Nix. (Den of Mercenaries Book 3)(5)

She refused to swallow, letting it drip from her mouth instead as Lawrence Kendall—her captor and abuser— grunted his approval, eyes riveted to the disgusting sight she must have made. He breathed rather harshly as he jerked his pants up around muscled hips, carefully tucking his now flaccid penis away.

Her job done, Luna waited until his back was turned before she grabbed the towel he allowed her to keep nearby, dragging the rough material over her face.

As he turned back to look at her, she saw the fine mist of sweat coating his brow, his eyes shining with a mixture of glee and dark amusement. Despite the last half-hour he’d spent in the room with her, he was ready to go again.

Once, that had been the most disgusting part about him—the casual way in which he went about preparing to leave as though he hadn’t violated her without care—but then she had learned to avert her gaze, pretending like he didn’t exist for as long as she could.

But then she had learned that it was nothing compared to the way he came toward her once they were finished and pat her head like a good little pet—or sweeping his fingers over her skin as though needing to remind her of what they had just done.

It wasn’t nearly as vomit worthy as the actual pain that came when she clutched at sheets to keep from screaming out in pain as he grunted in her ear, but it was a close second.

“Get yourself cleaned up,” Lawrence said running thick fingers through cropped blonde hair. “You’ll be with me today.”

Luna didn’t respond—she didn’t even blink.

She knew better.

Instead, she just waited for him to go before stumbling to her feet and going about her routine.

First she stripped the bed as she had been taught, dropping it all on the floor at the foot of it where someone would stop in to take it all away.

It didn’t matter that this time the bed had gone unused, Lawrence had sat on it, and that was enough for her.

It was a ritual at this point—something she no longer thought about.

She longed for the day when the routine broke.

Glancing at the door, she contemplated turning the lock, but knew better—it wouldn’t be worth the beating she took if she did. Instead, she started for the bathroom, the chain around her ankle rattling as she walked.

It had taken a solid two months to get used to the feel of the metal when she had first been given to Lawrence. The chain links were thick and sturdy, the anklet just as wide. No amount of tugging and pulling had loosened it—and even when she’d lost weight, it still wasn’t enough to get her ankle through.

The restraint was just long enough, allowing her to move through the space with ease, though she wished the weight wasn’t so familiar.

Turning the taps to the shower on, Luna went back to the sink to lean against, waiting for the water to heat. With her toothbrush in hand, and a healthy dollop of toothpaste, she scrubbed her mouth and tongue until she couldn’t taste anything but mint and cool air.

And only once steam billowed out from behind the glass door did she get in the stall.

The first lash of water across her bare skin was the worst—the scalding heat already reddening her naturally tan skin. It was almost unbearable, but she refused to move from the onslaught, letting it sink into her pores and purge everything out.

Under the spray of water, she washed it all away.

The filth.

The reminder that her life was no longer her own.

The evidence of what she had suffered.

Only when the bathroom was foggy with steam and her skin was sensitive to the touch did she finally step out and don the robe that hung from a hook on the back of the door, careful to avert her gaze.

Luna had never known shame the way she did when she saw her own naked reflection. If she were able, she avoided a mirror all together. The person she saw reflected in the glass wasn’t her. Not really.

There was no spark in her eye.

No lust for life.

Just emptiness.

Like she was a f*cking ghost walking the earth.

Snagging a brush from a drawer, Luna worked it through her hair, tugging it through the long, tangled strands of her hair until all the kinks and knots were gone.

One of Lawrence’s goons awaited her when she walked out of the bathroom, and though he stared, she knew he wouldn’t touch her. There were other girls they could freely paw and maul, but Luna wasn’t one of them.

That didn’t mean Lawrence didn’t share her, he did, but it was only with men of his choosing, and usually because he wanted something from them.

Was that what this night was about?

Did he have another deal to make?

Once she was free of her restraints, Luna dressed in clothes left behind, frilly things that he insisted she wear.

What did whores need with anything other than lingerie?

At least, that was the question Lawrence had asked of her three years ago when she was dragged to this place against her will, not a single person moved by her tear-blotched face, or pleas for mercy.

It also hadn’t mattered that she had only been fourteen at the time, a mere child.

If anything, that had only made her more appealing to Lawrence.

Men—men like Lawrence—would pay more for the thrill of raping a minor.

They were sick that way.

Out in the hallway—or rather the breezeway since it opened to lush gardens, and the main house out front.

With a hand wrapped around her bicep, the guard led her out of the guest house and around to another building where the parties were held.