Page 47 of For Cowgirls and Kings
But it was also his words that made them stop right before they raped me.
I don’t think it was mercy that made him stop. It was calculation—he wants me to know he’s in control, to fear my fate and to know what will happen if I misbehave. Or what will happen anyway, and live in fear ofwhen.
He bends, beginning to loosen the restraints on my arms. He doesn’t seem concerned that I could hit him now, or that I’m free enough to run.
He’s cocky. And he’s proving once more that he’s in control.
Doing the only thing I can think of to show him he’s wrong, I lean forward as he kneels between my thighs, untying my ankles and spit on him.
He freezes, and I instantly regret the action.
What was I thinking?When has spitting on a man ever resulted in something besides anger or arousal? How could I have been so impulsive?
My body begins to tremble anew, fear pouring through me like a tidal wave.
Except his shoulders start to shake, and a low chuckle fills the room. Chills erupt over my body, the hairs on the back of my neck standing at full attention. He tips his head up, his eyes snapping to mine, a wicked smile still on his lips.
Up this close I notice the precise fade of his black hair—thick waves on top of his head, tapered down to razor blade closeness above his ears—and the seemingly fresh tattoo scrawled there.
Jose.
“Do ya’ want to play now, princessa?” His cruel voice is full of something husky and deep. I lean away from him again, and sneer back.
“Not a fat fucking chance, Marco.” I spit his name out like the poison it is.
He tsks, shaking his head, but his eyes never leave my face. They blaze over my skin, traveling down to my split lip, and then before I can scream, he leans forward licking the blood there, his tongue rough on the cut causing it to split again.
With my hands now untied, I shove at his chest, refusing to be meek any longer. “Get, the fuck, off me.”
In another universe, through the pages of a book maybe, this might be hot. Fuck, I think I’ve even read a dark romance where I fantasized about such a thing happening to me.
But I’m in no book, and this is no dark romance where we’re going to fall in love. This is a nightmare I’m fully awake for, and I’m going to be lucky if I even make it out alive, much less mentally intact.
He shrugs, and stands up, seeming unperturbed by my disgust.
“This can be easy or hard, how’er ya want it, princessa. Yer not really the target ‘ere so ya don’t have to suffer if ya don’ want to.”
I eye him skeptically. Could that be true? “You’re going to let me go, after all this, if you get whatever it is you want?”
He snorts, and then turns around, a large jacket in his extended hand. I numbly take it, deciding I have a better chance of escaping if I don’t freeze to death first. “No, but ya won’ suffer if ya don’ make it hard for yaself.”
Assuming it and hearing it are two totally different experiences. The first is terrifying. The second is devastating. Tears gather, hot and heavy, against my eyelids once more but I refuseto let them fall. I won’t give him what he wants—he can’t have more control.
“Come on, eat somethin’.” He points at the tupperware of what looks like cheese and crackers and meat sticks. Strangely decent snack for the scenario.
I take the box of food, my earlier reservation gone, and begin shoveling it into my mouth. I’m starving after all. He watches me, his dark gaze never wavering, and I know he’s busy calculating.
Once I’ve finished the snacks, I set the box down and hug the jacket tighter around me. I ignore the minty smell that fills my nose when I do so. “Will you do it?” I ask, breaking the silence that’s gathered around us.
“D’ya wan’ me to?” He sounds genuinely curious, and I have to ask myself the same question.
“Anyone but you.” I hurl the words at him, the implication heavy. To my surprise he nods, accepting this as my final request. He steps closer once more, and I cower, terror icing through my veins simply from his nearness. He freezes for a moment before growling, and lowering to the floor, retying my ankles with the rope—this time tighter, the rough material cutting into my skin.
When he’s finished with my ankles, he steps behind me, retying my wrists, adding a new rope, anchoring my ankle tie to my hands. I’m hog tied around this chair, freezing, desperate to use a bathroom—and completely at his mercy.
Marco moves to stand in front of me once more, his hand running through the hair crusting to the side of my face, his eyes burning over my skin. I lean away from his touch, scrunching my eyes closed. With a heavy sigh, he drops his hand, but I keep my eyes clamped shut.
“Night, princessa, don’t let the boogeyman get ya.” Heclimbs the stairs, closing the door with a loud click, and then the lights go off.
