Page 37 of Under His Protection

My stomach churns. What is this place? How many girls have suffered here before me? Dexter is sick and twisted. This isn’t just a prison. It’s a cult. Their grip tightens, reminding me that I’m trapped in a game. And it’s a game I can’t win.

Dexter’s hand runs up my inner thigh, and I struggle to keep my composure. The room feels smaller, the air heavier. I know what’s about to come. He stops momentarily and stares at my apex, taking me in.

Come on, Ava. Think of something.

“The Raven says you can’t control the city,” I lie, my voice steady, a desperate attempt to shift his focus, to buy myself a few precious seconds. “He says you’re too young, too soft. He says you’re a pretender to the throne.”

A flicker of anger crosses his features. “When did he say that? You’re lying. I’m no fucking softie,” Dexter murmurs to himself. He runs his fingers over my breasts. “The Raven will learn, and so will you.”

A scream echoes from the other side of the building, sharp and piercing, making me jump. Michelle?

One of the tattooed arms cups my other breast, squeezing it hard. My nipple involuntarily reacts to his touch, hardening instantly.

“Fuck, she’s ready for us. Come on, Dex, let’s have some fun with her,” he gasps.

“Screw you,” I whisper, almost inaudible.

“With pleasure,” he slithers. “All of you, I’ll fuck your tight hole so hard you’ll be screaming in pleasure for mercy before you come all over me.”

Dexter pauses, his eyes flicking from my breasts towards the sound. “Stop,” he says, his voice sharp, a command to the men. He looks back at me. “I’ll deal with her later,” he says. “By myself. Finish what I started a long time ago.”

He releases me with a shove, and I fall back on the leather bench, my mind racing.

“Oh, come on, Dex!” One of the other men shouts.

“I said, later!”

He leaves the room, his footsteps echoing down the corridor. Fear pulses like a live wire through my veins. Please leave, please leave. The men stand there, their gazes fixed on me, their bodies tense, their pants bulging, ready to act.

“Come the fuck on,” Dexter shouts, and the men finally get up to leave the room. The one with the snake tongue locks eyes with me, “I’m not done with you, beautiful.”

The door slams shut behind him, leaving me in the silence. I sink to the floor, tears streaming down my face as I grapple with —everything.

I’m alone again. But this time, the fear is different. This time, it’s cold, sharp, a knife twisting in my gut. I’m a target. And I’m not sure if I’ll survive this even if they don’t kill me.

Chapter 14

The Confrontation

The red room is a cage of crimson. It’s a suffocating space where the walls breathe with my fear. My gaze darts from the whips and chains lining the shelves to the heavy iron door, sealed with a lock that looks like a grim, metal grin. Every detail screams Dexter’s depravity—a twisted game of pain and control.

I’m still alone here, but how long will it be before they come back?

My fingers trace the cold, sleek leather of the bench, the chill seeping into my skin. A bitter taste fills my mouth, a rising tide of bile. This isn't a place you leave. This isn't a place you survive. It's a place where hope goes to die.

I pull on my clothes, even if it’s just my sleepwear. I’m not sure what will happen, but I need to prepare. I glance around the room, my eyes scanning every inch, searching for a weapon, an escape route.

There are no other doors, no windows. Nothing but a collection of tools designed for pain and pleasure. My gaze lands on a metal whip, its surface smooth and cold, resting on a shelf like a serpent. I reach for it, and the handle fits perfectly in my hand. Maybe, just maybe, it can buy me a few seconds, a sliver of time. But how the hell will I use it?

I crouch by the door, my senses on high alert.

Then, the world shatters. Gunshots explode through the stillness, sharp and deafening. Alexander? My heart shrieks his name, a raw, desperate cry trapped in my throat. More shots, each report a hammer blow to my soul. And then, the deafening silence returns, heavier, and quieter than before.

After a few minutes, the heavy door swings open with a crash. Dexter stands there, panting, sweat beading on his forehead, his eyes blazing, a gun clutched tightly in his hand. His usual cruel smirk is gone, replaced by a frantic look in his eyes.

“Come with me,” he says, his voice a rasp, a harsh whisper that cuts through the silence.

Fear freezes me, but the gun in his hand is a compelling argument. He doesn’t wait for a response, yanking me by the hair, his fingers digging into my scalp.

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