Page 1 of Creed

Prologue

COLLINS (AGE 20)

Iforce my lips to remain shut to fight a scream that claws its way up my throat as my legs are wrenched wider apart, the spreader bar latched between my ankles clicked open another notch wider.

His favorite tool.

I hear the sound of the metal chain at my feet jangling for a moment before it’s pulled taut once more and latched onto the end of the bed. I can’t see anything past the cloth that’s been tied over my eyes for God-knows-how long, but I know he’s nearby.

He never goes far.

The touch of a large hand starts at my ankle and trails all the way up my leg and stops when it reaches the apex of my thighs. The hand squeezes my sex in such a bruising grip that it nearly makes me whimper in pain, but I bite it back. Barely. I will never give him the satisfaction. Though it’s hard to fight the nausea and the bile that rises in the back of my throat when he starts to rub me over the dirty t-shirt that barely covers my body with the way my limbs are stretched so far that my fingertips are now numb.

An unexpected slap lands on my cheek and it causes me to cry out. Two sounds ring out in the cold room as a result.

One groan of pleasure, and one of pain.

My heart squeezes at the latter.

“Ah,” my sick, sadistic captor whispers in the quiet of the room and moves his hand from my center and grips my thigh right over the fresh cut wounds so hard that I know it’ll bruise around the angry flesh and my traitorous voice whimpers at the pain as I feel the cuts reopen and the warmth of blood trails down my thigh. “There are those beautiful sounds I’ve been missing for so long.” He chuckles darkly. “Took you long enough.”

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!” A rough, 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.

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 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 love him. So. Fucking. Much.

Tears well in my eyes and seep into the cloth covering them as he yells and pleads and begs for our captor to spare me, to turn his anger onto him.

But it won’t work.

It never does.

He isn’t who my captor wants. It’s not his pain that he craves.

It’s mine.

I want to tell him to save his breath, but I remain silent. After the pain that’s been inflicted on me for who knows how many days, I don’t trust my body to not betray me and give this man what he wants if I open my mouth.

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. His hand is slick with my blood, and the metallic tang sends a wave of nausea through my body. I fight the urge to retch. His grip on my throat is 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 distinct click of a gun being cocked.

“I’m getting really fucking tired of hearing your boy-toy here screaming and crying, so I’m giving you 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 and fuck you in his blood 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?

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