Page 10 of Deadly Knight

Somehow, some-fucking-how, Dimitri comprehends enough that his brows dip lower and he shakes his head. He’s always been so good at reading me, so this shouldn’t be surprising.

“Positive memories that get tarnished can be wiped off. Like the rock, we’ll make them smooth again. And if we can’t, then we’ll create new ones. Better ones.” He pauses, his voice cracking. “But this isn’t a moment I want you to remember, so please think about that beach. If good memories need to be sacrificed for that to happen, then I’ll easily toss them away,moya dusha.”

My soul.

It’s his nickname for me. Hearing it now, amongst the agony and terror of the moment, I didn’t realize how much I needed it. But I do, and I cling to it, repeating it over and over in my head, his voice soothing me.

Moya dusha. Moya dusha. Moya dusha.

The third finishes and moves off me. The mattress dips for what I hope is the final time. I only look away from Dimitri because he does first, eyes narrowed on the man kneeling between my thighs.

A cold, sharp object presses into the skin of my neck—Dimitri’s knife, which means this is Greasy One. He stared at me in the van while fiddling with Dimitri’s weapon after taking it from him.

“I want to see your pretty eyes when you take me. Look at me.”

Never.

He presses the blade into my throat, and it’s amusing he thinks it’ll hurt me considering everything else. A cut is meaningless after having my dignity and choices stripped away.

Dimitri shouts a spew of curses in Russian.

Greasy One murmurs, “The choice is simple. You either look at me as I fuck you or you fuck the knife.”

I force myself to look away from Dimitri again and at the man overtop me, who’s practically salivating with his win. He knew it’d get my attention, and I won’t risk calling his bluff because he’ll probably make good on his threat.

The knife skirts my cheek, not cutting but a silent warning as the man’s hips jerk and he slams himself deep inside me. Deeper than the others, and a grunt is all I allow myself to show. Focusing my attention on the blade grazing my face, I block out everything else, including the raging emotion from Dimitri.

“It was a pretty story your boyfriend was telling us all,” he coos, and I wish I could deny that. Dimitri was remindingme, not sharing the positivity withthem. “But we can’t have you forgetting this, now can we? Don’t worry, it’ll be over soon.”

Will it? Do you mean that?

The man’s eyes shut, and his grip on the knife falters until he drops it beside my head. How I fucking wish I had use of my hands… Greasy One grunts, his thrusts quickening and becoming harder. His teeth press together, and he starts panting, his hot breath sour over my face.

“Fuck…fuck. Your cunt feels so damn good. So used, young one. Filled up with all our cum. How do you think your boy will like you now?”

His words lash me, and I wrench my face to the side, finding Dimitri amidst his own torment as the man finishes inside me. He slowly slides out, my core pulsing at the reprieve.

He smirks before snatching the knife and getting to his feet, not bothering to rezip his pants. His comrades all come back into view, gazing down at me with varying expressions of pleasure.

Bald One looks from me to Dimitri before shooing the three others away. Once they pass, making their own chortles and disgusting comments, he crouches beside me, humming. “You look deliciously used. We did a good job, no?”

I stare daggers his way, imagining his death. Normally, I’m not a violent person, but tonight… This altered a part of me I’ll never get back.

I feel it deep in my soul. The fact that I’ve changed…and not for the better.

I hear all the time on the news how people experience horrible things but claim to come out on top. That they’re made stronger by it.

Bullshit. There is no strength gained from this. No top to come out onto.

This is simply the end.

Bald One shrugs at my lack of response before dipping his finger inside me. Old me would have flinched at the invasion, but after everything my body had gone through on this disgusting mattress—the altar on which my soul was reaped—a finger isn’t half as bad. Given how numb I am, I barely register the feeling.

The fact a stranger’s finger violating me is not the worst says a lot about how I’m doing.

When he removes his finger, it’s coated in a mixture of clear and white fluids, which would make me gag if not for the cloth forcing all the bile to remain in my throat—a poison to match this entire night.

With his damp finger, he traces letters on my stomach. His touch draws attention to my quivers. My body jolts hard enough I can’t focus on what he’s writing on my skin. Whatever it is, it’s probably nothing I want to know.