Tears of Tess (Monsters in the Dark #1)(46)

“Not low enough, huh, pet.” He grunted, capturing me in meaty arms, pulling me to his mouth. I squirmed as he licked the chocolate, leaving a cold, slimy trail from his tongue. He shifted, ducking his head; one lash of his tongue caught my clit. My entire body wanted to disintegrate from shame and the grossness of being tongued by a gargoyle.

“You’re a f*cking bastard. You won’t get away with this.” Images of slicing his neck and throwing him into a roaring crematorium helped endure his touch. All the wetness Q conjured disappeared, leaving me dry, unwilling, completely sick to my stomach.

My eyes widened in realization. My body reacted to Q despite what he did—because of what he did. But I shut down when another touched me. If Q had been the one to lick, I would’ve shuddered in erotic torture, hating it, but secretly loving it. But the Russian behemoth repulsed me. The very thought of him anywhere near my body brought me out in dry heaves.

The revelation my body reacted for Q, despite everything, brought equal measures of torment and peace. My body wanted Q’s, but at the same time it wanted nobody else. Had he trained me so well, without my knowledge? Or had I given him my sense of touch so willingly? Please don’t let him own that, too.

I hated the Russian with a fire that would never burn out, whereas my hatred for Q seethed and simmered, hot enough to melt my body. I may want to kill Q for ruining my life, but I didn’t hate him enough to kill myself so he would never have me.

The Russian’s fat fingers pried my thighs apart and his heavy breath wafted me in garlic. He pushed, and I lost my footing, swinging wide. He stepped onto the podium, catching my swinging body when I slammed against him. He deliberately faced me away from Q, putting himself between us.

Facing the other wall, my eyes widened at the most fantastical mural painted in browns, blacks, and shadow. A cloud of sparrows decorated the wall. I could almost feel wind from fluttering wings as they flew from the grips of a black storm cloud. Freedom beckoned in the patch of blue sky by the ceiling. The painting made my heart weep, needing the same freedom. I couldn’t count how many little birds, but each one was unique, coming to life with perfection.

Russian’s hand grabbed my breast, twisting painfully. His mouth clamped down on my ear.

I opened my mouth to scream, to demand Q to claim me, but an obscenely large hand clamped over my mouth. Blocking nose and mouth, just like Leather Jacket had done.

My lungs seized, and I fought. He chuckled as my feeble attempts made a repulsive hard cock wedge between my ass cheeks. My eyes flew to the sparrows. I wished I could sprout wings and fly. I tried to lose myself in the painting, willing my mind to leave.

Fumbling between us, he withdrew something, bringing it to my stomach. Something icy cold bit flesh. I gasped, heart bucking.

“Hush, little whore. This is between us. You cost me a lot of money, you know. I think it’s only fair I sample you.” A fat hand fumbled on my lower belly, and the loathsome sound of dress ripping filled me with black dread. My eyes rolled, trying to see below. What was the icy thing slicing through the material?

With another sharp tug, the dress hung ruined and the tightness around my ass softened as filigree strands went from tight to gaping.

He licked my ear, flashing a hunting knife. I groaned and thrashed. The blade was rust spotted and tarnished, but glinted wicked sharp. “Stop wriggling, little fish. I’m not going to cut you.” He flipped the blade so sharp metal rested in a calloused palm and a sweat stained, wooden handle faced upward.

Oh, shit.

Instincts screamed. He’s going to rape you with the handle of a knife!

I moaned as loud as I could, using all valuable oxygen to call for help. Faintness tinged when Q ordered in a controlled and angry voice, “Victor, let go of my gift.”

The words rang with power; I melted with relief. Q wouldn’t let anything bad happen. I knew it. I trusted him to keep me for his own twisted pleasures.

“Just having a hug, Mr. M. I’ll let her go in a moment.” He looked over a shoulder, no doubt smiling at Q. I thrust hips backward, trying to kick him off balance, but he remained unmovable.

Tension knotted, waiting for Q to demand he unhand me, that he’d touched long enough, but nothing came.

Silence reigned; my heart died as the Russian chuckled soundlessly in my ear. “I reckon I have about thirty seconds before I’m made to stop….”

I didn’t have time to breathe. He pushed a large boot against the GPS tracker on my ankle, forcing legs to splay. Capturing my weight completely, he positioned the butt of the knife handle against my entrance.

I struggled, I fought, but I was a fly in sticky flypaper… inconsequential.

“I wish this was my cock, but I can make do,” he muttered. He bit my throat, slamming the handle inside. I opened my mouth behind fleshy palm and screamed. My lungs cried but no sound came out. He tore into me, blazing with splinters and violation. My dryness condemned me to feel every ridge of wood, every scrape of awful hardness.

Eyes glazed with grey, trying to pass out, but anger cannonballed into my blood. Fight and wrath heated and I fought with all my might.

The Russian grunted as I went wild. I twisted and twined. I kicked and thrashed.

I didn’t care if I killed myself getting free, I couldn’t let him do this. It hurt. It hurt! Q didn’t save me. He let the bastard thrust a knife deep inside.

A shot rang out, then I was falling, falling, coming to a horrible stop with arms wrenched from sockets by the cuffs. I dangled with head lolling on my shoulders, sucking in gluttonous breaths of oxygen.