Page 81 of Virgin Bratva Hostage

“Are you crying?” Royce asks, taking another step towards me, his legs on either side of mine as he stands over the chair I’m sitting in.

His waist is right by my face. I look upwards, into his eyes. Trying to send him to hell with just a look.

“Where is Dex?” I ask again.

“Where is Dex? Where is Dex?” he mimics me, whining and speaking in a different voice like a child. “Stop worrying about Dex—he’s probably dead, but don’t worry, soon you will be too—and then you can say hi to him again.”

“Dead?” I stammer.

He runs his fingers over my throat, wrapping his hand around my jaw, he grips my face tightly. Pulling my face upwards he leans down, and his lips are inches from mine.

I feel the heat of his breath when he speaks.

“We are going to have so much fun though—before you die—maybe I’ll carry on having fun after you die too,” he laughs loudly, a manic, twisted sound that echoes in the space we’re in. “I’ve been thinking about all the things I want to do to you, my beautiful, little angel. Oh—the things I want to do to you.” He brushes his thumb over my lips, and I fight disgust.

Then he leans even closer and kisses me.

My heart stumbles in my chest.

His tongue slips into my mouth and I want to bite him, but I’m in no position to be making him angry. I need to figure out another way to escape. Royce is the type of man who would be easily aggravated—and I get the feeling that when that happens he loses control. I donotwant to see him losing control.

Royce stands up straight again, my face still gripped in his hand.

My eyes unfortunately catching sight of the massive bulge in his pants.

He chuckles, clearly enjoying himself.

“This is going to be so much fun,” he growls.

He walks away from me, towards a metal table nearby, then grabs the edge of it and drags it closer.

A bright light burns just above me, aggravating my eyes. I blink away the agitation, trying to see what is on the table.

Nausea leaps up into my throat and I gag.

The metal table is filled with very sharp objects, pliers, knives, scalpels, blades of varying sizes, needles and bright, unknown chemicals in little glass jars.

He pulls the table right up close to me, pausing to watch my expression.

I want, so badly, to hide my fear—but it’s growing by the second.

Royce is completely psychotic. He’s a psychopath and he has me alone somewhere underground and I’m sure he’s thought this through.

“I’ll scream,” I warn him when he picks up a pair of brightly polished silver scissors.

“Go for it. I’d love to hear you scream.”

He scrapes the blade across my cheek, grinning broadly.

Then he dips the open scissors into the front of my t-shirt and slowly starts snipping downward. I wince every time the scissors snap closed, hearing the clink and waiting for it to cut my flesh.

My t-shirt falls open and he starts cutting at the sleeves, savoring the process, taking his time.

Scraps of fabric fall onto the floor at my feet. My heart beats so loudly it’s deafening.

“Fuck, that’s beautiful,” he mutters to himself, standing back and looking at me.

For the first time ever, I am wishing I was one of those girls who liked the comfy, cotton bras instead of this beautiful, transparent lace.

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