Chapter Seventeen #3
But what they’re really doing is leading a blade straight to the throat of their empire.
The hallway narrows the farther they drag me; the walls change from cracked drywall to exposed beams and rusted metal. It smells damp, like oil and mold and old secrets. When we stop, it’s in front of a reinforced door with peeling paint and a lock on the outside that has seen too much use.
One of them fumbles with the latch.
The moment it clicks, I brace myself.
They shove me inside with more eagerness than competence, stumbling over each other like starving dogs. The air changes instantly. Breaths turn thick. Footsteps grow weighted. Their anticipation takes on a pulse of its own, vibrating through the room, pressing in from the walls.
They think they’re going to get off.
Oh, they’ll get off.
Just not the way they imagine.
A sharp, wicked smirk curves my lips. The gag they shoved in my mouth earlier lays forgotten around my neck like a sad little noose.
The one who licked Kimber earlier sneers, stepping forward until I can smell the stink on his breath. “You aren’t gonna be smilin’ soon, bitch.”
His attempt at intimidation is almost adorable.
The room itself is a hellhole. A single flickering bulb overhead.
Stains on the walls that are too dark to identify cleanly.
And in the corner, a mattress that looks like it has absorbed decades of nightmares.
It’s crooked, one corner folded in on itself, as if the last person who lay there tried to claw their way off.
My stomach twists at the thought that someone else was locked in here before me. Maybe more than one. Maybe they had no weapons. No skills. No hope.
I am not them.
The men circle me now, forming a tight ring, their shadows stretching long across the floor. They’re grinning. Practically buzzing. Violent anticipation rolls off them in waves, thick enough to taste.
Two of them step in close, their hands already roaming. Dirty fingers skim down my waist; rough palms slide over my hips. Another gets bold and grabs my tits, squeezing like he’s testing fruit at a market.
The touch electrifies me.
Not with fear.
With memory.
A flash of the girl I used to be.
Helpless. Cornered.
Reign shaking beside me, crying.
Me biting my tongue to keep from screaming.
A girl who had no way out.
I am not that girl anymore.
And none of these men are leaving this room alive. But to kill them, I need them overconfident. Sloppy. Certain of their victory. I need them to underestimate me completely.
So, I let out a breathy, mocking laugh that earns instant snarls. “That’s cute,” I say sweetly. “All this enthusiasm for what’s probably the smallest collection of dicks in the state.”
That does it.
The biggest one backhands me so fast I barely see the swing coming. My head snaps to the side, cheek exploding with heat. I stumble, let my knee buckle, let my breath hitch like a wounded thing.
They want helplessness. I can give them that.
Another one shoves me from behind. I stumble forward and fall to the ground, catching myself with my shoulder, letting out a sharp scream that echoes off the concrete. They love that sound. I see it in their eyes. Sick, hungry satisfaction.
Perfect.
Hands grab my shoulders, dragging me up only to shove me down again. A boot nudges my ribs. Fingers knot in my hair. Someone laughs a little too loudly, too eagerly, thrilled by the vulnerability they think they’re seeing.
Every part of me burns, not from the pain but from the restraint it takes not to snap their necks where they stand.
Their laughter thickens the air, a sound that crawls across my skin like insects.
The hit to my cheek still burns, a hot sting that radiates outward, but I let it anchor me.
I stay small on the ground, appearing as pathetic as possible.
The concrete is gritty beneath me, dust mixing with the copper taste of blood in my mouth.
They breathe harder now, crowding close enough that their heat prickles across my shoulders.
A hand slides down my back, fingers digging in like claws as he presses his hips forward.
He grinds against me, slow and disgusting, a groan tearing from his throat.
Another grabs the back of my neck, squeezing until my vision blurs.
A third grabs my waist, pulling me upright so the one behind me can rut against me like some starved animal.
They’re getting off on this.
My pain.
My stillness.
My illusions.
Every breath I take is measured. Every tremble I give them is deliberate.
One leans in close, his lips brushing my ear with a sickening sweetness that turns my stomach. “That’s it. Cry for us.” His hand drags down my side, fingers slipping under the edge of my shirt. “Little bitch acts tough but look at her now.”
Behind me, another laughs as he presses harder against my back, using me like a post to get himself worked up. I feel him panting, like a dog on its last nerve. “She’s shaking,” he says. “Feels good, doesn’t she?”
The fourth man stands in front of me, rubbing himself over the front of his pants while watching the others paw at me.
His eyes gleam with that sharp, predatory glint I’ve seen too many times in my past. “You know,” he says, voice thick with anticipation, “it might be fun to loosen her up. Let her fight a little. Make her earn it.”
A murmur of agreement ripples through them.
The one behind me grinds harder, groaning. “Yeah,” he mutters. “Let her struggle. I want to see her try to scratch me. Make it a game.”
My heart thuds. Not from fear. From opportunity.
Another man grabs my hair and yanks my head back sharply. He leans down, breath rancid against my face. “Should we cut her loose?” he asks, looking around at the others with a grin that belongs on a dead animal. “Let her squirm a bit?” He chuckles, smug and stupid. “Four against one.”
Four against one.
I almost laugh.
They think they’re gods in this room—kings on a filthy throne. They believe numbers make them untouchable.
They’re catastrophically wrong.
But I let my body shudder like cornered prey. Let my breath hitch. Let my eyes widen just a fraction. It makes them hungrier. Sloppier. Exactly what I need.
Another hand slides between my shoulder blades, shoving me forward so I stumble. Someone licks the side of my neck, a hot, revolting drag of tongue that sends rage screaming through every nerve in my body. I bite back the urge to snap right then and there.
Not yet.
Not until the zip ties are off.
Not until they think they’ve already won.
The one with the knife flicks it open, the metallic click echoing in the room. He steps behind me, grip on my hair tightening as he tips my head back again. “Let’s see how tough she is,” he says with a grin I can feel rather than see. “C’mon, sweetheart. Show us what you got.”
The blade slides under the plastic, cutting into my skin only enough to sting. Then the pressure snaps, the restraint falling away.
My hands drop free. My joints ache as the circulation rushes back, pins and needles racing up my fingertips. My balance wavers for only a heartbeat, and even that’s too much of a victory for them.
I keep them slack behind me, acting like I didn’t register the shift. Feigning helplessness. Letting him believe I didn’t just become the most dangerous person in this room.
“Yeah,” one of them laughs, stepping in front of me and rubbing himself harder. “Make this interesting.”
He leans down.
His face is inches from mine.
His breath is a warm, putrid cloud when he whispers, “Show us what a little fighter you are.”
I smile.
Slow. Sweet.
Deadly.
Before any of them realize I’ve shifted, my fingers slide up the wrist of the bastard who cut my ties. I keep my posture loose, my shoulders trembling like prey about to break. They buy it instantly. Predators always do. They see what they want to see.
I lift my gaze, eyes wide and glossy with pretend terror, and let my voice wobble as I whisper, “Please… please don’t hurt me.”
They howl with laughter, smug and sure of themselves. One of them steps forward, his fingers brushing my cheek with a softness that feels worse than any hit. “Oh, baby,” he croons, “you’ll be begging a lot harder than that before we’re done.”
I tilt my head, let my lower lip tremble in a flawless echo of fear. Then I let it drain away, sharpening into intent. “Don’t say I didn’t give you a chance.”
For a heartbeat they don’t understand. Then I suck in a breath and scream, loud and panicked, “Please! Please, I’m begging you!”
They blink. Confusion flits across their faces just long enough.
I snap the wrist I’m holding.
The crack is sharp, a wet pop that echoes off the concrete walls. He shrieks, high-pitched and shocked, and I ride the momentum, twisting his arm behind him. His friends surge forward, but they’re too slow. Too cocky. Too focused on the performance they think I’m giving them.
And I keep the lie breathing.
Every strike I land is punctuated by a scream, each one tailored to sound like fear instead of fury. I raise my voice high and trembling so anyone on the other side of the door hears exactly what they expect to hear.
“Stop, please—please don’t!” My cry echoes against the metal walls as I twist the first man’s broken wrist until he collapses.
Another thug charges, and I sidestep, slicing under his ribs.
His breath leaves him in a choked grunt, but I drown it beneath my wail.
“No! It hurts—please, stop!” I drag the last word out until it cracks, letting my breath hitch the way it used to when I was terrified.
Only now it’s all show. Controlled. Weaponized.
I let my voice tremble violently, mixing sobs into each movement so the men upstairs will hear nothing but a victim breaking. If someone passes by, they’ll think these bastards are winning.