Attest (Centrifuge Duet Book 2)(36)
“I see you’ve finally finished with your beauty sleep,” he snaps, advancing on me. “You looked pretty fuckable lying there moaning away like a bitch in heat—”
“You touch me and I'll have you killed,” I cut him off. I'm not bluffing. I know plenty of people who can dispose of anyone I ask them to. “Where am I? What the hell do you want with me?”
Lashing out at him with my legs, I land a good kick to his stomach. He grunts, but doesn’t slow his stride toward me. Ignoring my shouted questions, he slaps my legs down. Grabbing me by the arm, he hauls me off the bed, shaking me when I continue to struggle. My feet barely touch the ground as he towers over my five foot eleven frame, even with the added height of my heels.
This guy is massive, and regret fills me when he glowers down at me in rage. It’s going to hurt if he decides to turn violent. Silently, he drags me out of the room, down an expensively decorated hallway, and into an open plan living area.
“Is he here yet?” he barks to the other three men in the room.
They’re all equally as big and scary looking as the guy holding me. I didn't get a good look at the time, but I’m pretty sure they’re the other guys from the van. “She’s really starting to piss me off.”
“He’ll be here in ten. We've got plenty of time to teach her a quick lesson, Duke,” the black-haired guy sitting by himself at the breakfast bar announces to the bastard holding me. His gaze travels from the top of my long blonde hair and down my face, coming to rest on my chest, which is heaving from the exertion of trying to keep on my feet during my trip from the bedroom.
“Good idea.” Duke sneers down at me, his intent written all over his face. His grip on my arms tightens. My stomach drops and my adrenaline spikes. Backing me up against the closest wall, he rips open my satin dress shirt, exposing my blue lace bra. I instinctively struggle, albeit sluggishly because my head is still foggy, but he pins my hands above my head by holding both my wrists in one of his big paws. Groping my covered breasts without finesse, he squeezes and pinches. I’m about to knee him when one of the men sitting on the couch jumps up and pulls Duke off of me.
“If you value your fucked-up life, you won’t touch her. We’re here to snatch and deliver, not for fun,” the man states.
Duke lets go of me as he’s yanked backward by the man speaking. Once I have enough space, I rear back and punch him in the face before kneeing him in the balls. My ample self-defence skills are rising to the surface, the residual fog from the sedative they injected into me clearing somewhat. My attack on his family jewels makes him drop to one knee. His attempts to rise to his full height are hampered by the guy holding him. Even so, he still manages to backhand me across the face, my head jerking to the side from the impact. Pain shoots through my cheek and lip, the metallic taste of blood filling my mouth. My face throbs, but I ignore it, choosing to make a run for the front door. Thank God, I'm able to run in heels, my movements sure and balanced, despite the lasting effects of whatever the hell they drugged me with earlier.
Finally shaking off the guy who pulled him off me, Duke, grabs me around the waist, successfully foiling my escape. When he pulls me back against him, I throw my head back and strike him in the chin. He bellows, but doesn’t loosen his hold on me.
In the chaos, the other men rise to their feet and pull their guns. I vaguely register the weapons as they’re trained on me, concentrating instead on my struggle with Duke. I land a couple of good punches to his face and another knee to his groin. He hits me. The blows are hard enough to enough to stun, even as I use every ounce of my defensive fight training to avoid them. I’m left reeling when I mistime my ducking and weaving. It glances off my temple, and I feel my legs turn to jelly, seconds before an unexpected, booming shout from one of the other men fills the room. Duke uses my wavering concentration to his advantage, seizing me from behind and pulling me to his chest. Using his arms to pin mine to my sides, he slides a clammy hand into my bra and kneads my breast.
“Stop fucking touching her,” the guy, who pulled Duke off me initially orders him once more. His serious, almost professional expression matches the take-no-prisoner’s persona he presents with his crew cut, cargo pants, and khaki T-shirt. He looks like a mercenary. Pushing Duke away from me and grabbing me by the top of my arm, he squeezes tight when I resist.
“Duke, fuck off over there and stay the fuck away from her. I won’t tell you again.” He points at the couch. Duke stares at me, intense loathing in his eyes, before he limps off and collapses on the lounge. “Cain, take her back to the bedroom and watch her.”
He shouts this at the smart mouth from the breakfast bar before he turns his back to huddle with the man he was sitting next to when we entered. Cain salutes the order, winking at me like we're about to share a private joke. I shudder under his lust-filled perusal.
“No problem, Stu.” The mercenary-looking man now has a name. I mentally catalogue all of them. It’ll come in handy later, I’m certain.
The two who’ve huddled are talking in hushed tones, ignoring the rest of us. They appear to be the leaders of this group, so I assume this house belongs to one of them. My first thought when I look at them is that they have military backgrounds, their upright bearing and haircuts a good indication. Either military or MC. They wouldn’t look out of place in a cut either.