Survivor (First to Fight #2)(19)

My phone dings, causing my heart to thump heavily against my ribs. Damian chuckles as he reads the message on the screen. “What’s your passcode?” he asks.

When I don’t respond immediately his right hand disappears for a second and then returns, flashing something thin and metallic, even with the lack of light. My body goes still as he brings the blade closer. He traces the curve of my cheek, presses the flat of it against my lips, parting them to knock against my teeth.

“Don’t make this harder than it has to be,” he says lowly, exposing my throat and pressing the knife against the thump of my heartbeat.

“2008,” I whisper.

He taps the code in and sends a message to whoever texted. “There. Now he won’t be bothering us,” he says.

“Wh-what did you do?” But I’m not sure if I want to know.

He grins and his teeth flash in the darkness. “Just making sure we won’t be interrupted.” His body slithers over mine, his weight pressing me into the mats. “I saw the way you were looking at me. We don’t have to tell Jack. It can be our little secret.” His eyes gleam in the darkness, his mouth is a menacing slash above me.

“Please, don’t,” I whisper. Tears seep from my eyes and I pull Jack’s face to the forefront of my mind as Damian grinds himself between my legs, unhearing to my cries. He’s just a few rooms away, just a few steps, and yet I’ve never felt so completely removed from him.

Damian tugs at the button on my jeans, jerking them down and off my legs along with my shoes. A breath whistles through his teeth. A hand, gentler this time, slides up my leg from calf to knee eliciting a shiver. Teeth flash above me. “Oh, you like that, huh?”

I shake my head against the mat, bile rising in my throat. “No, please, stop. Just let me go,” I plead.

“Oh, no,” he says softly, his fingers tracing my panties. “I think you do like this.”

“No, please,” I say as my whole body shakes uncontrollably.

“Shut the f*ck up,” he snarls, placing the blade at my neck and pressing down. Warm liquid trickles down my throat.

I swallow my protests, causing the knife to slice deeper into my neck and I grip the mat in my sweat-slick hands, knotting the worn, loose material in my fingers. Oh God, he’s going to kill me.

I’ll never see my Mom again. My brothers. Tears seep from the corners of my eyes and down my cheeks to join the pooling blood matting my hair.

My eyes begin to adjust to the darkness and I can see his gaze follow the line of blood down my throat. He lifts the edge of the blade and draws it down my neck, not enough to break the skin, but just enough to cause the blood to rush to the surface. And enough that I cry out.

He removes my shirt next and does the same thing down my chest and between my breasts, drawing patters with the very tip of the knife along my skin. It hurts almost as bad as if he were to flay me open. I don’t dare breathe a word for fear he will do exactly that, so I swallow my screams, my body going dead still under him.

When he gets bored with that, he uses his teeth and I almost beg to have the knife back, because at least with the knife there was something in between me and his touch. His mouth presses over me hot and wet, tracing the lines he’s drawn on my skin. He pauses intermittently to bite viciously, unrelentingly, down. My shoulder, my neck, the soft curve of my arm, my nipples.

Silent tears drip down my face and neck, stinging the raw wounds he’s carved into me. Later, it could be minutes, but it feels like hours, he lifts up and stares down at his handiwork. I shake with unreleased tears underneath him, my body bare and cold, right down to my bones.

“Why are you doing this?”

“I’m done talking,” he says. “Do I need to go get Jack? Bring him in here to play? I didn’t know you were into that kinky shit, but I can if you want.”

The thought of Jack seeing me, seeing this, is more than I can bear, but it doesn’t stop me from bringing one knee up between his legs as hard as I can. I don’t get much leverage, but his pained inhalation brings me intense satisfaction.

He hunches into a ball on top of me, his chest heaving in an attempt to catch his breath. I try to heave him off of me while he’s distracted and manage to get him sprawled on his back. Ignoring the burning pain from the shallow cuts all over my torso, I scrabble to my feet, feeling blindly for the door. My hand catches the knob and I yank it open.

His weight slams into it beside me, then he grabs me by the hair and throws me to the ground. He prowls to me, then a booted foot connects with my ribs. “Fucking bitch,” he says.

All the air has been sucked from my lungs, but I manage to say, “Fuck you,” before he kicks again.

Then he’s kneeling down beside me, brushing the hair away from my face and wiping away the tears. He cups my cheek and I try to infuse my glare with defiance, but the ache in my side is excruciating and all I can mange to do is squint my eyes.

“I didn’t want to do that,” he says.

“Then don’t.” I suck in deep breaths, but pain and panic and fear overwhelm my body’s need for oxygen. Spots dance in my vision and black threatens around the corners. It would almost be a relief if I could give in to unconsciousness. “You don’t have to. Let me go and I won’t say anything.”

He pauses and despite myself, hope grows. Then he says, “No, I don’t think I will.”