Page 118 of Princess of Pride
“I do believe I found the golden goose,” he says with a Scottish accent that is different than the ones around here. He grins, but the scar pulls his skin at an angle that makes it seem malicious or maybe that’s his intention.
“Who are you?”
“Your new master.” He licks the side of my face from my chin to my temple.
I cringe and jerk my head in disgust, trying to get away. The attempt is useless.
The man laughs, his grip like steal on my arms. “I lovewhen they resist. It adds to the pleasure and makes me want to hurt them even more.”
My entire body freezes, and my mind goes to the worst place. This man wants to do cruel sexual things to me. Things I probably can’t imagine. Things that will make me wish I were dead.
“I think I broke her.” His hand slides up my body to my neck. He chokes me with iron fingers, cutting off the air to my lungs.
My instincts kick in, overriding my paralyzing fear. I grab at his hands, scratching him as I try to free myself from his death grip.
“Fixed her.” He chuckles in a sinister way but doesn’t let go.
My lungs burn and my head swims. I’m on the verge of blacking out.
He laughs again and lets me go.
I drop to my knees, gasping for air. I’m still struggling for breath when he hoists me up against him and gropes my breast, squeezing it with such force I cry out in pain.
I shudder and gag as the contents in my stomach climb up my throat. He shoves me forward, and I stumble sideways, crashing into the doorframe. Pain erupts on the side of my head.
“Call for the helicopter,” the monstrous man behind me orders. “And get this bitch out of my sight.”
The beefy man seizes my biceps with bruising force and hauls me off the ground. Feet dangling, he carries me down a hallway, through a large kitchen, and down wooden stairs into a dank basement that’s old compared to the modern upstairs.
A million thoughts race through my muddled brain. Fight! Escape! Do something!
My lips tingle, and my vision clouds. Another word jumpsforward in my head.Breathe. Breathe or risk passing out, and I don’t want to do that here.
I focus on calming down, which is really hard when a strange man is toting me around like a disobedient child that he hates.
“Please.” I manage to get out.
He drops me onto an old couch surrounded by boxes and other furniture. I bounce once, my eyes glued to him as he walks away and climbs the stairs. At the top, he closes the door. A lock sounds.
I stare at it for long moments, frozen in shock. Did he just leave me? Am I safe—for now? What if he comes back? I need to get out of here.
In a state of semi-shock, I glance around for a door or a window in the dimly lit room. Seeing nothing, I force myself to stand on shaky legs and maneuver around the clutter, checking every area. My pulse drums with steady fear. My actions are clumsy as I nudge boxes and furniture searching for any way to escape.
“You won’t find a way out,” a Scottish male voice sounds.
I flinch and turn. A lean man limps out from the shadows. He’s older—late fifties or early sixties—and has a professor style about him. He also has a black eye and a cut lip—neither appear to be fresh.
“Who… who are you?”
“Bran, the owner of this house. Who are you?”
“E-Emery. Maisie brought me here.”
The man sighs as if in anguish. He removes his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose. “This isn’t good.”
Turning, he limps to the couch and sits at one end. I follow him over but remain standing at a safe distance.
“I won’t hurt you. I’m not with them. I’m a victim like you.”
