Page 141 of Creed

I have no idea how long we’ve been here, but it feels like an eternity.

“Don’t you fucking touch her you piece of shit!” Riley’s tortured voice screams out from the other side of the room and a little more of my soul dies with his words.

I hate him.

I love him.

I fucking hate that I love him.

I found out when we first woke up in this room that Guy had no idea about my relationship with Creed. Somehow when I’d been sighted in public, his goons that he calls spies had only seen me with Riley. This whole time, Riley was being targeted, too, because Guy thought that he was my only boyfriend at the time. Not Creed.

Tears threaten to rise behind my closed and covered eyes because if I’d just stayed away, kept my distance, and stayed friends—family—then he would never be here, suffering right alongside me. I hate him because he pushed his way into my life without even meaning to, when I wanted to stay invisible. I hate him because he showed me what it was like to have a family. I hate him because he’s shown me unconditional love.

I hate him because I opened my heart and had fallen so deeply in love with him.

The tears threaten to spill as Riley yells and pleads and begs for Guy to spare me, to turn his anger onto him.

It won’t work, Baby.

It never does.

He isn’t who Guy wants.

It’s not Riley’s pain he craves.

It’s mine.

I want to tell him to save his breath, to calm himself down before he gets hurt again, but I remain silent. I don’t trust my body to not betray me and give Guy what he wants if I open my mouth.

Riley had been shot the day we were taken, and Guy did a shitty patch job on his side where the bullet had passed through. He wanted him alive to witness my torture.

A dark chuckle fills the space and the hand gripping my thigh leaves momentarily before it returns, this time gripping my throat in another bruising hold. Not enough to take my breath, but he’s pressing on my pressure points that have stars dotting my vision. Panic grips me because I can’t fight him off.

My body freezes at the sound of the distinct click of a gun being cocked.

“I’m getting really fucking tired of hearing your boy-toy screaming and crying, so I’m giving you more of an incentive, little girl.” The nickname he gave me so long ago threatens to drag up haunting memories that now seem like a dream compared to the nightmare I’m currently trapped in. “You’re going to give me what I want.”

I try to shake my head, breathing heavily through my nose and fighting the loss of consciousness that’s threatening to consume me, but he squeezes a little tighter and continues. “You’re going to give me what I want—” he repeats, “Or I’ll shoot your fucking boyfriend in his chest, then fuck you in front of him, using his blood as lube and make you watch as the life drains from his eyes.”

He's a fucking psychopath.

I do know what he wants, and up until now I’ve never given it to him. He’s always been obsessed with my pain. He gets off on it. But the thing that makes him come when he touches himself?

My screams.

I refused to give them to him.

He could cause me pain. He could make me cry and beg for mercy. But I’ve never given him my screams. I will never give him the satisfaction or knowledge that he’s breaking me from the inside out.

Besides the fact that I physically can’t scream, my throat never allowing it since I was a child, I would never scream for this man. This fucking monster.

Until now, with Riley’s life on the line, I’d do any-fucking-thing if I could if it meant I could save him.

Would he really shoot him?

It’s not a risk I’m willing to take.

Guy’s hand slides from my neck down to my left breast and he pinches and twists my nipple so hard I swear I feel the fragile skin tear there. I open my mouth on a silent scream as white dots my vision and the feel of wetness now soaking the shirt and the sickening, pleasured groan that he releases, accompanied by the blinding pain in my chest, tells me that he’s caused serious damage to my breast. My shoulders shake with quiet sobs as the searing pain envelopes me.

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