Page 99 of Riot's Thorn
“Look at you. Every man at the party is going to want a taste.” The way his eyes devour me makes me feel dirty. People judge Riot and the Sons, calling them soulless criminals, but those people don’t know real evil.
Monsters don’t hide in closets or under your bed. They hide in plain sight. They’re the ones who are the loudest in the room, bragging about all the good they do. Fuck ‘good men.’ I want real. I want a man who’s just as open about his negative traits as he is about his positive. I want Riot.
“I can’t wait to kill you,” I say, meaning every word.
He chuckles, coming close enough to stroke the back of his hand down my face. His hand moves lower, cupping my breast and moaning. “I’d love to see you try.”
When his hand lowers between my legs, where he pushes through my outer lips, rubbing through the fabric of the dress, I gather the saliva pooling in my mouth from how sick he makes me and spit it in his face. It lands on his forehead and drips down to his eyebrow. I can’t believe I just did that. I’ve never spit at anyone before; I wasn’t even sure I knew how, but dang, that felt good.
“You stupid bitch.” He backhands me across the face, knocking me to the ground and sending my glasses skittering. The diamonds on his wedding ring cut my cheek open. “Goddamn it, you’re getting blood all over my floor.”
It’s not just the tile stained with my blood; my stupid outfit is ruined, making the throbbing pain worth it. I grin, licking the blood from the corner of my mouth. “I wonder if ‘death by a thousand cuts’ is real. Maybe that’s how I’ll kill you.”
He storms over, gripping me by my hair and jerking my head back to look him in the eyes. “And how do you think you’ll do that? You’re nothing but a pathetic whore who’s useless to me now. No one wants to fuck damaged goods.”
“Darn.”
“You think you’re so clever.” He tugs me up to my knees and backhands me again. Unwanted tears well in my eyes. I don’t want to show weakness, but my god, that hurts.
This time, my eye swells so quickly, it impedes my already poor eyesight without my glasses, and blood pours from my cheek like a faucet. But I refuse to let him break me. Just as I push up onto my hands, he kicks me in the side, and I collapse once again, the air leaving my lungs in awhoosh.
All my confidence is gone when the kicks keep coming. I curl into a ball, covering my head, but it does no good. My ribs,my back, my neck—he doesn’t leave any part of me uninjured. I teeter in and out of consciousness, only screaming when he stomps his heel onto my hand, no doubt breaking bones.
Breathless, Bart mutters, “Put her back. She’s no good to me now.”
I’m sobbing as the front door opens and closes. For a long while, the only sounds are my whimpers as I finally concede I’m not as strong as I thought. I was under the assumption there was a level of cruelty Bart wouldn’t reach, but I was very wrong.
“Come on. You can’t go looking like that.” Someone, probably the guard who brought me down here, grabs my glasses before he picks me up off the floor, making me cry out in pain. After a short walk, I’m back in the room I left only minutes ago. The man sets me down on the closed toilet lid in the bathroom and yanks a towel off the rack. “Hold this to your cheek. I’ll be right back.”
With one hand around my middle and the other staunching the blood flow coming from my cheek, I double over. This is the worst pain I’ve ever felt. There’s no part of me that isn’t on fire, and my mind is shutting down, unable to process what just happened.
“Sit up.” The guard kneels in front of me and opens a first aid kit. After digging around, he finds some butterfly bandages. “Let me see.”
I lower the towel, and he winces. It’s the first expression he’s shown, so I know it must be bad. He pushes my hair back, looking at each cut and bruise, probably to figure out where to start bandaging them.
“Help me. Please.”
“Don’t do that,” he says. “If I do anything other than what I’m told, not only will I be killed, but so will my family. Do you want that blood on your hands?”
Tears fall down my cheek, mixing with the blood. “No.”
“Then just let me do my job.” He has a slight accent, maybe Russian, because his inflections have a deeper tone and he rolls his Rs the barest amount. His blond hair and large frame could also speak to Eastern European heritage.
“Okay,” I croak out.
He sighs, and for ten painful minutes, he cleans me of all the blood and fixes me up the best he can with what he has. I remain as quiet as I can, only making sounds when it becomes too much to bear. He’s right. Just because I’m the one bleeding doesn’t mean I’m the only one under Bart’s thumb. I couldn’t live with myself if this man’s family were killed because of me.
“That’ll have to do. Come on,” he says, and I follow him to the bedroom, hunched over. “Here are some sweats and a sweatshirt. They’ll be big, but it’s all I have, and you’ll need the warmth.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re someone else’s problem now. Can’t say for sure, but I think you’re going to Canada.”
“Canada?”
“Yes. Get dressed.” He motions to the clothes.
“Why?” I sit and, as demurely as I can, unhook the garter belt and pull off the stockings. With my legs clenched together, I push both feet into the sweatpants and pull them up to my knees before standing and lifting them over my butt. It’s stupid to feel shy when he’s seen everything, but Riot was the only man to have seen me naked, and I’m uncomfortable. Turning my back on him, I pull off the stupid dress and tug on the sweatshirt.
