Kings of Chaos (Dirty Broken Savages #1)(25)

The less involvement, the better, at this point.

Something passes over her face, and she pushes away from the car and comes toward me. I half expect her to offer a hand to shake on the deal or something, but she passes that distance and gets right in my face.

I hold my ground, not sure what she’s up to, until she puts her hands on my chest. I can feel the heat of her skin through my shirt, and she leans up, her mouth just a few breaths away from mine like she’s going to kiss me.

There’s a little smirk on her face as she drags her hands downward, letting her nails scrape along the planes of my chest, and even through the shirt, I can feel the sensation of it. It sends a shiver down my spine, and my cock reacts immediately, like it’s pissed at me for not giving in to what it wanted in the first place.

I drag in a breath, my nostrils flaring, confused at what the hell River is doing. Her hands trail lower, down my stomach, and then even lower until I’m sure she’s going to do something stupid like take my cock out and touch me right here in the driveway.

I open my mouth to tell her to stop, but her hands stop short. Her mouth is still right there, so close I can see the plush softness of it, which is such a contrast to the bullshit she seems to always be spewing from it.

Her tongue darts out, pink and wet, and she licks her lips before reaching up to touch my cheek.

“One more thing you should know,” she murmurs, her voice low and sultry. “I’ve come harder from a bicycle seat than whatever uncoordinated shit you were doing with your fingers just now. It was pathetic.”

Before I can even process that, she rears back and slaps me across the cheek, then turns to walk away.

My body processes pain faster than most things, apparently, because a split second after the sharp sting registers, I reach out and grab her arm, yanking her back toward me.

Fury lances through me, dulling the edge of my arousal. I narrow my eyes at her, pinning her with my glare.

“Don’t fucking push us, River,” I growl. “Any of us. We don’t have the patience to be gentle with you.”

She laughs right in my face, as if the threat doesn’t mean shit to her.

“What makes you think I’ve ever had things gentle?”

With those words, she yanks out of my grasp and goes back to the house, slamming the door closed behind her.





11





RIVER





THERE ARE six men standing in front of me, their faces twisted into grim masks of amusement and sadistic delight. Sometimes, when I try to focus on one or the other, the shapes and angles of the faces blur, making it hard to tell which one is which. They’re just men, just tall and cruel, so much bigger and more powerful than I am.

I’m held in a room, my arms chained to the wall, my legs spread wide. I can feel my heart racing in my chest, beating so fast and so hard that it feels like it might explode. It’s fear, and I can taste that in the back of my throat, but there’s anger there, too. And disgust.

My sister is nearby, quiet tears running down her face where she’s chained up next to me. Her face blurs and twists when I try to look at her, wanting to make sure she’s okay. I can’t tell. She won’t say anything.

Beyond the men is a room, but I can’t make out anything in it. That part is weird and nebulous, as if the details of it are shifting while I’m hunting for them. There should be a window just to the left, the curtains drawn over it, the latch fastened tight.

There’s another window somewhere in the room off to the right, but that one is boarded up, and no amount of scrabbling at the wood with blunt nails will pry the boards loose.

The men laugh, telling private jokes to each other, talking about us—how we look, how we smell. Laughing at our fear and distress. We’re just playthings for them. Captured and tormented to punish our father for the transgressions he committed against them. Even though we had nothing to do with it. Even though we’re innocent in all of this.

We’re paying for a man’s sins, used as tools, which is apparently a woman’s place in this world.

All I can think is that I have to protect Hannah. Whatever they do to me, I have to keep her safe. I can endure it. I can handle the pain.

The scene changes, reality shifting like sand around me. In this memory, they hit me with a flogger, the ends knotted into thick lumps that lash against my skin, leaving behind bruises and welts that will make it impossible to sleep later. The back of my shirt is torn open, and the front of it is barely hanging on, giving the illusion of modesty, even though there’s nothing I can do if they decide to rip the whole thing away.

My back is just an aching mass of flesh, and they don’t stop.

The flogger is just a warm up, an appetizer. I bite the inside of my cheek, trying to keep from crying out and letting them know how much it hurts.

Whenever one of them looks at Hannah, I snarl, lashing out.

“Coward! Asshole!” I spit. “Pick on someone your own size!”

And their egos make them fall for it. They can’t allow me, a teenage kid, to make them feel small.

My sister stays quiet, the way I told her to.

Just let me handle it, Hannah. Let me do this for you.

Her eyes are closed, as if she doesn’t want to see it. Like she’d rather be anywhere but here.

The torments feel so stark in this dream. Like I’m really there again, chained up in that dark room, heavy with the stench of sweat and fear and depravity.