Page 4 of Delivered to the Devil

So when I once more wake up from some strange sound, tense and ready to jump out of bed, I try to keep calm and remind myself how crazy this is. No one is here. There’s nothing to worry about.

I’m dozing off again when a scratchy, metallic sound breaches the silence. Suddenly, I’m wide awake, lying dead still as I listen. The sound is too close, like it’s coming from the hall, right outside my door—maybe at my door? And it keeps going.

Click.

The front door slides open and catches on the chain.

My heart pounds like it’s trying to punch a hole in my chest as I scramble to the floor and slide into the pitch-black darkness under the bed.

Something rattles. The door chain. Maybe it will stop them. Surely they won’t enter knowing someone’s home.

There’s a metallic snap, and terror is like a punch to my gut as the door slides open. A streak of light moves across the floor and disappears as quickly as it came as the door shuts.

Panic pulses through my system, so hard I can barely breathe—I don’tdareto breathe. Footsteps move across the floor, clicking the way fancy men’s shoes do. Two sets. The sound echoes through the night. It’s like they’re not even trying to be quiet—like they don’t care if they wake someone.

Maybe they’re here for someone and not something.Me.

Pressing a hand to my mouth, I suppress the urge to scream. It’s a well-known fact that Eastern Europe has huge problems with human trafficking.

Click, click, click.

The sound of shoes approaches. I picture polished leather and fancy oxfords. Shoes that are in no way appropriate for a break-in. The realization chills my blood, and I stop breathing as a pair of shoes just like the ones I imagined appear before me.

The sheets on my bed rustle as if the intruder is looking for something.Me,probably. I squeeze my eyes shut, praying it will all go away. Maybe this is all just a vivid nightmare.

But it’s not. I know it when I feel a strong presence right in front of me. I look again and stare straight into a set of hard eyes. I can’t see anything else. Only the terrifying orbs. All facial features remain concealed in the shadows.

“She’s in here,” the man in front of me calls out with a deep, resonant voice that seems to vibrate with the kind of power that would set my nerves humming at a BDSM club, but chills my blood here in the dead of night.

I yelp as he snatches my arm and tugs. I grab the edge of the bed as I slide across the floor, but his grip is impossibly strong, and all I manage is to drag the bed with me before I lose my grip.

I open my mouth to scream, but the sound dies in a gasp as he yanks me off the floor. With a hand over my mouth, he slams me into his body—a massive plane of solid muscle. The scream finally rips from my lungs, loud and forceful, only to die in his palm.

Sheer horror descends upon my mind, sending me into a frenzied bout of struggling. I writhe in his grip, dig my heels into the floor, and push and pull at the arms locked around me. But it’s no use. He’s enormous and I’m tiny. He doesn’t even budge when I drop my weight to hang heavily in his arms.

My heart contracts and slams against my chest as a lanky man in a loosely fitted suit appears like a ghastly monster in the shadows before me. His nostrils flare as he seems to take me in, eyes widening like a hungry beast. The thought that this guy might be about to force himself upon me has bile rising in my throat.

I dig my heels in again, this time to push back, away from the frothing beast and into the mountain of a man behind me. When it doesn’t work, I go frantic, kicking at the man restraining me and clawing at his arms. But it’s useless. His legs are like rods of steel, his arm an unbreakable vise.

My only weapon is my voice, and when he releases my mouth, I scream with the full force of my lungs. But only a shrill squeak leaks into the room. The rest dies in a thick piece of cloth that the scrawny man stuffs into my mouth. Pushing my tongue against the fabric, I try to spit it out, but he keeps shoving until my mouth is so full I have to focus just to breathe. Then he slaps a piece of duct tape over my mouth to keep it in place.

I have been gagged before. Red and black plastic balls, spider gags, and even rope. But I have never had my mouth stuffed so fully, and never by two strangers forcing themselves on me.

Tears leak from my eyes as helplessness sets in. I’m like a small bird trapped in large hands, my thrashing no better than the flapping of feeble wings as they rip my clothes off. One man takes my shorts, the other my camisole, and next goes my bra and my panties. Fabric burns across my skin, and all I can do is try to keep my feet steady on the ground as I jostle back and forth between the brutal hands that have no care whether I stand or fall.

I cry out into the gag when the gigantic man twists my arms behind my back, but it’s more out of shock than pain. He doesn’t need to pull tight; he has enough strength and control to immobilize me without hurting me. Yet, I feel the ruthlessness in his motions—in the very air. Both men go about this sordid affair in a mechanical, detached sort of way, and I think that’s about the only similarity between the two.

And the attire,I realize with dread.

These men aren’t simple thieves who happened upon a woman that needed to be subdued. These men are rich and competent and have clearly done this before. There’s nothing haphazard or impulsive. It’s cold and calculated, like they’re working on routine. And worst of all, they’re here forme.

I double over as horror has my stomach seizing in an excruciating cramp. The man behind me adjusts his grip, so I don’t hang by the sockets of my arms. But the relief is short-lived as he throws me onto the bed and my knee slams into the edge. I squeeze my eyes shut, groaning at the sharp pain that stabs into my joint. I scramble across the mattress, away from the hard edges, but I don’t get far before the same man grabs me and flips me onto my back.

He gathers my wrists in an unbreakable grip, but despite his strength, I’m convinced I can free myself—it’s just one hand—and I launch into another burst of useless struggling. When the scrawny man hands him a bundle of rope, he easily replaces his hand with the rough material.

Once again, he proves his competence as an attacker. Tying up someone isn’t as easy as it looks in the movies. Only people who have either tied someone up or been tied up know how easy it is to wriggle out of a few circles of rope. This man knows it too. He finishes off by dragging the rope between my wrists and around itself, creating two separate rope cuffs that I’ll never escape.

The other man ties my legs the same way, though with him, I manage to slow the process with a few kicks. But it only makes him go rougher, and the ropes are cutting into my skin by the time he ties the knot.

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