Page 35 of Boy of Ruin
My stomach hurts. He can’t know what I did. How would he know that? The papers said I shot them. I shot them, and my attorney took care of the rest. My lawyer, and the money, and Lazar…
Suddenly, his hand goes to my throat, knocking my head back against the wall of the cave. My eyes fly open, but I don’t move to defend myself and I see the burning tip of the cigarette held just above my face as Lucifer looms over me, on his knees, his fingers biting into my flesh.
“You wanna scream for me now?” he growls, his hand going to my jaw, fingers splayed along my cheek, his thumb on my chin. He brings the cherry closer to my eye, and I whimper, gritting my teeth as I start to tremble. “Ah, that’s it,” he whispers, “I like that sound. Did they sound anything like that?”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out but another fucking whimper.
His smile widens. “You sound like a little bitch, J,” he says softly. “Just like them, huh?” The cigarette comes closer and I blink, darting my hands out, curling my fingers around his arm, trying to force him off of me, but he’s stronger. A year after getting out of that cage, and I still haven’t built up my muscle yet.
He leans against me, and I can’t fight him off, his scent overwhelming me, the heat from the cherry too close to my eye. It starts to water, and my hand trembles against his forearm.
He laughs. “Stupid fucking idiot,” he says in that hoarse voice. “Can’t stop shaking, huh? I scare you that much?”
He moves the cigarette away from my eye, and I exhale with relief. But his fingers are still on my face, and when he says, “Stick out your tongue,” I start shaking all over again.
“No, L-Lucifer, p-please don’t—”
“That what they said to you, prick?” he growls.
I don’t answer him, my fingers still curled around his forearm as I shake my head.
“Answer me, you piece of shit.”
Then it happens.
My bladder loosens. A habit from being in that cage.
Warm urine coats my sweats, seeping through my boxers. I pray in my head that he won’t notice. That if I just do what he says, he’ll leave me alone.
He’ll go away.
I start to open my mouth, my face flaming with humiliation, but then he wrinkles his nose and leaps to his feet, backing away from me.
“You pissed yourself?” he asks, incredulous as I squeeze my hands around my shins, rocking in a ball all over again, humming to myself, pretending I’m not here. “You fucking pissed yourself?”
I hear someone else in the distance, someone calling his name.
He laughs and turns his head, cupping his free hand over his mouth. “Mav, this asshole fucking pissed himself!” He laughs, drops his hand and turns back to me. “You’re fucking disgusting.” Then, when I think he’s going to walk away, to go to Maverick, he steps closer to me and I hold my breath.
Waiting.
Shaking.
Still rocking.
Before I can even think of what he’s doing, his foot collides with my stomach, pain reverberating through my ribs.
I go down on my side, curled up in a fetal position, my face against my own urine.
Just like in that cage.
I close my eyes and he laughs, then I hear a zipper.
His footsteps coming closer.
No. Please don’t. Please, please don’t.
He laughs again, and I feel something hot against my face, dripping into my eyes, my mouth.
