Page 22 of The Rich One

Fucking seething.

His breathing gets heavier as his hand moves faster on his stubby dick. He leans his head down to my thigh where the thousand papercuts are throbbing, and licks at the blood trickling from the wound. Feeling pressure applied to the cut—or however the fuck he’s mutilated me down there—sends a scream tearing through me. There’s no holding it back. It feels like he’s ripping my skin off as his moans of pleasure get louder.

Tears flood my eyes, making it almost impossible to see. I’m close to passing out from the pain as he tugs one final time, on my skin and his penis. His cum spurts in jets over my now naked body—he must’ve removed my clothes while I was passed out.

“There we are. All done.” He puts something on the bedside table with his switchblade before zipping up his pants. “Wanna see how good you look, little whore?” Picking up whatever he just put down, he rubs it across his cheek. It leaves a trail of blood right before he shoves it in my face… and I vomit right there. I almost choke as I have to swallow it back down, the gag still restricting me. It’s a square patch of my skin, about an inch wide on either side.

Holy shit, that’s my fucking thigh. That is skin. From. My. Thigh. I think I’m going to be sick again. But then my brain focuses on his low laugh.

A terrifying sound that will haunt my sleep for weeks.

“Now, I’m going to untie one of your arm restraints before I leave. I’m not a complete sadist. The rest you can figure out for yourself.”

This is the first time I’ve found myself face to face with this kind of psychopath, and I don’t fucking like it.

CHAPTEREIGHT

I’ve been staring at this wall for what feels like a lifetime.

The room is dark—the sun set hours ago—and the black-out curtains make sure I lose myself in the nothingness.

I don’t know the time. I don’t know the day. I don’t know how the fuck I got myself into this situation.

When I got home from my work loft, I avoided any lingering conversations with Mr. Bobby, telling him I was tired and needed my bed. He smiled, but he knew. He had to. I was broken and incapable of pretending otherwise.

Once in my apartment, I drew the curtains, turned off my phone, and headed straight for the shower.

The physical pain of cleaning up my wound was nothing compared to my bruised psyche.

Psyche.

Kai.

I needed him that night. I needed my best friend to hold me, to avenge me. I needed the boy I’ve loved my entire life to shield me from myself.

But once again, he shattered my heart when my body and mind were already teetering on the edge of sanity.

I blink away the new tears as I think of the phone call I made after my shower.

It was a short call. I know because the number of seconds it took for him to destroy me keeps running around in my mind like a fucking silent film.

Seven seconds.

One second to say hello.

One second to repeat the word.

One second to say my name in disdain.

The rest was white noise.

Seven seconds to bring me to my knees.

Fuck.

It’s been long enough. I gave myself time to break down, now it’s time to get my shit together and go back to my life. I’ve wallowed, I’ve reflected, I’ve holed myself up to the point that the hunger pain is greater than the sting on my thigh.

My thigh. Christ, I can’t believe that psycho peeled off a square inch of my skin. Who fucking does that?

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