Page 9 of Delivered to the Devil

Eyes seem to be lurking in all the dark corners of the city. The bulky men in front of bars and clubs all seem like they’re about to jump me. It’s pure luck I make it home without spraying one of them and getting arrested.Then my rape fantasy could come true in a Hungarian detention cell.Shame twists in my stomach. Having rape fantasies isn’t the same as wanting to be raped in real life. I know that, but my logical mind holds no ground when my mother’s voice invades my head.

When I’m finally in the hall, slamming the door shut, I’m on the verge of tears. With shaky hands, I turn the lock, attach the new door chain, and shove the dresser against the door. Then I sink to the floor and cry.

Tears stream down my cheeks as I bury my head against my knees, shaking with quiet sobs. I’m not sure what has broken me—the fear, the shame, or the memory of my mother’s scorn the day I found her snooping on my laptop. I’ve had much derision from her throughout my life, but the look in her eyes as shecalled me a ‘vile, filthy creature of Satan’ hurt more than any other.

It doesn’t matter,I try to tell myself. I’m here now, free from her and the stifling town I grew up in.

The memory evaporates as another, more present horror intrudes upon my senses. A sound from within the apartment. I freeze in place, leaning forward, ready to jump up as I listen.

Click, click, click.

Footsteps approach.

The lights come on.

Shooting up from the floor, I shove my hand into my bag. I find the pepper spray just in time to see a massive, suit-clad man appear at the door.

For a second, I’m paralyzed, just staring at him—his steely gray eyes. They stare back, uncaring and cold. The same eyes that watched me through the darkness ten days ago. They’re even more striking in the light, enhanced by the severe, angular lines of his face. Sharp like a razor’s blade and just as dangerous.

My heart pounds with a force that has black spots dancing in my vision as I take in his size. He’s as wide as he’s tall. Muscles bulge beneath his black suit, making him look like a professional bodybuilder. Only, he doesn’t have the unnatural bulges of overly large muscles. He’s just massive, as if that’s the way he’s meant to be.

Fuck.I gulp and blink, and the motion breaks the trance. Instinct kicks in. I aim the can at his head and press.

But I’m too slow. Or he’s too fast.

Diving down, he tackles me. I crash into the dresser behind me, groaning as the air shoots out of my lungs. Then I’m off the floor, the air knocked out of me for a second time as he throws me over his shoulder.

“Let me go,” I choke out as I try to fill my lungs.

Before I can recover, he has me stomach-down on the bed, straddling my ass as he locks my arms together in a tight grip on my back.

“No,” I whimper as I writhe beneath him, but he has me locked in place. All I can do is kick my legs into the mattress. My breaths grow more frantic by the second, making me drag in the hair over my face and blocking the air from reaching my lungs.

A hand brushes my hair away, and I gasp as I finally access air. But it keeps hovering at the top of my throat, refusing to go deeper as panic squeezes around my chest.

“No, stop.” I put extra effort into my struggles as a large palm splays over my cheek. But it just lies there, calm and warm. He makes a single stroke of his thumb along my jaw, and I realize the hand is not a threat. It’s meant to soothe me.

I go still. Confusion becomes a haze over my brain, but the blinding panic loosens its grip on me. My chest moves as the air finally reaches my lungs. Everything else fades as breathing becomes my only motive, and soon my lungs expand with deep breaths as I inhale precious oxygen deep into my belly. It’s the only thing that exists—breathing. And the hand on my cheek.

Slowly, the haze lifts, and I drift back to the world around me.

There’s a commotion of scraping sounds and bustling noises coming from the hall. Someone moving the dresser. Then steps sound through the apartment, a mix of clicks of fancy shoes and dragged feet. I shudder at the memory of the scrawny man who handled me like a piece of meat, and the panic crackles along the edges of my mind, but fades again when the steps stop at the other end of the room.

Then we’re waiting again. For a third man? For someone new? I don’t know, and I don’t dare go there, afraid what horrible scenarios my mind will conjure. So I stay still, breathing in and out. In and out. The clock is an eerie omen in the deadstillness, but as time drags on, it becomes a gentle rhythm that lulls me into some kind of warped peace.

But peace never lasts in nightmares. The sound of the front door breaks the silence, and firm steps announce that the waiting is over as a third man enters my nightmare.

When the hand on my cheek disappears, my breathing immediately picks up speed, and I realize it was the only thing keeping me off the verge of panic. Cold dread slithers around my lungs, and I yelp as a new hand touches my face. But it’s even more gentle than the first, fingertips caressing with feather-light softness, and the panic recedes like a wave pulling off the shore—not gone, but not quite there.

There’s no mistaking the touch. It’s the same fingers that explored my body a week ago. They are uncharacteristically soft for a man’s hand. Maybe even manicured, I think as the back of the hand slides down my wet cheek. Their owner must be rich and vain—a control freak of the worst kind.

“It’s good to see you again,” the new man says in a voice that resonates through the room with the kind of commanding authority as rare as a white tiger. It spurs an instinctive need to bow down and obey. A need that scares me as much as it thrills me.

Chills erupt down my spine when he speaks again, this time in Hungarian. His words prompt the man on top of me to lift up and flip me onto my back. Before I can react, he settles on me again, pinning me in place with his weight.

I pull at my hand to wipe the hair out of my face and clear my vision, but another hand comes ahead of me. Recognition sparks in my skin the moment long fingers touch me to brush my hair aside. They move slowly, brushing several times to get all the hairs. I close my eyes, almost sinking into a trance under the soft touch.

When I look again, my eyes clash with a pair of hazel ones that glimmer with deceptive warmth. Fear clogs in my throat, making me swallow hard.

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