Page 33 of Vicious Prince (Violent Kingdom)

The knowledge of my situation smashes into me like a freight train running me over as I lie on the tracks, immobile, my limbs sliced to pieces by sharp wheels.

Damn.

It all floods my mind like a tsunami crashing into shore.

The party.

My father being shot, smacking into the pool’s surface before plunging down into it’s depths, bleeding and unconscious.

Joshua, practically forcing me down to the loading bay.

The security guards, dropping like flies.

And the two men, the ones wearing the balaclavas, grabbing me, injecting me with something, whatever it was smothering me into a dreamless void.

And after.

Waking up tied to the chair.

The fucking guy, the psychopath, the way he cut off my clothes, made me bleed. A choked sob escapes my lips when I recall his lips kissing between my legs, the low laugh that came from him and vibrated all through my body when he saw how distressed I was at such unwanted intimacy; and then, somehow, I was alone and bleeding.

I don’t know what happened after that. I was cold; my thoughts were slow and jumbled. I could feel my heart slowing down, athud, thud, thuuuuuud, like it was trying as hard as it could to find the blood volume to pump something around my battered body.

I can still feel cold air on my thighs, and that makes me panic.Did he rape me?I don’t feel sore down there. No sorer than I did after Will and I got hot and heavy at the cemetery earlier, anyway. I flex my left hand, missing an engagement ring, but mercifully lacking any ropes or restraints, too. They can have the damn ring. I just want the use of my arms and legs,thank you very much. I move my hand between my legs instinctively, cupping myself protectively, but also checking if there is any evidence that they did something to me while I was passed out.

I mean, I’m not in the chair anymore, am I? I’m on my back. It feels soft underneath me. Scratchy, like cheap foam. A mattress. I’m on a mattress. But this ain’t a Tempur-Pedic pillow top, no. This is a torture-chamber special. It’s damp under me, either with blood, or my pee, or both.

I can’t see anything much, but I’m not blindfolded anymore.Am I still naked?I use my right hand to touch my chest. I’m wearing something cotton, soft, something that smells faintly of cigarette smoke and men’s aftershave, a sandalwood scent that I swear I’ve smelled before.

A t-shirt. That’s what I’m wearing. But it’s big. The sleeves are wide, and go down past my elbows. The hem reaches halfway to my knees. And the collar sits loosely around my collarbones. I’m wearing a man’s shirt, and underneath it, I’m as naked as the day I was born — and probably as bloody.

I explore my body further, still too weak to try to sit up. I’m pissed that I’ve lost so much blood. It sure would have come in handy to be at full strength to try and fight my way out of this place, away from these psychos. My thigh wound is wrapped now, in what feels like gauze or bandages, and there’s a little butterfly clip holding the material in place just above my knee. It seems as though someone has cleaned me up.

But I’m still in a dark room, wearing a stranger's shirt, trying to ascertain whether any foreign objects have entered my vagina while I was passed out.

Out of nowhere, a lamp snaps on, and I have to choke back a scream. I sit bolt upright, my head swimming, dangerously close to passing out. Breathless, I drag myself away from the source of light and the hand still gripping it, until a wall stops me, and then I drag myself along that wall until that one stops, too, and I’m wedged in a corner with nowhere to go.

“Don’t worry, I didn’t fuck you,” a low voice says, coming from the same spot where the little light is still shining. It’s blue, in the shape of a cloud, a child’s nightlight. It casts an eerie blue glow around the room, making me feel even colder than I already am, my teeth chattering uncontrollably. And it illuminates the outline of a man, sitting on the floor in front of me, his knees drawn up to his chest as he watches me.

He’s not wearing a balaclava anymore. Is it the same guy? Something about him screams danger, but he sounds … familiar. Like we’ve met before.

I’m still cupping a hand between my legs, I realize. That’s why he said that.Don’t worry, I didn’t fuck you. His tone sounded almost … offended. Like he was upset that I’d think him capable of having sex with his unconscious captive.

I leave my hand where it is, a protective shroud. He put hismouthon me. He kissed me there, like a lover would kiss on the mouth. Will’s gone down on me more times than I can remember, but he’s never, ever kissed me there likethat. I don’t want anyone else kissing me thereever again.

Run, my body screams, my mind joining the chorus.Run!My limbs are loose and bloodless, my head lolling to one side. I couldn’t run even if there were somewhere to go. The shirt covering my body has ridden up at the back while I was moving, and my buttocks are frozen numb on the rough concrete I’m sitting on.

My eyes begin to focus as I continue to pant heavily. I can see the outline of broad shoulders, the faint blacks and reds of tattoos covering his bare chest.

He gets up on his knees and moves closer to me. I shrink into the corner, making myself as small as I can.

“Doesn’t mean somebody else didn’t sample the goods before I got here,” he adds. I shudder, thinking of that, of being thrown onto a mattress and fucked and being totally oblivious to the whole thing.

Every time he speaks, my head pounds relentlessly. Just the sound of his voice is like walking on broken glass.I know you. Goddamn it, how do I know you?A fresh wave of nausea rolls through me, and it takes every ounce of my strength to hold down the bile that waits excitedly in my stomach, ready to shoot up and projectile from my mouth.

I start to cry when he stands up, looming in front of me, unbuttoning his jeans. Oh, Jesus. This is it. He’s put me on the mattress so he can rape me. He unbuttons his jeans and pushes them down his thighs, revealing muscled legs, covered in tattoos, and a pair of tight black boxer shorts covering the things I want him to keep covered.

“Please, don’t,” I whimper. “I’ll do anything you want. But not that. Please?”

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