Page 3 of Avenging Devil: Part 1

I hate this. It isn’t who I am, or rather, who I was. While knowing it’s fruitless, I try to appeal to a better nature he doesn’t possess. “Duke,” I begin, anxiously looking around. Keeping my voice low, I stress, “I’m yourwife.”

In the brief space that follows, I pray I’ve gotten through to him, but no. His face darkens. “You really want to play that card? When you’ve been fuckin’ around behind my back?”

“I didn’t!” As soon as my involuntary rebuttal escapes my mouth, I know it’s a mistake. I could plead that with two broken legs there was nothing I could do, but Duke will believe whatever he wants to rationalise the violence he’s about to dole out. His appetite for causing pain hasn’t been satisfied by Jude’s death. He wants more, and I’m the only one here who can assuage his dark hunger.

I brace but can’t do anything more. Recently, his attacks have become more violent and more regular. While I may wish for death, I don’t relish the pain that will accompany it. This time I fear that tonight I’ll be following Jude into his grave. All the signs are there that he won’t stop. I want to wail at the unfairness of it. Neither of us did anything wrong or even thought about it. Not Jude, twelve years my junior who just had his life so cruelly curtailed, and certainly not me. After Duke’s less than tender administrations, I never wanted sex with a man ever again.

But hurting me isn’t his immediate priority. I’m part relieved, part disgusted when he states, “Spilling blood gets me hard. Now suck me like the fuckin’ pro you are.” His dick now out, he steps closer, grabbing hold of my hair and wrenching my head back. “Open your fuckin’ mouth.”

I’m worth more,my internal voice screams.I’m no whore.

A violent jerk on my hair which will leave me missing a few strands has my mouth opening automatically. His cock enters, not gently, not slowly. He rams it into my mouth and down my throat. I retch, he laughs, holding himself there until I start to choke, then he draws back, letting me grab a breath then starts fucking my mouth in earnest.

He’s wound up tight, heated by the death of the man he murdered in cold blood. On edge already, it’s not long before he’s swelling and flooding my mouth. When he pulls out, he slams his palm over my mouth, forcing me to swallow. I gag and almost choke on my own vomit in an attempt to keep it down. Tears stream from my eyes, my nose is blocked, and I gasp, desperate for air when he at last removes his hand.

Is my penance done?

It seems not. Now with the hand still twisted in my hair, he pulls my face up and lets his other fist fly, hitting my nose, the crunch and blinding pain telling me he’s broken it. He throws me on the floor and kicks me in the ribs, in the stomach, my legs, and my head.

I curl up, trying to protect myself, even now conscious that out of all the men standing around, not one of them makes a move to stop him or to save me. Punch after punch, kick after kick, the pain assures me this time he’ll go too far, and I’ll be buried alongside the prospect.

Pain, agonising in its intensity is my whole universe. Blows follow one after the other until they seem to merge. My hope for a quick death is denied to me, and my punishment seems to go on for hours, until a welcome darkness descends.

* * *

I’m alive.

When I come to, I’m uncertain whether that is good news or bad. My body is a ball of pain. It’s hard to breathe, and there’s no part of me not screaming in agony. I’m vaguely conscious that the bed, more like a cot, feels familiar. The blankets I’m lying on are scratchy and smell unwashed. My senses tell me I’m in the clubhouse, in the room they put me in when my legs were broken.

But where I am is of no matter now. I might have survived the beating, but my instincts tell me Duke’s gone too far. It’s not just painful to take air into my lungs, it’s fast becoming impossible.

I’m dying.

Self-preservation makes me gasp, trying to suck in air and failing. Panicking, my lungs burn as if I’m drowning. There are people around me, and I try to cry out for help, but my voice doesn’t work.

Familiar voices reach my ears. “Nah, can’t do that. Prez would fuckin’ kill me. That’s if Duke doesn’t get to me first.”

“Croak, she’s got a fuckin’ collapsed lung.”

“Treat her, doc. You fixed her last time.”

“Last time he didn’t do as much damage as this. Does Duke want her to die? ‘Cause that’s where she’s heading.”

“You fixed her lung, what more do you want?”

“She’s got half my fuckin’ pen in her chest. It’s a temporary solution. I can’t leave her like that, Croak.”

Oh God, I’m dying.Won’t anyone help? In my dreams, my death was always peaceful, perhaps a blow or a bullet to the head, not lying helpless and conscious, feeling my life leeching out of me, slowly dying a painful death inch by inch. I try to open my eyes, but they feel glued shut. My ears are in full working order as I hear a thumping when heavy boots approach.

“Prez.” Croak sounds relieved. “Duke want her finished? If not, Doc says she needs to go to the hospital.”

Knife sighs heavily and there’s a pause before he responds. “Fuck. No, she can’t die. You know how Duke gets. She’s his fuckin’ property. He patched her for life.”

Yeah. So why the fuck did he just half kill me?

“Never saw her fuckin’ around with the prospect,” Croak speaks again. He sounds confused.

Now a laugh comes from the prez. “Of course she fuckin’ didn’t, but that’s the VP for you. When he has a hankering for bloodlust, he’ll use any excuse. Easier to just let him get it out of his system. Doc, you sure she needs to go in?”

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