Page 104 of Clinch'd

“You won’t get away with this,” I say shakily, and he smiles.

“I already have.”

Before I can react, his fist is flying at my head and the last thought I have before everything goes dark is, why does Jordan hate Cooper so much?

“Unh,” I groan, rolling over.

My head aches fiercely but when I move to clutch it, my hand catches on something behind me.

Cracking a lid, I frown into the shadows and glance around. Did I go on another bender last night? It would explain the damn headache.

When will I ever learn?

“Idiot,” I moan, sitting up only to drop back down because my hand is still stuck. “Dammit.”

Frustration burns my throat and silently I curse myself for being foolish again but when I turn back, I stare in confusion and lift my wrist.

Why am I handcuffed to the headboard?

Slowly reality intrudes and I tug again. What the actual?

I survived Suit and his boss, Castinetti, to be defiled at the hands of weasel Jordan. Hell, no.

I’ll hit the fucker, as soon as I find an implement worthy of the occasion which better be really soon because I hear the door slam from the other room.

Fuck.

I’m pretty sure I lost my suitcase somewhere along the way but I fish my phone out of my bra with a sigh of relief. Except, when I hit the power button it doesn’t turn on. It’s dead. I forgot to charge it last night.

Fuck. Is this Jordan’s hotel room?

“Shit,” I scream when the door bursts open and I meet Jordan’s bright stare. He licks his lips before his eyes drop to my phone and he lunges.

I have no plan beyond living through this, hopefully without being raped at that.

The prospects aren’t great though because if Jordan planned to rape me, what’s he waiting for?

I rear back as he grabs for my phone, crying out when his fist meets my chin. The dull throb competes with my aching wrist but if he thinks I’m going to roll over without a fight, he’s dead fucking wrong.

“Bitch,” he says and I snort, slamming my fist against the side of his skull.

Guess he should have cuffed both hands. Too bad, dick. The little bitch falls forward before catching himself and pushing me over. I scrabble back on the bed as he looms above me with a growl.

Ice fills my veins and I scream before he covers my mouth while I slap at him with my free hand. The bed rocks under our momentum and I give a brief thought to hope someone will complain about the noise while he bats away my hand.

“Stop it,” he grunts but I pay him no mind. I’m in survival mode now, although a new worry surfaces when his sweaty sticky fingers cover my mouth and nose.

I can’t breathe because the little weasel has cut off my air supply. True panic sets in and I buck beneath him, thrashing with all I’ve got. Unfortunately, he’s too strong and while his face fades in and out, I glance around the room.

“I’m so fucking tired of that asshole,” he says. “He thinks he’s hot shit. Wait til he sees what I can do.”

Absently, I wonder what the fuck this has to do with me until he says, “You’re the perfect revenge, bitch. When they find your cold dead body, he can spend his pathetic life wondering if he could’ve saved you too.”

Too? What the fuck is he talking about?

I meet his greedy gaze and shake my head. He just smiles. “Besides, I can’t have you spilling the beans. Not until it’s too late. You should really be careful who you piss off, hm?”

Shit. Am I going to die?

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