Page 142 of Wicked Sins

To make sure his little plaything can’t get up. Can’t fight back.

I claw my fingertips into the bed, grimacing at the deer a few yards away.

Run, you stupid animal. You know something’s wrong, but you just stand there, waiting.

Run!

My teeth squeak together. This body weighs a ton. I work my fingers and toes, willing the surge of blood to wash away the lingering traces of whatever drug is trying to keep me down.

Fierce prickles race through my extremities.

It’s working.

It’s working!

With that thought comes a near debilitating realization.

Is this all it would have taken to break free?

Tears race down my temples, then down my cheeks as I prop myself onto my elbows. In a moment of stillness, I can take stock of everything. The glistening trails of drying semen on my stomach, as if a gigantic slug had crawled over my skin.

I retch, but my body’s too weak to push anything up.

My legs are still pushed apart. There’s a faint streak of blood on my inner thigh—he always drew blood even though he never fucked me—but I ignore it.

Ignore everything.

Even the sounds of him coming closer.

Play dead.

Pretend you’re still drugged.

Don’t let him see—

No!

I’m not his plaything anymore. I’d rather he kills me than let him put his filthy, perverted hands on me again.

Wayne watches me as I move jaggedly into a sit.

I’m exhausted by that struggle. My body’s numb and electrified at the same time.

Wayne walks closer. He’s holding a water bottle and a towel. Something else too, cupped in his hand, but I don’t know what it is.

I shake my head. “Don’t touch me.” At least my voice is back. It’s hardly a shout, but there is a thread of determination in my words, shaky as they are. “Don’t you dare touch me.”

Wayne smiles, but not pleasantly, and not for long. By the time he reaches the side of the bed, his face is a stoic mask. The only color is the faint flush on his cheeks—arousal, lust, whatever the fuck he feels when he sees me spread out for him.

I retch again, and disgust flickers at the corner of his mouth before he suppresses it.

“That’s not what you said the last time.” He sets everything down on the mattress beside me. Before I can get a good look at what he’s brought, he grabs my knee and hoists it up.

When I try to kick at him, my leg does nothing. I dig my toes into the mattress, and keep flexing and relaxing them, willing my legs to come back to life.

“Do you remember our last time?” Wayne trails a finger over my stomach. “I think you do.”

He leans forward and scoops a tear from my cheek. “There, there. Don’t cry, little girl. Daddy’s gonna make it all better.”

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