Page 53 of Obliterated
Not Max.Not even close.
Goatee guy.
Panic claws at my throat, but instinct throws my fingers to my hip for the dagger. Max’s dagger. My hand clamps the leather, feels the cold metal—and then his boot slams into my wrist. The pain that slices through my forearm makes me cry out. The dagger skitters, the metal taps the wooden floor and slides into the shadow.
No.No. Not like this.Not fucking like this.
He’s on me before I can blink. Rotten breath stinks against my ear as he shoves my face into the mattress. He pins my arms, immobilizes me.
For that first heartbeat, all I know is the mattress and his weight, and I freeze because there’s no thinking when the body goes pure fight-or-die.
In the next breath, the sheer force of what’s happening slams into me like a wall, crushing, undeniable. My lungs seize, my vision sparks.
Then the third second comes, I’m moving, adamant about not making it fucking easy for him. I fuckingwon’t.
I kick, throwing everything into it, hips, knees, shoulders.
I twist, desperate, and shake one arm off me.
I bite down on the heel of his hand until I taste blood.
He howls, more surprise than pain, but he only holds me tighter as he shoves my arms together, pushing down on my wrists.
“Yeah? Kick harder, boy,” he snarls, voice crude. “I like it that way. Just ask your momma.”
I almost freeze again whenthatpresses against my ass. His erection.
No, no, no, not again.He’s trying again. I got him off me before, I can do it again. I thrash, wild, lose my fucking mind as the panic washes over me when he shoves my shorts and underwear off in one go.
The air hitting my skin is a fucking punch, stealing what breath I had left.
He moans,he fucking moans,before hissing something foul under his breath, low and hungry.
It’s like static, the way my brain goes numb, the way I kinda… faze out.
He’s strong, he’s too. Fucking. Strong.
I need Max. I need my dagger. I need to get himoffme.
I did it before.
The memory slams into me.I did it before.
Determination floods me, and when his dark chuckle hovers near the back of my neck, I slam my head back with so much force I hear his nose crack.
He howls—actually fucking howls—and is stupid enough to let my wrist go.
Before he comprehends what’s happening, before he can react, I aim for the dagger that I hope, pray,beg,is at his hip, just like the last time.
When my fingers wrap around the hilt, I nearly fucking cry.
I pounce.
I don’t give him another second to respond, to scramble, to pull some new filthy move. Not here. Not now.
I stab him, drive the blade in with all the strength I have, then yank it back out to do it again.
I stab his neck, his chest, his gut. Over and over until his cries cut off and his limbs go heavy. Until he slumps across my bed like dead weight.
