Page 5 of The Hermit

The man in the suit shrugs. “Just the five missiles I already asked for.”

“I don’t deal in missiles.” Dad scoffs, his mouth turning down even more. “I’m good as dead if I supply the missiles to you. It’s Varga’s territory.”

“That’s not my problem,” the man in the suit says. He reaches a hand out to me and brushes strands of my hair away from my face. “Either you supply me with the missiles, or I’ll tear your beautiful daughter apart.” His fingers brush over my cheek, and I yank my face away from his touch. “I like my women feisty.”

A familiar sense of dread creeps through my veins, and it makes one of the many horror-filled memories creep to the surface.

Braden shoves me face down to the floor, the chiffon of my wedding dress lying scattered around me. I hear the zipperof his pants and fight to get free from the weight of his body pressing down on mine.

“No!” I shout as I try to crawl from under him.

“You’re my wife, Grace,” he growls as he grabs hold of my legs, forcing them open. His dick presses against my entrance, making disgust roll in my stomach. “Which means I get to fuck you whenever I feel like it.”

He shoves his way inside me, and it feels as if I’m being torn apart.

A strangled sound escapes me, and as my new husband consummates our marriage, my soul shrivels away from the violent act.

A fist connects with my cheek, making my head snap to the side. I bite down on my tongue, and a second later, a copper taste fills my mouth.

Jesus.

The blow rips me away from the clutches of the horrible memory and back to the dire situation in which I currently find myself.

The man who was in charge of the attack at the party seems to be the one who just hit me, while the one in the suit watches with his arms crossed over his chest.

“Let Grace go, Pavlov! Nothing good will come of this,” Dad demands.

The man in the suit, Pavlov, shakes his head. “The only way this will end is with you giving us the missiles.”

He uncrosses his arms and walks closer to me. Gripping hold of my chin, he tips my head back so I’m forced to look up at him, then he glances at the monitor again.

“Do you know how many men are in the bratva?”

No.

My eyes flick to the screen, silently begging Dad to give them the damn missiles.

There’s a flicker of worry and anguish on Dad’s face before it vanishes, and his expression grows ruthless.

No, Dad. Please don’t leave me here.

My soul cries out, knowing my father’s not going to give in. He’d rather abandon me than give them the weapons they want.

“I won’t go against Varga,” Dad growls.

Pavlov stares at the monitor for what feels like a solid minute before he glances down at me. Letting out a sigh, he says, “Everything that’s about to happen to you is because of your father.”

My eyes dart to the screen again, and it takes more strength than I have to keep from begging Dad to just give them the weapons.

Instead, I swallow hard and close my eyes as I try to find a safe corner deep in my soul where I can hide from the brutality that’s about to be unleashed on me.

“Untie her,” Pavlov orders.

The instant the man’s fingers touch my skin, my body jerks. My mind scrambles to shut down, but just like the hundreds of times before when Braden raped and beat me, I can’t.

I’m yanked up off the chair, and my eyes dart open. It’s in time to see a fist fly at my face, the punch sending me crashing against the chair before sprawling over the floor.

Shit.

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