Page 37 of The Way You Hurt Me

As the blond throws me back on the bed and pins me down, with enough force for me to not even be able to squirm, I whimper helplessly, feeling wetness on my cheeks.

Dimitri.

I don't know why I'm thinking about him right now.

Dimitri would never have allowed for this to happen. He would have taken care of me.

And he would have been the one, the first, to take me. He should have been. Why wasn't he?

Jesus, I have issues. Even now, I'm clinging to the thought of him. A man who's shown, proven, that I meant nothing to him. I'm his friend's wife's little sister. That's all.

I lower my face to the mattress, trying not to notice the distinctive sound of a zipper.

This wasn't supposed to be like this. I fucked it all up, didn't I?

I wince in anticipation, trying my best not to cry.

18

WILLOW

I'm hyperventilating, trying my best not to completely lose it on camera—because there's no way I can use this recording to fight against those guys with the police. Like Tom said, they'd listen to my story and roll their eyes, dismissing the assault completely. She asked for it, they'll say. Like this is consensual, although it fucking isn't. Tom is raping me. So I might as well bear it, so I don’t completely lose my platform on top of everything.

"I don't know man. This doesn't feel right."

"Then walk. You know where the door is. Or shut up and you can have a go after I'm done." Tom presses in, though every muscle in my body protests the intrusion.

And then there's athud.

The noise is as sudden as it is loud, making my ears hurt.

"What the?—"

Thud.

Thud.

Two more, just as sudden and unexpected. Then there's a sort of a gurgling, and a mass falls on me, pinning me harder than Tom did. I feel warm wetness coat my back. Is he pissing on me?

I do my best to crawl from under the weight.

And I scream.

Tom. Or rather, Tom's body, is lying face down on the bed right behind where I just was. My legs are still underneath him. I crab crawl back in horror and disgust.

In my panic, I don't even notice the other man until there's a hand flat against my mouth.

"Please, Ms. Brown. We don't need the attention right now." The voice is quiet, grounding.

It belongs to a man I don't know, wearing black gloves, and a thick, expensive winter coat. He looks like a million Wall Street bankers that I'd see on the street any day. Nondescript. White or Hispanic, thirty-something, brown-haired.

He could be anyone.

But now something tugs at the back of my memory. I think I have seen him before. Haven't I?

Another man walks in, a gun in hand, with a suppressor. He talks into a an earpiece in a language I don't recognize.

"You got them?"

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