Page 75 of Begging for Mercy
“Have fun!” One of them cheers, genuinely looking pleased with herself. They open the bathroom door and shove me back into the hallway, where I collide with a wall of warm muscle. I scream, but all he does is pick me up and toss me over his shoulder, grabbing my ass as soon as the opportunity presents itself. We bounce down the staircase to a chorus of insults.
Dirty slut!
You’re about to get that cherry popped!
What a whore!
Meanwhile, the monster carrying me down the stairs is greeted with enthusiasm.
Fuck her up, Reaper!
Tear that virgin pussy!
Get her nice and wet for the rest of us, killer!
Tears streak down my face, blurring the crowd. I ball my hands into fists and beat the ever-loving hell out of Kane’s backside, but he barely flinches no matter how many times I strike. “Stop it! I don’t want this!”
I’ve known of Reaper’s reputation for years, but I’ve never witnessed the main event. Parties, sports matches, club activities after dark, wherever the Reaper appears, someone gets fucked. I used to think that it was a metaphor—maybe he’s a boxer—but then I heard rumors about his massive cock and realized that no, peopleliterallyget fucked.
But Kane wouldn’t do that to me. Not in public. Nothere.
Not with Sam standing directly over our heads.
“Kane!” I twist my body and grab his hair, pulling as hard as I can.
He yelps. “Fucking bitch! You asked for this!”
What?
Someone throws a drink in my face, and I’m blinded, the alcohol burning my eyes. I can’t stop the sob that escapes my lips, and my next plea isn’t for Kane. It’s for my best friend. “Sam!” I scream, kicking and clawing. “Help!”
But Sam doesn’t appear on the stairs. He doesn’t jump through one of the open windows or fall from a hole in the ceiling. My protector is nowhere to be found, and I can’t help but feel like it’s my fault.
I told him that I loved him, but he wasn’t enough for me.
I also wanted Kane.
Maybe this is the price for being greedy. Normal girls don’t keep two men—they sleep with one and marry the other. Isn’t that how the game goes?Fuck, Marry, Kill?
If I’m fucking Reaper, I’ll still get to marry Sam because he’ll let me break his heart, and when Zane comes after me for losing the game, he’ll kill me before I could ever kill him.
Except, that’s a game of pretend. Only one of those is coming true. Sam isn’t here to save me, and Zane is nowhere to be found. It’s just me and Reaper, in the end. Exactly how it was the night we first met in the mausoleum.
As I desperately wipe the alcohol from my stinging eyes, we move to the center of the living room, the floor now clear to make way for our arrival. Reaper spin around to show off his prize, giving me enough leverage to find an escape route. But as soon as my gaze lands on a flimsy pop up table in the center of the room, suddenly cleared of beer pong, my heart sinks. Streaks of warm beer and spilled punch glaze its surface, bouncing all around me as I’m thrown onto my back on the table. I kick as hard as I can, slamming my heel into Reaper’s jaw.
A flash of anger in his dark eyes makes me heart race. He’s going to be rough on purpose.
I scan his body for weak points, scrambling to think of any self-defense I’ve learned over the years, but all I notice is the shitty paint job. Concrete gray body paint covers his torso and arms. It’s devoid of any markings—not even the usual skeleton—and slapped on haphazardly, like he was in a hurry and didn’t care about the finished product. His cruel eyes rake down my body, and his brunette hair falls over his forehead.
An artist would never slap paint on like this.
“You’re not Kane,” I realize, feeling so incredibly stupid. This isn’ttheReaper. It’s a cheap imitation.
A girl straddling a shirtless man’s shoulders pumps her fist in the air. She’s familiar somehow, but that doesn’t matter when she’s yelling for Reaper to “Fuck The Dead Girl!” The chant picks up speed until that’s all I can hear. My own heartbeat goes deaf in my ears.
Maybe I really am dead.
A silent tear tracks down my cheek as “Reaper” pulls his pants down to reveal a lackluster cock. He strokes it, trying to make it bigger, and I can’t stop the laugh that bursts from my chest. You havegotto be kidding me. They should have vetted the substitute before letting him ruin Reaper’s reputation.
