Page 74 of Breaker

Another slap. “Tongue out.”

My shoulder’s wrack with a sob. I grip Rune’s hand in my hair, a silent plea to stop. I’ve been on my knees before four men, any of which could have humiliated me or hurt me, and never once did I feel this powerless. This disgusted with how female I am. How useless my rage feels. How pointless my pain.

He promised. He promised, I repeat in my head as the tears slip out. I just have to survive long enough. I’ve been through worse than this.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Clyde’s scream cuts through the room like broken glass. It jars Rune so much that his fingers twist tighter into my hair, and I’m jerked sideways. I land on hands and knees, looking over my shoulder.

A flash of metal and the click of the safety being unlocked.

I let out a strangled sob.

Zane’s chuckle makes my stomach twist as I scramble to my feet, moving behind Clyde, whose gun is trained on Zane’s face.

Rune growls out Clyde’s name. A warning. A command but he ignores him, eyes fixated on the demon before us.

“I swear to god,” Clyde says. “If you lay another finger on my little girl, I will shoot your fucking dick off, then shove it down your throat.”

“Dammit, Clyde,” Rune grates. “Lower your weapon.”

For a heartbeat, I think Zane might end up with a bullet through his head. Clyde’s hand twitches, but he removes his finger from the trigger and lowers the gun slowly, eyeing Zane, daring him to say or do anything to give him an excuse to shoot him.

Zane backs away, just as slow, tucking himself back into his pants.

Clyde wraps an arm around my shoulders, pulling me to his chest. I grip his suit, pressing my cheek to him, gasping for air as I sob. I adjust my dress with trembling hands, pulling it back over my shoulders.

“Who the fuck do you think—,” Rune starts, fury twisting his features into something far crueler than I’ve ever seen.

“Fuck you,” Clyde seethes, shooting a death glare at Rune. “This is too far, Rune. Too far even for you.”

He backs away enough to shrug out of his suit jacket and drags it over my shoulders, then bends and scoops me up, cradling me to his chest.

I keep my face tucked to his shoulder as stalks down the long hall, walking briskly past the large room where the party is still going. Clyde kicks the large double doors at the back open with his foot, and we burst into the warm night. The music and laughter fade as the door closes. He sets me down on the veranda and cups my cheeks.

“Cora,” he whispers, “Jesus. Cora, your nose is bleeding.”

A shiver moves through me. I raise my hands to look at them. They look small and useless. Weak. I’m weak. I couldn’t even fight them.

I didn’t fight. Because Rune trained me to accept what he did to me. I bury face in Clyde’s chest, clinging to him, hating that I didn’t evenfight.

“Come on,” Clyde says, peeling me off him enough to grab my hand and pulls my little purse free. Fleetingly, I wonder how I’ve managed to hang on to it as Clyde tucks it in the inside pocket of his tux. His sharp tug propels me toward the large parking lot behind the museum.

My heels clack on the asphalt as we rush through the lot, rows and rows of cars gleaming in the bright white lights lining the lot overhead. We stop in the second row of parked cars, and Clyde takes his phone out, cursing as he unlocks the screen and makes a call, but the roar of an engine cuts off his words. I spin toward the sound, my eyes snagging on the sleek black motorcycle as it speeds toward us. Clyde grabs me again and tugs me forward, right in the path of the black bike.

“Is that—“ I ask, but I stop talking when I realize it is the same black bike I saw days ago outside the office building.

The rider skids the bike to a stop before us, the back tire slightly fishtailing with his abrupt stop. The rumbling engine echoes in my ears as I take in a breath, trying to make sense of the rider’s presence, but Clyde shoves me toward him. I take a step, my head swimming with questions.

Why is he here?

Who is he?

And why isn’t he wearing the same black jacket and pants? Instead, he’s wearing a black-on-black tux with a gold floral pin on the lapel.

The rider holds out his bare hand and my eyes drop from his black helmet reflecting the city lights to his outstretched hand.

I blink, taking in the long, strong fingers. The deep skin and perfect fingernails.

My chest constricts. Expands.

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