Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 79959 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79959 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
I was led over to the metal chair and dropped down. No one tied my hands to anything. There was no reason. Because there was no escape.
Martin and Deke went a few feet away, leaning against the wall. Waiting. Watching me with eyes that were expectant. A muscle was twitching in Martin's jaw. And Deke was impatiently tapping his foot. Getting antsy. Getting excited.
They lived for the days when they got to put their hands on me.
The door to the basement opened and footsteps came down the stairs. Across the floor behind me.
“Miss. Lyon,” his cool, smooth voice said, coming around me. “How are we doing today?”
I learned not to answer his questions.
V was younger than you would expect for someone with his kind of criminal empire. Somewhere in his mid thirties with thick brown hair, tan skin, and brown eyes. He was good looking. He could be charming. And he always dressed in a suit. Even when all he was doing was coming down to watch me be tortured.
“I have the paper you requested,” he said, pulling a newspaper out from under his arm and giving it to me.
I never requested the paper. The paper was to show the date. For the video he was about to film. On my own cell phone. Of me getting tortured. To show my father. To try to blackmail him to do his bidding. Seven sessions and they were getting nowhere. I could tell they were all losing their patience. With him. And, therefore, with me.
I took the paper, holding it against my chest like I was supposed to.
“Your hair is filthy,” he informed me like I didn't already know that. Like it wasn't his fault.
“Not in the talking mood?” he asked, shrugging, pulling out my cell phone.
And it was about to begin.
“Who will it be today?” he asked the room at large. “Martin? I think it's your turn this time.”
His dark eyes roamed over me, a smile tugging at his lips. “I think you're right V.”
“Summer, darling. Why don't you say hi to your daddy?” V asked, holding the phone up.
“Go fuck yourself, V,” I spat back.
I was never that girl. The one with the filthy mouth. The headstrong, obstinate girl. I did what was expected of me. I went to private schools. I got good grades. I hung out with girlfriends from similar family backgrounds (meaning rich). I didn't date until I was eighteen, and even then only very selectively. I spoke to my father and his business partners with respect.
When I was twenty-one, I was moved into my father's never-used penthouse apartment in the city so I could have my freedom. I went to work at one his many businesses, doing whatever was asked of me because it was important that I understood the value of hard work before I found a suitable man and settled into a house wife role.
I never so much as used the word “shit” in all my twenty-four years.
Until I was taken.
Until everything was stripped from me except my words and my will.
So I used them.
Even if it meant I got beat worse.
“Oh, now that's not very nice is it, Mart?” he asked and Martin took the cue, slamming his fist into the left side of my face.
“This can stop,” he said a few minutes later, watching me wipe blood from my face with the side of my arm, “if you would just tell you father to go along with the deal.”
“Rot in hell, V. My father is never going to take the deal.”
At this point, I was thrown down on the floor. And there was kicking and punching and threats of worse. A lot worse. The kind of worse that they suggested when they crept in at night. And I knew that would come. Eventually. There was no question about it. One day, I would be dragged down into the basement. And then I would be raped. By Deke. And Martin. And probably V.
That was my fate.
But I still didn't want V to win.
I didn't want my father to give in.
“What the FUCK!” Martin suddenly yelled, shrinking away from me.
“What?” V asked, putting the phone away.
“She's bleedin',” Martin said, his face twisted up in disgust.
“You beat her good,” Deke agreed, his eyes small like he was trying to understand.
“No her fucking cunt is bleeding, you shit.”
Then V got angry. Angry angry. Not the cool, detached kind of angry he usually was. He flew at Deke, his hand at the man's throat, shoving him so hard against the wall that I heard a crack. “You fuck her? You fuck her, you stupid shit?”
I turned away from them, uncurling from myself, and looking down. And I was bleeding. Six weeks. I was overdue. Terror must have scared it off. But there it was. I had my period. And I was... mortified.
There are things they had done to me. Awful things. Painful things. They didn't feed me. They made me hold my bladder till bursting. And while they were traumatizing and cringe-inducing, there was something about having the dignity of a private menstrual cycle taken away from you that had humiliation rising up hot and sickening in my belly.
We were taught things as women. About hiding our periods. About keeping clean. They stole that from me. And Martin was acting like I was disgusting.
And I felt disgusting.
And I hated them all the more for that.
“I didn't fucking touch her!” Deke screamed after V's fist landed true to his jaw. “She's prolly on the fucking rag. Jesus Christ.”
V dropped Deke, looking back at me, his brows drawing together. “Right,” he said, nodding stiffly. “I'll get one of the girls to get her some... tampons or whatever,” he said, moving away. “Get her back upstairs.”
“I'm not going near her,” Martin said, cringing away as I pushed myself up.
V, to his credit (for which he had very little), rolled his eyes at Martin. “Never had a woman before? They bleed. Stop acting like such a bitch.”
“I'll take her,” Deke said, grabbing my rope and tugging me up the stairs.