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Sydney snickers loudly from beside me and takes a giant step away. Clearly not wanting to be associated with my bad behavior, though the way she’s been acting is repulsive.

I bite my lip, my eyes dropping along with my heart. It begins to thud violently as fear fills my veins and adrenaline circulates deeply throughout my body, making me feel nauseous.

I close my eyes in resignation, hating myself for my lack of self-control. This isn’t like confronting a psychotic stalker. He’s not enigmatic, nor will he toe the line between pain and pleasure. There’s no sick thrill when a disgusting man is staring me down, probably imagining all the worst ways he could defile or murder me.

He isn’t Zade.

Rocco releases Bethany, blood dripping down her face and staining his fingertips. She’s trembling, her face contorted with pain, whimpers leaking past her lips as she reels from having her face cut open.

“What did you say, diamond?” Rocco drawls, his voice dipped in venom. I tighten my lips, hating that Rick's nickname is beginning to stick.

Thousands of thoughts race through my head in a matter of seconds. Different scenarios on how I can get out of this unscathed. What I could say or do to calm the violent tornado coming my way, if only it prevents my world from completely crashing down around me. But in the end, I come up blank.

I glance at the brown-haired girl beside me, and she’s staring at me like I’m an idiot. I am an idiot. But fuck, I couldn’t watch a girl get mutilated for having a fucking mole on her face and stand by in silence.

Watch your own back, little mouse. No one else will.

My mouth has dried, and I fear my tongue will shrivel up and crumble from lack of moisture. It’s all been rerouted to my eyes, yet I don’t dare let the tears fall. I lick my lips, wetting them enough so I can push out words, useless as they’ll be.

“Nothing, I’m sorry,” I choke out, keeping my voice small and pleasant. Attitude will undoubtedly result in even worse repercussions, and while I’m successful in that endeavor, I’m unsuccessful in keeping the tremors out of my tone. The fear.

“Stupid girl,” Francesca hisses, her eyes thin and heated. Rocco walks towards me, his candor slow and purposeful as he opens and closes the switchblade. Over and over, each metallic ring pumping dread into my system.

He stops mere inches from me, his beer gut brushing against my stomach and his rank breath burning my nostrils. Jesus, he smells like body odor and week-old cheese that’s been left out in the sun. The little self-control I possess is put towards not cringing from the smell.

“Look at me,” he whispers.

I do, lifting my eyes to meet his cold, deadened stare. A piercing shrill in my ears develops as we glower at each other. It forms deep in the recess of my mind and builds to a crescendo until I can hardly hear a sound outside of it.

It’s a warning. My own body is sounding an alarm, alerting me of the serious damage coming my way. Just like a tornado alarm, right before the deadly twister rips lives to shreds.

His thick palm s

eizes my throat, his lips curling as he lifts me up to his height, suspending me on the tips of my toes. Instinctively, I claw at his hand, and I assure myself that if I die here and now and Zade finds my body, he’ll know exactly who was responsible based on the skin caked beneath my nails.

Rocco doesn’t flinch, despite how deeply my nails bite into his skin. The edges of my vision darken as my body depletes of oxygen, steadily emptying from my lungs while stars burst across my eyes.

“Don’t kill her. She’s valuable,” Francesca snaps, though her voice sounds far away, like I’m trapped in a vortex.

Snarling, he swings me around and tosses me to the floor like a wadded-up gum wrapper.

I grunt from the impact, landing awkwardly on my right wrist, but before I can lift myself up, he’s climbing on me, his weight suffocating.

Survival instincts immediately kick in, and my fight or flight activates—namely my fight. I twist beneath him and swing my elbows towards his head. But I miss, a weak attempt at knocking out a two-hundred-pound-plus man from on top of me.

“Get off me!” I screech, bucking my hips, desperate to dislodge him. So desperate that I’ve become rabid. I will tear the flesh from my bones with my teeth if it means getting out from beneath him. I will do anything—absolutely anything—to escape.

“Rocco,” Francesca warns, cutting through the sheer panic that has consumed my mind. “She needs to heal.”

“She needs to learn her place. It doesn’t have to hurt,” he argues, breathless from wrangling my struggling body into compliance. He’s failing—but so am I. I’m weak and still in pain, and he’s so much stronger.

He’s going to win.

“Right, diamond? This could be quick and painless. A little lesson to teach you to keep your fucking mouth shut.”

He bashes my face into the wooden floor, dirt and dust grinding into my face as he rips at my joggers. The fabric tears, the loud ripping noise sending another shot of horror into my system as his excited breathing escalates.

“No!” I shout as he tears at my underwear next. He ignores me and unfastens his jeans, the bite of his zipper coming undone his only response. Rivulets of tears stream down my cheeks as I feel his flesh against my backside.