Page 93 of Scars Run Deep

As I hovered outside the kitchen, I peered around through the small window, checking out the situation within.

My stomach lurched at what I saw.

When I’d tapped into the feeds earlier and taken in the kitchen, the hostage within had been sitting on a chair in the corner of the kitchen while the guard and the trainer had been up at the kitchen table deep in conversation.

Now, however, the hostage had been stripped of the oversized, worn and stained shirt she’d been wearing and she was naked on all fours in front of one of the chairs. The trainer had his leather pants down at his ankles as he sat on the chair, tugging on a leash that was connected to a spider gag, and he was forcing his cock down the hostage’s throat, choking her with it.

The guard stood behind her laughing as he twisted the barrel of a 9mm in her ass.

I shuddered as her muffled and choked whimpers cut at me.

As she tried to twist away from the gun, the trainer lodged his cock down her throat right to his balls and held it there, her throat convulsing wildly, tears streaming down her face.

“Keep your ass open to him, pain slut,” the trainer hissed. “It’s a hole to be used as we see fit. It doesn’t belong to you anymore. Move again and you’ll be punished with that wine glass again. All the way in this time too.”

He pulled his cock out and she spluttered and retched, fighting hard not to vomit all over.

Grabbing her throat, he squeezed and spat on her cheek, then snarled, “You have a long way to go until you’re ready to make a suitable doll. We need to step up your training regimen, you’re falling behind the rest.” He grinned nastily at the guard. “Fuck it, get the glass.”

The guard’s eyes lit up and he roughly pulled the gun from her ass, making her squeal, her legs and arms shake and struggle to hold her position on all fours.

I watched, my stomach roiling, as the guard grabbed a wine glass from one of the cabinets.

And then Asher’s signal sounded.

Thank goodness.

I’d never been so happy to hear pained wailing and screaming.

Shots fired, roars followed, more screams.

He had their attention.

I didn’t waste another second, smashing my boot into the kitchen door and almost ripping it off its hinges in the process, as I barreled inside.

I tossed a throwing knife at the guard. It tore into his hand, driving all the way through and pinning it to the worktop.

As he screamed and was distracted by that, I spun on the sadistic trainer, ripping him away from the girl with a brutal roundhouse kick that sent him sprawling across the other side of the room into a heap in the corner.

“Motherfucker!” the guard cried as he fought to wrench out the blade.

As the trainer made it back to his feet, he threw his fist.

I deflected it, sweeping my arm down, then following through with my own blow that smashed into the side of his face like a bitch of a thing and had him wavering on his feet.

Enraged at the insult of it, and no doubt the interruption I’d posed to his sick game with that poor girl, he roared and lunged at me.

There was no precision to it, just rage.

And, unfortunately, also power.

He had a good hundred pounds on me, the asshole built and towering all at once.

Well, the bigger they are, and all that.

Size wasn’t the be all and end all.

Especially what they didn’t know how to use it.

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