36 | Hannah
Hannah
Fuck this entire mansion of hell.
I’m awoken with a jump by the telltale hollow sound of metal inserted into metal, and spring up, quickly removing myself from the floor. Without a clock, the window is all I have.
Sunlight pours through the bars, filling the room. I slept past when I had intended to, the crick in my neck confirming it. I need to find a better way to track time if I want any sense of how long they hold me here.
Diesel steps into the room, and I hear the door lock behind him. I’m trapped in a room alone with the man responsible for my being here.
“Sleep well?” His voice drips with smugness. “Bet you’re thirsty. Hungry, too. I’ll give you both.” He steps in until his boots nearly touch my sock-covered toes. “After you give me something first.”
He removes his belt and works his pants down enough to produce his pathetic excuse for a dick.
“Get on your knees, bitch. I want first dibs on that mouth before it’s rearranged by men who pay well to do so.”
Legs backed against the bed frame, I don’t see many options.
Knowing I can’t overpower him, my mind scrambles to find any other way out of this.
The one way out of the room is both locked and guarded.
There is nowhere to hide that he can’t find me, no one here to save me, and nothing to use as a weapon to fight him.
“It’s almost cute, watching you think. Don’t you get it? We own you. You’re our toy until that Ol’ Man of yours does what needs doing to change it.” He reaches out and palms my throat like a Coke can, his fingers squeezing, cutting off the blood supply to my brain, and restricting my breathing.
Under any other circumstances, this might be hot. But here? With him?
Utterly terrifying. Control and power can only be arousing when exercised by someone who has the other person's complete trust.
“You live your life like a whore, you get treated like a whore.”
His fist slams into my gut. Air explodes out of me, and I fold forward. The hand still locked around my throat drags me the rest of the way down—knees thudding against rough carpet.
“You have two fuckin options. You open that pretty mouth and choke on my cock like a good whore, or I do whatever the fuck I want to make you swallow me.” He flashes a sick grin. “Second way’s more fun for me.”
He lets go of my throat and I open my mouth wide to pull in a desperate gasp. That’s when Diesel strikes on his opportune moment, shoving his nasty shrimp dick between my parted lips.
I gag instantly. Vomit clawing up my throat at the taste of him. He groans like my choking is the best thing he’s ever felt, too stupid to realize it’s just pure disgust.
He fists my hair and yanks my head back and forth on his pathetic length. I go still—a statue—and let my mind slip away. I’m back in the coffee shop, curled up in my favorite corner with a romance novel in my lap. With my book boyfriends who actually know what the fuck they’re doing.
But this?
Fuck this. Fuck him. Fuck this entire mansion of hell.
I will get out. One way or another, this is not my fucking ending.
Something sparks and catches fire inside me while he uses me like trash. Right then, I swear to myself that I am leaving this place, even if I have to burn it to the ground to do so.
He finishes with a disgusting groan. It takes every ounce of control not to puke all over his boots. I lift my eyes up, waiting, watching. Survival means playing smart.
Removing himself from my lips, “Such a good whore,” he says, smirking. “You’re gonna make me a shitload of money.”
He tucks himself away, zips up, then spins toward the door. Two swift knocks, just as the doctor did, and the door swings open.
“Okay, bring it in,” he orders.
A short, bronze-skinned younger guy in a Scorpion kutte steps inside, carrying a tray with two plates and a cup. At this point, I couldn’t care less what’s on them. I’m starving.
He places it just a couple of steps inside the room before turning and leaving, locking the door behind him.
With my belly now full, I sit, lost in thought, tracing the bandage on my arm.
The thought of walking out of here pregnant with my rapist’s baby is sickening, but it’s nothing compared to the idea of becoming a mother inside these walls.
Would they continue raping me while it grew inside my body? Would they even let me keep the child? Would they let me hold it, feed it, protect it? Would I have to give birth right here on this floor, alone, cold, and screaming?
My stomach sinks.
Would they continue to tear me apart again and again, with my baby forced to hear it all?
I want to be a mother someday.
But not like this.
Never like this.
A twisted gratitude creeps in for that little rod under my skin as I peel the bandage away. The urge to escape this palace of pain burns bright. I refuse to stay long enough for any of these nightmares to come true.
The room is stripped of anything that could be a weapon. I’ve checked and checked again. I’m all I’ve got. I have to use myself. God, I wish I’d taken those self-defense classes with Ellie.
A key slides into the lock again. My stomach knots so tight I almost lose my lunch.
The door cracks open. A guard shoves a man inside: short, fat, balding, and sweaty—white dude. I almost want to laugh. He looks like half my customers at Velvet.
The door slams. Lock clicks.
His beady eyes rake over me like he already owns me.
I ignore every alarm screaming in my head and sit on the edge of the bed. Waiting.
“You don’t look scared like the others,” he sneers. “Aren’t you gonna run?”
“No.”
His face twists, almost disgusted. “Forcing you bitches is half the fun. Beating you while you scream is the cherry on top. Come on, bitch, run. Try to hide.”
My heart pounds against my rib cage, but I stay planted. “I’m not running. Do what you came to do.”
Why run? There’s nowhere to go. And it’s exactly what he wants.
He steps in until his gut brushes my knees. One meaty hand clamps my throat, squeezing harder than Diesel had, and I worry he might actually kill me.
“You won’t run? Fine.” He yanks his pants open with his free hand.
Pressure explodes behind my eyes from his hand around my neck, and my head feels like a balloon. My lungs burn for air, but I keep my stare locked on his. If I die here, it won’t be because I broke first.
“You want my cock, whore?”
He lets go, allowing me to gasp in loud, ragged breaths. A swift hand cracks across my face.
“Answer me!”
“If you were the prize at the end of a race,” I rasp, my voice raw and grating, “I’d run backwards.”
A hard slap across the other cheek sends stars dancing through my vision.
“Beating the attitude out of you might be just as fun as forcing you to fuck me.”
He fists himself up and down his length, then slaps my breast hard enough to bruise.
“Clothes off, bitch. Now.”
I undress and sit back down, placing my hands in my lap. There’s no point in fighting; the outcome will be the same either way.
Face on fire, throat raw, I keep my expression blank. He feeds on fear. He won’t be getting a single bite.
He pushes my torso back onto the bed and lifts one of my legs. I feel his weight as he crushes me under his fat fucking potato body. He lines himself up and rams in.
I turn my head to the wall and disappear inside my mind. I wonder how the girls at the club are. I wonder if anyone is looking for me. Have I even been reported missing? Would the club want or allow that?
Shit, I hope my car doesn’t get towed. It costs a fortune to get it out of impound. It might be stolen by now, anyway. I left it unlocked. My keys are gone—abandoned in the parking lot while I was fighting for my life.
When his weight finally lifts off of me, I slowly sit up.
“Boring lay for a whore,” he mutters as he zips up his pants.
Fuck off, asshole.
He waddles the short distance to the door, knocking twice to be let out.
The second the lock clicks behind him, I bolt to the bathroom, crank the shower until it’s scalding, and step under the spray.
Only then do I allow myself to break.
I slide down the tile, knees to chest, and let the sobs convulse out of me. I tell myself it’s just for a minute. Long enough to feel it, to honor what my body just survived.
Then I pull myself together and really think about what just happened. Not in the emotional, broken kind of way—but in the badass, feel-proud-of-the-woman-I-am and what-I-accomplished kind of way. I denied him the only thing he really wanted—my fear.
I took his chase away. Took his fun. I got him to leave faster, maybe even made him hit me less, bruise me less.
It’s a sick, pathetic little victory.
But it’s mine. And I’ll take it.