Page 71 of Rush of Jealousy

I must make noise, because he goes into soothing mode.

“Shhh, darling,” he cuts in breathily. “Give me a chance to make you feel good. You may even have some fun too.”

His finger draws a line from my chin all the way down my shoulders, over my arm, across my belly, around my hip, and then takes a plunge. In between my clenched thighs. The intrusion causes a jolt of pain as I desperately try to keep them tightly together—having no such luck. Or strength. Even though I cannot get my brain to make my body move, I can still register the intrusion—the violation.

He is not listening to me. He is going to rape me. And I may or may not remember what happens. I cannot figure out which is the lesser of evils. Always wondering? Or remembering every violating detail?

I panic and thrash out of his hold, convulsing on the bed like a child in need of a priest from a horror movie. I am amazed that I have regained some mobility.

“I see you feel a little alive again,” he snickers. “Fun. Well, I like my whores to have alittlelife in them when I fuck them, so this will still work out in my favor. Feel free to fight me, so I can show you who’s in control. I get off on the struggle.”

He slams me back onto the bed and pulls my panties to the side. He mutters something disgusting and is about to finish stripping me when a loud deafening crash resonates through the room. I can hear a high-pitched squeal, similar to how a frightened girl would sound. It takes several seconds to realize that the girl is me. And I can’t seem to stop the screaming.

It is like I finally have my voice back. Like I can finally make my mouth function. And now I can’t shut it up. I wail. I whimper. I cry out.

My heart stops for half a beat as I roll my head into a pillow in a frantic move to hide from the impending danger. My body attempts to curl up in the fetal position, naturally trying to protect myself. I tremble in fear. My heart launches blood throughout my limbs, but they are still heavy and stationary. I am stuck. And in this moment, I cannot tell if it is voluntary or involuntary anymore.

My breathing staggers as I gulp for fresh air, unable to fill my lungs to capacity. Fuck. I am going to have a panic attack. The all too familiar feeling of the past pushes my senses to the limit. Everything is in slow motion. My eyes flicker open to see three suited men surround the bedroom in the invasion. Is this a robbery? A shoot-out? Maybe Mark’s business associates came to subdue me and offer him backup. I squeak as I see hands moving closer to hurt me. But I feel nothing except the bed bouncing. Am I hallucinating?

One man snarls out obscenities, his back to me, arms gesturing in thin air at the animated showdown. I never get a look at his face. I shiver over his anger.

My mind is in chaos. Every noise sounds like it is being passed through an underwater cave. Images and flashes flying like blips on the radar of my conscious thoughts. Mark is facing the livid man, wide-eyed.

The man lifts his fist and wields it forward with Olympic speed, connecting with Mark’s chiseled masculine jaw. His head flies sideways as if on a spring. Blood spews out of his mouth—reopening the wound I already caused—squirting on the clean linen sheets of the bed. I quiver in repulsiveness at the crimson splash, rolling farther away from it into the corner of the mattress. My throat feels raw, and I can no longer produce the words that scream from within.

“You want me to fight, right? Isn’t this what it’s all about!” he screams at Mark’s limp form. “Get up and be a man!”

This cannot possibly be just a robbery. I know I should escape, but my fear and lack of adequate oxygen keep me in place. My head feels light and heavy all at once, vertigo hitting in waves. My blurry eyes give me the impression that I am moments from passing out. Black spots fill my vision of the suited man nailing punches to Mark’s midsection. A knee jerks up, throwing him back even farther. Spit and blood and sweat speckle the surrounding designer ivory furniture.

Vomit rises in my throat and catches in my passageway, making me choke for air. It’s the sight of blood that sends me over the edge. The crimson stain of red. The smell of rust. As if my head is submerged under water, I hear a string of muffled orders snapped out of the violent one’s mouth. One of the two non-fighting men nods and they move in my direction, faces emotionless. Not even a slight twitch of their brows or lips. They are like soldier robots moving in synchronized steps toward me.

A noise escapes deep from within my belly that is unrecognizable to me. Acid tasting air fills my lungs in a rush of pure fear. The sounds I’m making startle me back to the present situation, making the men stiffen their shoulder muscles. It is my turn. I scream and kick at the hands trying to get ahold of me. I can finally move. The drug has worn off. The taste of freedom makes me thrash and punch. My lungs inflate and my fighter side unleashes. I will not go down like this. “HELP! HE—”

A hand covers my mouth in a mere second, and my eyes dry and water simultaneously from their wide exposure to the stale air. Another hand reaches around my naked torso and pulls me up against a strong chest of muscles. I search the room for an exit, and I use my unrestrained arms and legs to fight. I pinch and kick and pull and flail and yank and claw. I wiggle and shift in the arms holding me prisoner.Let me go!

Fuck.

The main man in my field of spotted vision turns and growls angrily in my direction. The piercing blue eyes electrify my insides, sending charges throughout my limbs.

Graham Hoffman.

Angry, fierce, virile, and sexy.

Shit.

Damn.

Fuck.

15

“Enough!” Graham bellows, flashing a look to the man holding me captive. “Restrain her before she hurts herself! Dammit! NOW! And get ahold of Nic!” His snarl is laced with a deadly warning that sends the feeling of liquid nitrogen down my spine. My tongue catches in a cage of teeth. I am chilled by the freezing numbness and then left scorched from the afterburn effect.

As Graham’s concentration leaves him, Mark strikes out, connecting with his left cheekbone. The sound of tenderizing meat with a mallet penetrates through the tense air. Graham’s head slings to the right to absorb the blow. His hair sways in the swiftness of the fluid motion. I gasp over the pain he must be feeling.

“Ah, fuck!”

It is then that I feel the other hands on my bare skin, attempting to immobilize me on their boss’s orders. I squeeze my eyes shut to hide from the embarrassment. I do a blind inventory—six total. One pair on my naked arms, holding me firmly as I continue to squirm. One pair on my calves, circling me into a steel, deadlock vise. The newly introduced third pair wraps my exposed torso in a blanket. Shivers run havoc down my spine, circulating the coldness all over. I go limp—all fight extinguished—as I try to process what is happening.

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