Page 15 of Stolen Rival
My stomach sinks.
Fuck.
I stumble back, right into a wall. Except it’s not a wall, because fingers curl around my waist, bracing me against a warm chest.
“Ah. I see you’ve met Titan.”
I can tell without looking back that Patrick the Prick is grinning. He moves his mouth closer to my ear. “Be a good girl and sit.”
I’m not sure if he’s talking to me or the vicious guard dog, but my legs are shaking too hard for me to even think about moving. The dog, however, sits and cocks her head to one side.
His hot breath tickles the skin of my neck as he stays closer to me than I’d like, his fingers digging into my waist. “She can k-i-l-l on command, too.”
A wave of goosebumps breaks out across my skin.
“Lucky for you, she can’t spell.” He pauses, his lips so close to my ear I can almost feel them on my skin. “Yet.”
I can’t bring myself to turn to look at him, even if I wantedto, he’s got me in a vise grip, there’s nowhere for me to go. “H-h-how d-d-did you know?”
He reaches around my body, places a knuckle under my chin, and lifts my head, then points at a small black box with a red flashing light mounted on the side of the house. “Cameras, motion detectors, and man’s best friend.”
My body rises and falls with heavy breaths, brushing against his chest. My hands are slick with sweat, and my wound throbs to the rhythm of my racing pulse.
What’s he going to do to me now?
My mouth is dry, and I can’t swallow the lump clogging my throat. Fear snakes its way up my spine, curling ice-cold wisps around my ribcage as Patrick stands silently behind me.
All I can do is wait for him to sentence me, to tell me what my punishment is for trying to escape.
Again.
Instead of words, his warm, wet tongue meets my cheek, and he drags it up the side of my face. “Try to run as much as you want,mo mhuirnín. You’re mine now. There is no escape.”
Chapter 8
SORCHA
Patrick clasps my wrist,his fingers firm and unrelenting, and tows me back in the direction of my prison. I yank my arm up, but it’s no use. There’s no shaking him off.
My mind races. If I can’t get through to this man’s non-existent heart, perhaps I can reach someone else in the house. A brother, a member of staff, someone who has empathy and emotions. Someone who could help me escape.
“H-heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeelp! Someone help me!”
The bastard chuckles. It’s not a fun, light-hearted laugh. It’s a menacing rumble, designed to elicit fear.
My throat burns from my cries for assistance, and tears stream down my face, but still he continues his relentless march.
He tosses me onto the bed like a discarded stuffed toy: light, meaningless, disposable. Another reminder of my fragility crashing into me as my aching body crumples onto the unmade bed. I scramble to stand but my limbs are weak, so I end up on my knees on the floor, tangled in a sheet.
There’s no slammingof my bedroom door, which means he’s standing there watching me struggle. How embarrassing. Except, when I look up, hair stuck to my tear-streaked face, it’s even worse than being watched. He’s gone, leaving the door open because he’s so confident, so cocky, he knows there’s no way out of here for me.
It’s as though I’m so inconsequential that I’m not even worth his time. Frail, inadequate, useless. Some things never change no matter your surroundings.
My stomach sinks as realization dawns.
This is it.
There’s no great escape from this place, or these people. There’s no compassion inside these walls. My captor is a heartless, sociopathic bastard. King of his domain.
