Page 99 of Their Broken Legend

Bent and exposed, I wrestle with the denim restricting my movement. My breasts bounce around. A scorching flare of shame and anguish brands my skin. I hear footsteps close now, my body becoming a frantic, groaning vessel of desperation. Hands touch me. Dark reality creeps over my eyes, crawling into the blue irises, making them confused with what is close and far, my brain so utterly panicked that my sight plays tricks on me.

And I roll to my back to kick at the person touching me but hear,“Baby, it’s me. You’re naked. Why are you naked?”

Tears blur everything. The ominous shadow over me has Xander’s voice. I fling my arms around his shoulders, my mind accepting the comfort and security my body is desperate for, disappearing intohim. Needing him.

Topaz-blue eyes.

Rubber and mint.

Baby. Baby. Baby.

But the roars of hysteria in my head won’t stop when they should. I’m safe now. It should stop. Safe with him. I can feel his hands squeezing my breasts—owning them.Mine.

Did he say it?

Think it.

Mine.

Am I hearing it?

“I think you should choke on my cock, you filthy slut. Then I am going to fill your dirty whore mouth with my cum and piss.” Ice slides into my lungs as I let go of his neck, lean back, and see—a balaclava.

“Baby, it’s me. You’re naked. Why are you naked?”

It was in my head. The words. The voice. The place… my place of resilience. He never said that. He’s not here.

It’s not Xander.

I made him up.

He didn’t save me.

Hands enclose my narrow wrists, pinning them above my head to the carpet, an ache races through my underarms from the jerking motion. I buck.

“What’s wrong?” the man says, his voice still twisted and unnatural. “You were just holding me. Such a cock tease.”

Gyrating, I try to get away. Frantic, I glare through pools of despair to find a large figure looming above me.Two men. One on top of me, his knees bracketing mine apart while he unbuttons his jeans… bluejeans. I should remember that.Details.I should remember details.

The other man is pressing my wrists into the floor, the weight of him crushing bones. No details—an all-black figure behind a blur of tears. A shaking, menacing form that moves as I jerk around. As I buck. As I gyrate. All I can hear is laughter, the sound churns my stomach. Bile fills my mouth.

He didn’t save me.

How could he?

He didn’t know I needed saving.

The man’s cock is in his fist, hard and dripping, stabbing the air as he inches up my body to thrust it into my face.

Then a bang from the hallway shakes the room. It’s so loud, it could be just outside. Or a car backfiring. But the throaty snarl from an animal spurs the man on top of me to his feet, and the one behind me backwards along his arse.

“Shit,” one of them growls.

The other says, “What is that noise?”

And I recognise that voice but can’t place it. My senses are in shock—deafened by the drumming of my pulse and blinded by my tears.

I whisper, “Please, please, please, be the police. Please be the police.”

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