All Chained Up (Devil's Rock #1)(25)

The inmate’s laughter faded in the face of his stony gaze. Gronsky shrugged. “Well, go on. Knock yourself out, man.”

Callaghan turned back to face her. “I’ll do that.”

She dragged a shuddering breath into her lungs, everything inside her, all of her, shriveling up as he approached, his steps thudding over the concrete, each one jarring and striking fresh fear deep into her bones.

She shrank back on the bed, her gaze fixed in horror on him. She’d always known that Callaghan was dangerous, but she had somehow imagined him above this. Which was ridiculous. He had said it best. She didn’t know f*ck all about this place. Or him, for that matter.

He stopped at the foot of the bed, towering over her as she cowered, arms still pinned above her. Bitter dread washed over her as he did a quick scan of her body, and she hated him right then. As scared as she was, she despised him for making her feel like this, for betraying her. She had treated him. Cared for him—at least physically. And now he would do this to her.

Her pants were still pulled partially down, trapped below her hips, revealing her underwear. Sensible underwear. Pale pink cotton panties, but she had never felt so exposed and humiliated.

He grabbed her feet and jerked off her tennis shoes, not bothering with the laces. He tossed one shoe over his shoulder, then the next one followed. His gaze lowered to her panties, resting there for an agonizing moment, his square jaw granite. A muscle feathered along his cheek.

His hands curled around the loosened waistband of her scrubs, the backs of his fingers warm on the tops of her thighs. She jumped as though singed by a white-hot poker.

“N-No,” she choked.

His cold gaze shot to her face and held her stare for a long moment. Those blue eyes ensnared her, effectively trapping her more than the hands pinning her arms.

He looked away, shutting her out as he dragged her pants down her legs in one swift motion, stripping her of everything except her panties and top.

Something died inside of her as she lay there, splayed before these prisoners in only her underwear and a shirt. This was really happening. Not a nightmare. Not a movie. She swallowed back a sob, thinking of her sister and all her well-meaning advice. She should have listened to her.

Gronsky groaned in approval, more animal than man, his features rapt on her, reminding her of some beast set on devouring her. He crowded close to Callaghan. “Fucking hot.”

Callaghan sent him an annoyed look. “Back off.”

She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, wishing she could shut her ears to their voices, too. To everything. To all of this.

A squeak escaped her when his hard hands circled her ankles, wrapping easily around their width. Her eyes flew open again as Callaghan dragged her down the bed and stepped between her knees. He ran his big hands up her bare legs, over her knees and the tops of her thighs. Gulping back a sob, she sucked in a breath. His gaze lifted to her face. That sea of blue could drown a small city. Astounding, really, that such cruelty lurked in those eyes.

Gronsky hovered a little behind him, shifting his weight on each foot, his face contorting with excitement as he watched Callaghan’s hands roam over her.

“Knox,” she pleaded, hoping that using his name might reach him, might break through and affect him. Remind him that she was a person. Not an object to be used and destroyed. “Please.”

He didn’t seem to be looking at her anymore, though. His gaze flicked up to the inmate pinning her arms to the bed and then sideways to Gronsky.

“C’mon, man,” Pritchard growled. “We ain’t got all day and I want my turn, too.”

Annoyance cracked the stony mask of his face, but he obliged, coming over her, flattening his hands on either side of her head. She sucked in a sharp breath, certain she was about to start hyperventilating. Or pass out. Maybe that was best . . . so she wouldn’t be present for what was about to happen to her.

He was so big she felt smothered, even though he hadn’t dropped his full weight on her body. Ducking his head, he brought his mouth close to her ear. “Just lay still,” he whispered.

She swallowed back a sob.

She had chosen such a careful life. Safe. How could this be happening . . . ?

She blinked suddenly burning eyes, the air still crashing from her lips harshly.

Maybe it was such thinking that got her here. Thinking that she somehow deserved better. That something like this could never happen to her if she made smart choices. If she didn’t want it to. If she didn’t let it.

“Shh.” He placed one hand on her forehead while the other hand gripped her waist, a tactile reminder that he was not about kindness or tenderness. He was about ruining her. Hurting her. “It will be over soon.”

Oh. God. She shuddered, bile rising to her throat at his hushed utterance.

She turned her face away, stared toward the windows, trying to disappear inside herself. Something glinted through the glass, catching her eye. She squinted, noticing it again. It flashed in the sunlight from atop the neighboring building.

Then suddenly Callaghan surged. Lightning fast, he sprang. She flinched, expecting pain, but it never came. He didn’t touch her.

His hands dove for Pritchard—grabbed him by the throat and hauled him off the bed. Simultaneously, he lashed out and kicked Gronsky in the face in a smacking crunch of shoe on bone that launched the other inmate halfway across the room.

Suddenly free, she sat up, gaping at Callaghan and Pritchard. They fell to the floor in a pile of wrestling limbs and flying fists. Gronsky staggered around with his hands cupping his nose, blood streaming through his fingers, obscenities flying from his mouth like bullets.