Page 41 of Vicious Prince (Violent Kingdom)

His thumb continues to draw pleasure from my treacherous body, a pleasant throb intensifying deep in my belly that I can’t run away from. I bite down on the inside of my cheek, digging my fingernails into my palms at the same time to distract myself with the pain. He’s patient, though, and somehow, even though I’ve never experienced a forced orgasm before, I know instinctively that I’m on the edge of breaking apart underneath his savage touch.

Do I bear down? Do I hold my breath? Do I scream?I frantically catalog my limited options to dull the frenetic sparks building deep inside my womb, as I try desperately to hold back the tsunami of white-hot pleasure I can hear roaring toward me.

“Do it,” my captor demands.

“Fuck you!” I spit back.

He slaps me across the face so hard, I can feel my ear buzzing loudly in protest. I’m once again eye-to-eye with Rome, whose eyes are rolling around in his head something vicious. He looks freakishly bloodless, his pale skin almost translucent, but when he catches my eye again he seems to focus in on me. The tattoos covering his body seem even brighter in the absence of the normal tan his skin would have. He looks like a ghost. Soon, he might actually become one. And for some reason, that makes me sadder than I thought possible.

I’m so tired. So, so weary. The slap jolted me out of my focused detachment, and with the fresh pain seared into my cheek I start to float away, still acutely aware of the man nudging my entrance with his swollen cock, his thumb massaging my bundle of nerves to tortured heights I’ve never experienced before. I lock eyes with Rome, the blue in his a welcome distraction in the near-darkness. In my mind, I am floating in the azure-blue ocean of Rome Montague’s eyes as a tsunami of oxytocin slams into me and pulls me under, a choked moan ripped from my mouth as my hips press forward, eager to be filled up. My physical body betrays me entirely, achingly empty as I come so hard, so painfully, I almost black out.

But I don’t black out. I keep my eyes trained on Rome Montague as I wait out the pleasure and pain, the tiny lighter-blue flecks in his stormy eyes like flames that I hold on to, little reflections of light in the darkness. Sadness spreads through my chest as my orgasm fades, as I watch Rome struggle to breathe.Don’t you die and leave me here alone, I think, my fear at losing him sudden and visceral … and strangely out of place.Don’t you fucking die on me, Rome Montague. I open my mouth to say … I don’t know. To say something. His name.

Rome, I mouth, no sound coming out.

“Rome,” I choke, my eyes never leaving his, because I won’t even give my captor the satisfaction of my gaze as he destroys me completely.

Rome blinks, and seems to straighten a little. I’m relieved, for one tiny second in time, and then I’m screaming again as, without warning, the man draped over my body slams into me, hard and deep and vicious.

He doesn’t keep fucking me, though. My captor pulls out of me as I’m looking at Rome, his cock immediately replaced by his fingers. At first I’m confused, and then I’m filled with dread.

“What is this?” he growls, his featureless face only amplified by whatever is changing his voice under that mask. I open my mouth to protest as he wraps his fingers around one of the strings attached to my IUD and tugs.

I scream. Louder than I’ve ever screamed in my life. Everything in my vision turns red as a stabbing pain deep inside my womb spreads, sharp and clear and utterly unbearable.

He tugs again.Oh, God. He thinks I’m wearing a tampon, I suppose, but I’m not. The strings are attached to the brand-new IUD I had fitted in my doctor’s office a few weeks ago, a tiny, plastic T-shaped device that sits in the bottom of my uterus, the attached strings just outside my cervix.

I had it updated to a new one, knowing that my birthday was drawing closer, guessing that my father would have something up his sleeve concerning myself and Joshua and how eager he was to marry me off so I could start bearing Capulet heirs. I chose one of the little plastic devices that releases a measured dose of hormones that prevent pregnancy for five whole years. I was supposed to go back to the doctor the day after my birthday to have the strings attached to the IUD trimmed down, so they wouldn’t bother me or anyone I might be sleeping with.

I vaguely recall Will mentioning something about the little strings attached to the device when we had sex the week after I had it inserted. He said he could feel them, but he didn’t seem too bothered. This guy, on the other hand — he’s pulling so hard it feels like he’s going to rip my uterus out with his bare hands. I don’t even have my hands free to try to fight his away — I’m completely useless. I try to string words together to warn him.

PleaseIt’sAnIUDPleaseDon’tPullItPleaseDon’tPlease

I don’t even know what I’m saying. Words are falling out of my mouth unbidden, as the pain in my womb intensifies and I feel what I think is blood coming out of me. I had to read a pamphlet and sign a waiver before the doctor would implant the tiny device, a legal document full of statistics and rare side-effects that include sudden death if the IUD is inserted incorrectly, or perforates the uterus. Which isexact-fucking-lywhat it feels like is happening right now.

Is this how I die? Am I going to bleed to death thanks to my fucking birth control? The irony isn’t completely lost on me, but I’m more concerned with getting this guy to stop pulling on it before he tears my insides apart.

He takes his hands away. “Explain.”

The pain recedes somewhat, since he’s no longer pulling the damn thing, but it’s still sharp enough that the room is spinning around me with wild abandon.

“It’s an IUD,” I say quickly, the bright edge of pain biting down on me as I try to speak. “It’s a birth control implant. It’s in my uterus. If you pull it out, I’ll probably bleed to death.”

Well, maybe I won’t — plenty of women pull theirs out with no problems whatsoever — but after the doctor inserting it just a few weeks ago called my cervix the “cutest little cervix he’s ever seen,” I’m pretty sure I’d be horrifically injured if he kept pulling until the device was out of me.

“Take it out,” he orders. I open my mouth to protest when I realize he’s reaching for my hands. Undoing the metal cuffs that hold my arms up. He pulls me to my feet, the rush of blood to my numb arms a shock. My knees buckle immediately, even as I try to stand.I need to pull his mask off, I think.I need to see who he is.

“Can’t,” I pant. “I need surgery to take it out.”

That makes him angry. I can’t see his face, but I can feel how his body tenses. He spins me around, pliable little puppet I am, and forces me down onto the table so that my palms are flat against the wood grains. I try to thrash again, to get away from his grip, but before I can do anything his fingers snake through my hair and grip, pulling at my scalp as he slams the side of my head down onto the table’s unforgiving surface. I make one last move to try to buck him off of me, fully aware that he’s not finished raping me, not by a long shot — and that damn gun is in his hand again, pressed against my cheekbone.

I go limp. I’d like to say I’m brave enough to risk being shot in the name of fighting to get away, but the reality is, the sight of Rome bleeding to death on the floor has me compliant. The Capulet blood that roars in my head, a steady, aching thump, begs me to resist him, even if it means certain death. The prehistoric part of my brain, however, the fight, fight or freeze programming, jams on freeze. I’m frozen. Another sob falls from my mouth as he pushes back into me, thrust after violent thrust. Maybe it’s not as deep for him like this, fucking me from behind, with me draped over the table face-down. Or maybe it hurts him the way it hurts me. Maybe it’s worth the pain for him.

He doesn’t speak again. He just ruts into me, again and again.Please let it be over soon.I keep focused on Rome, his eyes closed now, and I don’t think I blink until there’s a groan, a final violent thrust as my rapist beds into me, and the pulse of knowing he’s finished.

Chapter Fifteen

ROME

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