Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 80102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Despite having a man on either side of me, they still drag me out of the room, my knees nearly touching the floor. I know I’m still alive because the pain it causes is excruciating. I don’t know if it’s sweat or fucking tears making my eyes burn.
I always knew death would come earlier for me than it did most people, but I don’t think I imagined it would be so long and drawn out. I figured I would make a mistake when entering a house and I’d take a bullet to the head, my death coming quick and virtually painlessly.
As I’m thrown without care into a small dark room, I have to wonder if I’d still take this path in life if I had the privilege of knowing this is how it would end.
One of the guys kicks me in the shoulder, muttering cuss words in Spanish before they turn and leave. I try my best to shift my weight in an attempt to find a more comfortable position to meet my maker in, but there’s no comfort in any position.
Curling on my side hurts the least, so that’s how I stay.
I should’ve asked questions when Angel told me about this job. I should’ve ignored the sense of brotherhood it gave me to say yes. Helping others who I have any fucking connection to only leads to trouble, something I’ve discovered more than once in my life, yet I keep fucking doing it. There isn’t one bastard that has walked through the doors of the Mission Mercenaries office who would do the same for me. The brotherhood I imagined is just that, fantasy, and this time, it’s going to get me killed.
Chapter 7
Ayla
“For you,” the man says, sitting on the side of the bed holding out two one-hundred-dollar bills.
“That’s not necessary,” I tell him as I reach for the money. “But thank you.”
Getting tipped for what boils down to sexual assault gives me fucking hives.
I fought this man, begged him to stop, because it’s what he wanted. It’s what he paid for. Tipping isn’t necessary, but Pirro would hurt me more than this man did if I turned down the money. It’s not that I get to keep it. The cash will be pocketed by someone else. We have no need for money.
Everything you’ll ever need is provided.
I’ve heard it too many times to count, as if human decency and a right to choose are too much to ask for because it’s never on the list of things given by these animals.
The man smiles, his lips curling up even higher when his eyes scan his handiwork. The bruises he left behind won’t take long to heal. He isn’t one of the men who hurts me as much as he probably could. How fucked up am I in the head to be grateful that this piece of shit only hurt me a little?
“I’ll be able to make my way back here in a few weeks,” he says, licking his lips. “I can’t wait to see you again.”
“It’ll be my pleasure,” I lie, the words burning in my throat, because attacking him would only lead to me receiving exactly what I deal out or more.
He nods, liking the way I step back as he stands to get dressed.
I don’t think he’s a bad man. I think he has a certain kink and this may be the only place he’s been able to find to satisfy it. I have very little doubt he knows that I’m not exactly as willing of a participant as he thinks.
Guys like him are few and far between. Most of the men who come here get hard just knowing that we’ve been abducted and are working against our will, despite the show we put on to meet the customer’s needs.
I resist the urge to step closer and ask him for help. All it would earn the man is a bullet in his head before he walked out of the house. I’ve heard whispers of others trying it, for it to only lead to more punishment for both parties involved.
He winces as he pulls on his shirt but it quickly transforms into a knowing smile.
I wonder just how devious he is. If he knew that his rape fantasy was real, would he stop? Would it turn him on even more if he discovered that he was actually doing what he fantasized? If he knew my begging was real, that the scratches on his back were there because I was really fighting, would he keep going? Would he offer to help save me? Would he fuck me harder?
“Have a good night,” I tell him as I walk toward the door instead of asking him any of those questions.
I hate men like him, but at the same time, being able to fight the men who hurt me is the only time I’m allowed to take any of the anger about my current situation in life out on anyone. It calms the voices inside of me that want to speak up in every other situation. It gives me back a little power, and some days, I think it’s the only thing that keeps me going.