Page 52 of For Cowgirls and Kings
“Eat.” He sets a plate on my lap before walking around to loosen my bindings. I fight off a groan as my fingers begin to tingle, blood rushing to the tips of them as I bring them around to my front, gingerly rubbing my raw wrists. He points down at the plate in my lap, and my fingers shakeas I lift it up. I smell something sweet, like syrup, and I bravely crack an eye open. Pancakes—simple, but feels like a luxury compared to what I’ve been offered—and I can’t help the tears falling down my cheeks.
Why pancakes?
“I said eat. Don’ make me tell ya again.”
I trace my eyes to his face, clean shaven and smooth, with several tattoos peppering his skin, my eyes snagging on the name still slightly raised along his hairline. I have half a mind to ask him who Jose is, but think better of it as his eyes snap into view of my own. His eyes are hollow and dark, but the remainder of his expression is blank. Like he’s waiting to decide how to feel, based on what I do next.
I look down at the plastic plate, a single pancake covered in sweet syrup and my mouth waters. “Thank you—” My eyes lift to his hands. “Do you…do you have a fork?”
The sound of the slap fills the room before I register the pain splintering across my face. I don’t cry out though. I bite violently down on my tongue, the taste of copper blossoming in my mouth. Crying out only seems to encourage his violence.
But this outburst is new. One on one, and with no direct reasoning is new. He’s escalating—desperate.
“Eat.” He spits the word, and I blink rapidly past the tears. With filthy fingers I grab the pancake and bring it to my mouth. I choke it down, unable to appreciate the small burst of joy that may have filled me, if it hadn’t been for the ache renewed in my face, or the humiliation of eating with fingers that are most likely covered in shit.
As I shove the final bite of it into my mouth, careful to not touch my fingers to my lips, his hand brushes the top of my head. I freeze at the contact. He brushes again—smoothing my hair out as if he’s petting me.Like a fucking psychopath.
I don’t know what to do, so I remain perfectly still, my hand still suspended in midair.
“Good girl, now, clean up ya hands so ya’re not sticky.”
I still don’t move.What the fuck is he asking me to do?
“Princessa,” he hisses the word, full of enough violence and hatred I can feel the burn all the way to my toes.
“How?” I hate the way my voice wobbles.
He growls, his petting halting, and then grips the back of my head, pulling my face up to look at him. Gone is his blank expression, replaced with one I can only compare to murderous. His eyes narrow, accompanied with a sneer that I know I’ll see in every nightmare I’ll ever have if I survive this.
Marco grabs my wrist, and I scream, unable to contain the noise as he twists my arm, the bones threatening to break. “Lick the syrup from ya fingers like the good little slut ya are.”
I stare at him, my chest quivering. Reluctantly I nod, licking my cracked bloody lips, and close my eyes as I lean forward to take my fingers in my mouth.
This is about power,humiliation.And I’ll do what he says if it means he feels powerful. At this point it’s about survival. I want to survive. I don’t know how or why, or where I’ll go from here, but for the first time, I know I have a purpose. I must get out of this darkness, to do the things I’ve always wished to do, to be who I’ve always wanted to be.
He growls, forcing all of my fingers against my lips and into my mouth. I gag, unable to fight off the overwhelming disgust flooding my body. He pushes them farther, my wrist screaming from the angle, and my throat closing off from both fear and disgust.
I gag again, this time causing drool to spill past my lips. It runs down my neck and across the bruised flesh of mycollar bone.
“Fuuucckk.”
My eyes snap open. He no longer sounds just hateful. He sounds aroused, and that’s the last fucking thing I want. I’ve made it this far without being violated in this way, and I fear it might be the only thing that’s keeping my soul from completely shattering.
He eyes me hungrily, not looking directly at my face, but at the drool falling unbidden down my neck.
The realization has me crying out, tugging at my arm.I have to get out of this situation.I’d rather him hit me, than be turned on by me. I’d rather him do anything but rape me.
I thought it couldn’t get worse, but this is worse. Seeing him, look at me like this,this is fucking worse.
He grips my wrist tighter, twisting it further and I crumple, trying to tuck into myself. He’s faster, and stronger, staying with me as I fall, and now instead of being farther from him, free from his grip, he’s on top of me, his hand wrapped around my throat.
“This can go one of two ways, princessa.” I don’t have to hear the rest of what he says to know what he means. I can either fight him, or accept my fate. Either way he’ll have what he wants.
I nod once, and he releases my wrist. I instantly pull it to my chest, cradling it against me. But he doesn’t move from sitting on top of me, doesn’t break eye contact or remove his grip from my throat. We stay like this for several seconds, caught in this single moment of time between“before and after,”before he shuffles up, pulling me with him.
I scramble to my feet, teetering because I still have ropes on my ankles. He squeezes around my neck tighter, his eyes burning into my own. “I’m going to untie these.” He kicks at the ropes. “But if ya run, if ya even scream, my brothers will be down here. And then it’ll be three instead of one. Do ya hear me?”
I just stare at him, the sensation of floating above my body filling my limbs. My fingers tingle, lungs achy and tight—I’m numb, the realization of just how bad this will get cutting me to my core.
