Page 15 of Riot's Thorn
I’m quiet for long seconds, not hearing anything other than a clink of glass. Now, there’s nothing. Are they gone?
Yanking on the metal cuff, I wince at how raw the skin feels already. The pain is nothing compared to the fear keeping my heart pounding so hard, my pulse is echoing in my ears. He said he wouldn’t rape me, but he said that while choking me, which makes me feel like I’m on borrowed time.
A traitorous part of my psyche whispers words I don’t want to admit, like how attractive he is and how his hand around my throat and his face close to mine both terrified and excited me. It has to be some sort of reactive phenomenon to being in a stressful situation because other explanations, like being attracted to him, are unfathomable.
The fact that big men are my type and his build and height are unlike anything I’ve seen in real life means nothing. Oh, god. What kind of sick person am I? The muscles I’m sexualizing arethe same ones that could have snapped my neck not even half an hour earlier.
It has to be the stress. My mind is teetering on the verge of a nervous breakdown, and I’m not thinking clearly. That has to be it.
I try to force the gag out of my mouth with my tongue, but he must’ve double-knotted it because my attempts have only soaked it in my saliva, making this whole experience worse.
The door creaks open, preventing my thoughts from spiraling further. Riot walks in looking more solemn than he was when he left. The visit with his guests must not have gone well. Good. Maybe they talked some sense into him.
He uncuffs me, and I immediately roll my wrists before rubbing at the sore flesh. Yanking on the cuffs was stupid, as I only hurt myself.
“Do you need to shit or piss?” he asks.
My eyes nearly bug out of my head. I’m twenty-one and have been around my fair share of fraternity dude-bros, but I’ve never heard that question uttered aloud. “N-no.”
“Get into bed then.”
His ever-changing moods are throwing me off. I get the feeling something bad will happen if I argue, so I walk around him and climb in, placing my glasses on the nightstand and settling myself on top of the covers at the very edge of the mattress. It’s the safest I can make myself right now.
I watch in horror and fascination as he pulls off his shirt, revealing defined pecs and abs that could be used as a ladder. His skin is tanned, smooth, and covered in black tattoos. The biggest of them is a roaring lion across his right shoulder and pec. He lifts long silver chains that hang from his neck and, one by one, sets them on the dresser along with his rings.
When he undoes his belt and pops the button of his jeans, I avert my gaze. It doesn’t stop me from knowing exactly what he’sdoing because I hear theclankof his belt hitting the floor. What I don’t hear is him digging through a drawer or clothes being pulled off a hanger in the closet.
There’s no way he’d get into this bed with me in just his underwear, right? Surely, he’ll put on sweats or something, right?
Wrong.
Not five seconds later, the light in the room goes out and the bed dips. Oh, my god. This day just gets more and more unbelievable. If I ever get the chance to tell my friends what’s happened to me, they’ll think I’m exaggerating. But when the truth is this insane, there’s no need to lie.
Just when I think it can’t get worse, his big arm loops around my middle, and he drags me to the center of the bed where his warm body is waiting. My breath catches.
Holy shit. Is he. . . spooning me?
I whimper when his hold tightens, pulling me flush against him, his body curling around mine. In my head, I repeat his promise not to rape me over and over, trying to calm myself. If this is the worst that happens, I can survive it. There’s no chance I’ll sleep, but I’ll survive it.
“Huh,” he mutters, his mouth way too close to my ear.
“What?” I ask, not knowing if I really want an answer.
“I thought it would bother me.”
“You thought what would bother you?”
“Having you this close. I’ve never. . .snuggledbefore,” he says as if the word tastes bad.
I want to toss out a quip about him being an asshole because that surely means he kicks his conquests out of his bed after using them, but I hold it in. I don’t want to discuss his sex life. Matter of fact, I want to keep his mind as far away from his dick as possible.
“But it feels right, in a way,” he adds.
“Are you joking?”
“You don’t feel it?”
If I just ignore that it’s him comforting me, it does feel nice. After a day like today, I’ve never needed to be held more. I can’t tell him that, though, so instead, I say, “The only thing I feel when you touch me is disgust.”
