Grievous (Scarlet Scars #2)(68)

And it would be easy… so easy… to just give in, to let it happen, to let him break me, so he’ll grow tired of this back-and-forth. And so many times I’ve been tempted to let go, to let him win, but I can’t, because she exists. This breathing little body, one with a heart and a soul… she needs saved from it all before her innocence is gone. Giving in to him won’t spare her. It’ll just doom her to a life like mine. A life of hurt, of pain, before one day he decides she, too, isn’t worth the trouble she brings.

Kassian loosens his hold on my arm, and I think he might leave, but instead he reaches up, brushing his fingertips along my battered cheek again.

He thinks my silence is a sign of surrendering.

“Do you want that mattress yet, pretty girl?” he asks, his voice low as he grasps my chin. “It is up to you.”

I remain silent, staring at him.

“You think, by not speaking, that you are saying nothing, but I hear you, suka,” he says, pressing right up against me, making me take a step back as his grip on my chin tightens. “I know every thought that passes through your mind. Stupid girl, thinking you can beat me at this. Still thinking someone is going to rescue you, that maybe your scarred little plaything cares, but I am sorry, so very sorry, because nobody is coming to help. He was here two nights ago, upstairs in my office, discussing the money I promised for turning you over, all the while you were laying down here, sweaty, sticky, covered in me. If he wanted you, he would not have just walked out that door. The sooner you get that through your head, the easier this will be. So I will ask you once more, and this is it… I will not ask again. Do you want that mattress yet?”

Fuck you. Those words are on the tip of my tongue, desperate to spring free, but self-preservation forces them back. As much as I want to say no, that I don’t want his goddamn generosity, I know I can’t… but I can’t say yes, either. No matter what I say here, I’m wrong. No matter what I do, I’m taking a risk, a big one… the kind of risk that could lead to the end of everything. So instead of answering, I just stand here, frozen, yet again refusing to acknowledge his question, which is probably the biggest risk of all.

Errr… scratch the probably.

I see it in his eyes, the flicker of rage that I know well, so intense that I gasp seconds before he even acts on it. As soon as I inhale sharply, his hands are around my throat, squeezing, choking. I lash out at him, desperate to get him to let go, scratching his face with my jagged nails before trying to pry his hands away from my throat, but he won’t loosen his hold. My vision grows fuzzy, my chest feeling like it might burst, and I fight with all my strength, flailing, punching, clawing, but nothing is working.

Nothing ever works.

I grow sluggish, dizziness rushing through my body. It strikes me at that moment, the realization that consciousness is about to be gone, so in that split second, I do the only thing I’ve got the strength to do. Poke.

I jam my fingers right in his eyes as hard as I can.

He flinches. He doesn’t expect it. It’s not enough to incapacitate the man, but it buys me a few more seconds, buys me another deep breath. Air rushes into my lungs as he shoves me, my legs too weak to hold me. I slam into the concrete, banging my head hard, pain rippling down my spine as everything goes black. It’s only a few seconds, and I feel like I’m going to puke when I come back around, but there isn’t time for it, there’s only time to react, because I see his foot.

It’s coming right at me, aimed straight for my face.

He’s about to stomp me into oblivion.

Oh god, no.

I turn my head, curling into myself, going fetal as he kicks… and kicks… and kicks. I protect my head, protect my face, but my body is a lost cause. There’s too much of it to shield from him as he rips the blanket away.

Russian words fly from his lips, too fast, too furious for me to understand. His leg must grow tired because he stops kicking, instead grabbing me. I don’t know what he’s doing as he yanks me around, pinning me down, until he fumbles with his pants, his body on top of mine, a hand around my throat again.

“I have been nice,” he growls. “We will see how easy you break when I am not being nice anymore.”

Go to your happy place.

Go to the house, the one with the red door and the white picket fence, the one where your daughter used to twirl around on the wooden floors. Go back to where nighttime meant kisses and hugs, bedtime stories and cuddles with Buster. Go to where sunrises were promises instead of just false hope. Go to where love still lives. Go to where you were happy.

Go there.

Stay there.

Don’t be here anymore.

I fade… fade… fade away, trying to ignore his touch, trying to ignore the pain of his hands and the brutality of his thrusts. I try to ignore the feel of his breath on my skin and the ugliness of his words. It’s hard, so hard, to block him out, when he keeps squeezing my throat, strangling the air from my lungs, making me teeter on the edge of consciousness. I try to imagine her instead, try to cling to her, but her face is lost in the shadows, her voice a fading whisper.

Blackness.

Blackness.

Blackness.

I’m choking, gagging. I can’t breathe.

Flashes, again and again, flickers of reality as I’m in and out of it. I get lost in the blackness for too long at one point, the pain starting to fade away, a sense of peace taking over, before I’m violently yanked back to reality. Gasping, I blink rapidly and clutch the chain around my neck as I’m dragged across the floor by it. He lets go, dropping me on top of the rough metal grate, and I wince, wheezing, trying to get air, but it’s not enough, or maybe it’s too much, because I pass out right away.