28. You won’t break me, bitch #2
This has gone so far beyond shady that maybe a week is history by now and I zoned out through the passage of time.
Ironically, my bladder grounds my panic. The gnawing cramps have become a part of the myriad aches plaguing me, but it can’t have been a week since I last used the toilet.
I cling to that.
Desperate, hurting from the agonizing need to pee, I cry out, “If you don’t bring me a fucking bucket, I’ll piss at the table!”
I shudder at the notion and for the first time, their torture feels as if it’s working.
Like they’re breaking me.
I hate it. Them. This situation.
The rage fuels me.
The threat of peeing myself feels horrifically imminent. My bladder is burning. I didn’t know bladders could do that. Outside of UTIs. And this is worse.
So much worse.
I could pee.
So easily.
Let go.
Relieve the pressure.
Fuck.
In the back of my mind, I can’t help but think of the people who don’t have the promise of a barrage of lawyers to protect them. I can’t imagine how scary it is to be behind this table without the backing of a family like mine.
And then there’s Maxim.
I hate that this whole thing has spread distrust between us.
I want to shove it aside, but my mind won’t let me. It’s as if they showed me the pictures and the knife just to rile me up, to make me question him.
Is that possible?
I mean… it could be.
Maxim said something about Derek Dyers wanting to vouch for me first, but that Harrington Sr. expected me to partner with his son… so, I don’t know what any of that means aside from Maxim’s presence coming as a surprise to them.
I remember the pause in the crowd when he answered the Veronian call as he vouched for me.
Is that what this is about?
They want to tear us apart?
I know they’re looking for weaknesses.
And my subconscious clung to that—putting Maxim in the bad seat. But he’s mine.
I’m his.
How many times has he shown up for me?
How many heads have rolled to keep me safe?
Finally, Bordeau walks in.
With a bucket.
My nostrils flare in disgust but my tongue gets the better of me. “Should have told me you were into golden showers, sicko. I’d have facilitated your perversions earlier.”
He hurls the bucket at me. “Bitch!”
It slams into my head, but the plastic’s too light to do much damage. It acts as a reminder that my reflexes are shot. Something that’s confirmed when I’m slow to react as he releases one of my cuffs.
Afterward, the door clicks upon his exit and the lock sounds. I awkwardly stand and manage to work it out so that I don’t create a mess.
The relief, that ache dissipating, the shadow of the burn fading, is enough to make me cry.
Yet those tears infuriate me more.
I hate that the bucket has to stay close to me. I hate that I can smell it. I hate that I might need to use it again. I fucking hate all of this!
More hours pass and my mind shreds apart every interaction, every body part, every aspect of that night. I’m exhausted and weak and my blood sugar’s low. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this crappy in my whole life and I’ve been kidnapped before!
The door opens, but I don’t bother looking up. “Phone. Call.”
Bordeau walks over to the table. “I was hoping you’d have seen sense by now.”
A part of me’s sure he’ll take away the bucket, and if he does, the likelihood of me throwing my pee on him if he dares to try soars, but that’s when the clatter of a set of keys comes to my attention.
I glance to the side without turning my head, rolling my new ring between my fingers as I ponder his game.
I know from my lessons with Brennan that I could end this pasty motherfucker in two seconds flat. At least, when I haven’t been forcibly detained, starved, and dehydrated…
It’s quite within my skill set to bring him to his knees and have him begging for Mommy in less time than it takes for him to swallow his balls.
But I’m trying to get out of here, not gain a new permanent residence in this shit heap.
Plus, I do feel weak.
He releases me from the lock on the table, which at least lets me get some wiggle room back into my shoulders. They’re aching and I’m cold, which was probably another of their tactics.
Is this how the cops treat everyone? Or just me while on this Veronian-shaped field trip?
“Come on. Get up.”
I’m stiff and every joint hurts from being in the same position for this long, so I’m slower than I’d like. Too slow. My reflexes are worse than earlier. When Bordeau grabs me by the arm and drags me to my feet, I can only follow.
The next thing I know, he’s shoving me against the wall, his body pushing up against mine.
I stare at him, knowing full well that if I retaliate, I’m fucked.
I don’t look around for cameras. I already noticed they were turned away yesterday or whenever yesterday might have been.
“Gotta make sure we did a good job searching you.”
His face flushes as he gropes me. Hungry hands smooth over a body that doesn’t belong to him. I stare at his expression, the lust in it, the wild eyes as he uses my frailty against me, the distance between us growing even as neither of us takes a step apart.
The lights are too bright and he’s too warm and his breath is rancid.
It’s like this isn’t happening to me. His disgusting erection rubs over my hip as he rocks it back and forth. It triggers a panicked flutter in my brain that has me locking down. If I don’t, I’ll start crying. And I refuse to let him see the chink in my armor.
Will I still be a virgin on my wedding night?
That’s the dumb question that flitters through my brain.
But it has no place here.
None whatsoever.
As he dry humps me, I know this situation will only get worse.
The sound of a zipper and his garbled, “You’re going to be mine,” are my triggers.
It’s like my brain kicks that strange out-of-body experience into touch and weakened state aside, I’m facing a pervert who has no decorum and a very low arousal tolerance.