Page 22 of Jagged Souls

He screams, and I kick him off me. I twist towards my left, hoping to get my other arm free. But the fingers on my right hand won’t move, the tendons severed, and too many hands are already reaching for me, grabbing me in vice-like grips and yanking me back down.

The bone-knives are ripped from my arms and tossed aside, replaced by heavy palms I can’t use as weapons. More men grab my thrashing feet, and although I get a good few kicks in, they eventually wrestle me down. They yank my legs apart, and Scar steps between them in his werewolf form, one arm hanging loose, no bone to give it shape.

But before he can touch me, he’s shoved aside by Sadist as he regains his composure, the promise in his violet eyes burning bright.

My pulse skitters wildly in my throat, but I meet his gaze without cowering. His eyes drop to my exposed chest as blood pours from his mouth.

“Tourniquet her wounds,” he snaps, his words escaping through the two holes in his cheeks. “We don’t want her bleeding out and getting off that easy, now do we boys?”

There are harsh grunts and snarls of agreement. Then my arms are wrapped, the pressure applied, and a weight settles on my chest, making it hard to breathe.

For there is a difference in fighting for your life…

It isn’t as dirty as being raped.

Four

HER

Sadist grabs both sides of my shirt and finishes ripping it clean away. My breasts are too small to bother wearing a bra, and he exposes me completely.

“Not even fucking worth it,” the man holding my right arm spits.

“Wait until they get erect,” Sadist purrs. “Then you can watch the disgust in her eyes.”

He pinches both of them in between his fingers, and I jerk against his touch, praying that my body doesn’t react, that it doesn’t betray me like he said it would. But I can feel the goosebumps rising across my skin, the sudden sensation in my chest as the fear roils deep in my stomach.

Laughing, he releases me, then grabs the top of my pants. I twist my hips from side to side, but I’m not trying to get him off. I know that’s futile. Know there’s not a damn thing I can do to stop this from happening.

So the reason I’m fighting back is to turn him on even more. I want to make his dick so fucking hard that he comes quickly inside of me.

And just that thought alone, that simple admittance that Iamteasing himfills me with so much disgust, my stomach revolts up my throat.

I don’t want this.

I don’t want him touching me.

I don’t want him thrusting his cock inside my pussy.

But I don’t have a choice.

It’s being stolen from me.

My body no longer mine buttheirs.

Now all I can do is survive.

To hopefully reduce the time they rape me so that when they break my body, when they tear apart my vagina and leave bruises on my arms and legs from pinning me down or smacking me around, that they don’t break my mind too.

A small solace in a sea of pain.

But it’s all the control I have left.

So I fight back. I yank my legs, trying to free them from the iron grips holding them apart. I twist my hips to make it as difficult as possible for him to undo the button on my pants and pull down the zip. I buck when he steps out from between my thighs. I twist some more when they shove my legs together and yank down my pants. As they work to get them and my shoes off, I kick out as hard and as fast as I can. But I only manage to rip one leg free and slam my heel into one smug face before they grab me again.

Now I’m spread eagle, my shirt hanging down my sides, my chest bare, and only my underwear covering my pussy. I breathe heavily, tears hot behind my eyes, pain shooting up my arms despite the numbness of the tourniquets and the pressure of the men holding me down.

Stepping between my legs again, Sadist runs his hands up from my ankles to my thighs. Goosebumps trail in his wake, like acid burning across my skin, his touch a disease I can feel burrowing its way into my bones, into the very essence of who I am.