Page 63 of Glitter Rose
“We’re just getting started.”
His thumb digs deeper into my throat, pinning me beneath him as his mouth crushes against mine. His lips are rough, chapped, demanding things that I don’t want to give. I clamp my teeth together, refusing him entry as his tongue probes insistently.
My lungs burn. Not enough air.
“Come on, sweetheart. Open up,” he murmurs. “We both know you need this.”
I twist my head away, gasping as his grip loosens. “Need what? A walking steroid billboard?”
His palm cracks across my cheek. The sting blooms hot, and tears spring to my eyes while another rush of dizziness overwhelms me.
“Still got jokes?” His hand snatches at my top, exposing my breasts. “Let’s see how funny you are when I’m done with you.”
In my peripheral vision, the blue box lies on the floor, diamond glinting in the light.
Knox.
His mouth finds my neck, sucking so hard I cry out in agony. “One day, you’ll be begging me to take you. Begging for it to be me instead of whatever fucker is out there. And trust me, sweetheart. They’re not as nice as I am.”
Black spots dance in my vision.
The door flies open, bouncing against the wall with a crack.
“What is going on here?” My brother’s voice halts Mike’s assault, and I hate the relief flooding through me almost as much as I hate them both.
Mike’s weight still pins me to the mattress, his fingers letting go of my throat. “Sir?—”
“Get out.” Gabriel’s face could be carved from marble. “Now.”
Mike scrambles off me. “She called for me, sir. Was upset?—”
“I said get out.”
Mike straightens his shirt, shooting me a look that promises this isn’t over. “Yes, sir.”
The door closes behind him, and I salvage what’s left of my torn top over my exposed chest.
My brother approaches slowly, hands in his pockets. “Are you okay?”
I laugh, the sound cracked. “Seriously? That’s what you’re going with?”
“I didn’t authorize that.”
“Your guard dog seemed pretty confident you wouldn’t care.”
Gabriel sighs, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair. “You shouldn’t antagonize him.”
“Right. My fault. I forgot the proper etiquette for being sexually assaulted.”
“That’s not what I?—”
“What do you want?” I wrap my arms around myself. “More blood? More tissue samples? A kidney, perhaps?”
He produces a handkerchief from his pocket, holding it out to me. “Your lip is bleeding.”
I stare at the crisp white square of fabric, monogrammed with his initials. I remember the exact day my mother sat in the chair downstairs stitching it.
“Keep it,” I say.
