Page 45 of Born in Depravity

Damien, the one everyone referred to as the Russian Psychopath.

Italian mob wives used to utter his name to scare their children into behaving. They said he was the devil incarnate. That he had no feelings. Just a ruthless killing machine, able to do just about anything to get what he wanted, and without an ounce of remorse.

And I was stuck in a room with him.

It wasn’t anything new. I had been stuck in a room with him plenty of times since they took me, but something about being stuck in this room with him, in this house, and without the other two made everything feel more—

Dangerous.

I bit my lip harder until the tangy taste of blood exploded on my tongue. I closed my eyes, trying my hardest not to cry. I didn’t want to cry in front of him.

He might get some sick, twisted pleasure from the sight.

I jumped when I felt his big heavy hands on my shoulders, before he turned me around. I kept my eyes closed.

Something wet touched my cheek, and it took me a second to realize it was his tongue.

He licked away my tears.

My eyes sprang open in surprise, and he shot me a savage smile, baring teeth.

I shook when he reached behind him and pulled out a small knife. Shaking my head, I tried to back away, but there was nowhere to go. I was stuck between the devil and the footboard.

“I warned you,” he said darkly. “You would do well to remember this. I don’t like to repeat myself.”

He edged the knife over to the tender skin around my neck. The image of him slitting my throat flashed before my eyes, and I shook my head. Did it make me weak to want to beg him?

I would if that was what it took for him to let me go.

But as usual, I couldn’t find my voice.

My eyes pleaded with him instead. His smile widened. The knife moved down my neck. I held still, afraid of any sudden movement on my part and the knife would nick my skin.

I didn’t want to die.

It was the first time in my life I had ever admitted to such.

I didn’t want to die.

I wanted to live.

The tear of fabric had me sucking in my breath, and I watched in horror as he meticulously cut away my shirt, from the collar all the way down to the hem.

Without saying anything, he pushed the tattered fabric off my shoulders and threw it to the ground on his left, out of my reach.

My arms moved to my chest, covering my breasts from his view, and I felt lightheaded. This couldn’t possibly be happening to me right now, could it? I felt numb. As if I was watching this scene unfold in the seat of a spectator, not a participant.

One hand held the blade against my collarbone, the cold metal a harsh reminder that this was real, and that it was happening to me, as his other hand moved to the waistband of my pants and he tugged them down, along with my panties.

I shook my head.

No. Please don’t.

I didn’t know what more I could say or do. His dark eyes took in all the naked flesh he exposed.

“You’re exquisite, pet. Much more than I dreamed about. And I fucking dreamed about you a lot,” he said. He moved me toward the bed. I struggled in his hold, but he was so much stronger than me.

I was so fucking sick of this.

---