Page 15 of Cruel Honor

He drags me with him even as I struggle and fight. It’s pointless. He’s too strong.

And then an idea hits me. I once read a book about self-defense techniques. It said that in a situation like this, the victim should go limp. It will surprise the attacker, and then the victim can make a run for it.

So, I force my body to go still. It’s a difficult thing to do with the adrenaline coursing through my body, but I manage it.

He jerks in surprise, and I use that to my advantage by stomping on his toe. He grunts, his hold loosening.

I drop to the ground like a sack of potatoes and roll away. Thank goodness for my sensible shoes. I’m able to jump up and start running.

“Help!” I shout as I make it to the sidewalk. There’s no one there. Then I remember another technique—don’t shout for help. No one will actually help a woman when she’s doing that. Shout “fire” instead. People respond to that word.

“Fire!” I start screaming as I run down the sidewalk. “Fire!”

“Shut up!” someone screams from an apartment above.

I gasp and stumble over something hard.

“Watch it,” a man grumbles. It’s a man, lying on the ground that I tripped over. Homeless by the look of him.

“I need help,” I gasp. “Please.”

He just grunts and rolls over onto his side.

I’m on my own.

“Fire!” I continue to shout, but then arms wrap around my waist. His smelly hand is back on my mouth.

“You’re not going to get away from me,” he growls.

I bite his hand.

With a hiss, he lets me go and slaps me across the face so hard I stumble to the ground. I’m too woozy to put up a fight, so when he grabs me and forces me into a nearby car, I don’t stop it.

It’s only when he begins to drive us away from the club do I realize how much danger I’m in.

“Who are you?” I ask. I try the door handle, but it’s locked. Not surprising.

“The name’s Dima.”

“Why are you doing this?”

His eyes slant toward me, and the look he gives sends shivers down my spine. “Because you’re exactly my type.”

“Your type? Wh-what does that mean?” I stutter. I’m not sure I want to know, but it’s better if I do. The more information I have, the more it can help me. If there’s anything I learned from reading so much, it’s that you can never have too much information.

“It means I like girls like you. Brown hair. Small. Pale. You’re my type. What’s your name?”

“Evelyn.” I can’t give him the name I go by more often. Juno calls me Evelyn, but my real family calls me Evie. Katya does. My dad did. This man doesn’t get the right to call me Evie.

“What a pretty name.”

I take in a long deep inhale, but it doesn’t help my nerves one bit. “What are you going to do with me?”

“Why ruin the surprise?”

“I want to know,” I say firmly. Maybe if I know more details, I can get out of this situation.

“You want to know how I’m going to kill you, is that it?”

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