath him, twisting with every ounce of strength I could find. My fist landed somewhere solid. Maybe his ribs, maybe his face. And for a split second, his balance faltered. I heard him grunt, felt his grip slip.
I almost threw him off. Almost.
I twisted again, elbow driving up, knees kicking at anything they could reach. My pulse roared in my ears, and all I could think was, Get him off. Get out. Now.
Then something pressed tight against my neck. A second later, I felt it digging into my windpipe. My breath stopped. My hands flew up instinctively, clawing at leather, fingers scrambling to find something to grab.
A belt.
I didn't even know where it came from. But it was cutting off my air, and his weight held it there. Both of his hands pulled it tight on either side of my throat.
I thrashed harder, nails digging into his wrists and arms, legs kicking blindly. My body screamed for oxygen, for leverage, for anything. But every second that passed made the fight tougher to hold onto.
His grip didn't ease. The belt dug in, sharp and unrelenting, and the edges of my vision turned into static. The roar in my ears turned into a high, keening pitch that made it impossible to think. My limbs flailed, then faltered. I bucked again, but it was weaker this time. Too slow. Too sloppy.
"You keep fighting," he muttered, low and sharp, "and I will make you sorry."
My lungs burned. My hands slipped. I tried one last desperate twist, but my body wouldn't follow through. My vision tunnelled. I couldn't see his face anymore. Just shapes. Shadows. Pressure.
Everything in me started to go limp. My chest jolted in a useless attempt to suck in air. My fingers twitched, but they couldn't catch anything. The edges of the room faded, washed out by the hot, black weight pulling me under.
Finally, he lifted the belt.
Air rushed in too fast. I choked on it. Coughing, gasping, sputtering through the burn. My whole body jerked as I tried to breathe again. My vision cleared enough to see Marcus go still over me, breath steady, eyes blank.
He grabbed my shoulder and flipped me onto my stomach like I weighed nothing. My arms moved instinctively to brace myself, but they barely had a chance to hold me up before he yanked them behind my back. The belt slid around my wrists and cinched tight. Rough, fast, practised.
The leather bit into my skin. I winced, but it barely registered past the pain in my throat and the ringing in my ears.
My body tensed out of reflex, but the fight had already bled out of me.
I couldn't stop him. I couldn't even sit up.
My chest heaved as I tried to draw air in steady again, but my head still spun, and everything felt off-kilter.
The mattress dipped as he leaned over me. I felt him move closer, and his hand slid along my back. Then up into my hair. I forced myself to stay still, even as the panic threatened to claw its way up my throat.
I couldn't get out of this. Not right now.
So I shut it down.
The walls came up, and I pulled what was left of myself behind them. I wouldn't shout again. Wouldn't beg. Wouldn't give him the satisfaction of another reaction.
He leaned down, breath hot against my neck. "Next time, I won't be so gentle."
I didn't move. I focused on the pillow under my cheek, the sting of the belt around my wrists, the numb ache where the leather had dug into my neck. I counted my breaths. One. Then another.
Just hold still. Let it happen. Get through it. Deal with it later.
I suddenly became aware of his hand as it drifted lower. His fingers curled around the waistband of my trousers and pulled.
The panic hit, sharp and absolute. It filled my throat, crawled up the back of my skull, clamped around my ribs. I pulled at the belt even though I knew it wouldn't budge. My legs twitched, but there was nowhere to go. Nothing I could do. I was exposed. Helpless.
I managed to stay quiet. But in my head, I was screaming.
* * *
I stared at the wall, barely blinking and lying as still as I could manage. Everything hurt, and I felt wrung out. I could hear my heart pounding in my ears in the heavy silence. The belt still held tight around my wrists, digging into already sore skin every time I took a breath.
I listened to the faint sounds of movement in the other room. The creak of a floorboard. Then the soft click of a light switch. I held my breath as I waited.
Then, finally, I heard his bedroom door close.
I lay still for a long time, trying to convince my body it was safe to move. I felt detached from myself. Somehow, my brain thought that if I didn't acknowledge the ache, maybe it wouldn't be real.
Eventually, the silence stretched long enough that I knew he had to be asleep.
I forced myself to sit up.
It took more effort than I expected. My balance wavered, and for a second, I thought I might fall straight back down. My arms throbbed, and my shoulders protested the movement, pulled tight by the way my wrists were bound behind me.
My fingers found the buckle and felt along the strap, but the leather was stiff and dug into my wrists. I tried to ignore the pain as I twisted against the belt. It wouldn't give.
The fucking thing wasn't tied. It was actually buckled. I couldn't slip out of it.
Panic flared in my chest and spread fast. I couldn't be here when Marcus woke up. I didn't know what he might do if he got his hands on me again, and I didn't want to find out, either.
I braced myself and began to twist, dragging my knees up and slouching as far as I could. The position strained my already sore muscles. Getting my arms under and around my legs wouldn't be easy. It was going to hurt.
But I didn't have another option.
I gritted my teeth and started to move.
The stretch yanked at my shoulders. Pain shot straight down my arms, sharp enough to make my breath hitch. My wrists twisted against the belt, the skin raw and tender from the friction. I had to go slow enough not to make noise, but fast enough not to lose my nerve.