Page 30 of Piggy

Charlotte

I’m in trouble.

I yank on the door handle.

Nothing.

I slam my palm against the glass. My other hand scrambles for the lock.

Where is it, where is it—

My fingers hit plastic. No button.

Broken. Gone.

My stomach drops.

Slowly, like I’m already bracing for something horrible, I turn my head toward him.

Riser is watching.

Completely still. Completely calm. A cat watching his mouse stuck in a corner with nowhere to go.

A smile curls on his lips.

“Uh... this isn’t funny,” I whisper. My throat tightens, the words barely scraping out .

He doesn’t even blink.

“Jokes aren’t part of this.”

I shudder.

“Unlock the door.” My voice cracks. “I want out.”

He tilts his head, a sliver of amusement in his dead eyes.

And he barely shakes his head.

I go cold. Ice rushes through my veins.

He’s not letting me go.

“Riser,” I whisper, panic rising like bile. “ Stop. You’re scaring me.”

He grins.

“Good.”

Just one word, and damn, it’s sharp as a nail.

My lungs seize. My whole body paralyzed with fear.

I fucked up. I fucked up bad.

“You said... you said you were gay,” I croak, desperate for the illusion. “You said—”

He cuts me off. “I never said that. You just never shut the hell up long enough to hear the truth.”

He leans in, breath hot against my cheek.

“I’m bi.”

Tears burn hot trails down my face. I shake my head, like I can undo it. Rewind. Erase.

He was never safe. I let him in. I skipped right into his trap. Drunk, smiling, and naive.

“Please,” I beg. “Don’t. Please don’t do this. ”

Then—

He snaps.

His hand lunges, iron wrapped around my forearm. The grip makes me scream. He yanks me violently toward the back of the van.

I thrash. Scratch. Kick. My fingernails rake his face. He snarls. My heel connects with something. He curses. But it doesn’t matter.

He’s too strong. So much bigger. So much faster.

I scream, “Stop it! Get off me! Help! Someone!”

He only laughs. “No one can hear you out here.” He slams me to the van’s floor. The carpet is coarse, stained, gritty against my face.

In one swift move, he drags my wrists forward, hooking the handcuffs to a metal clip under the seat. He loops rope around my ankles, tightening them and securing to another clip in the floor. I’m stretched out.

Helpless. Bound. Crying.

He kneels over me, straddling my hips, breathless, triumphant. All testosterone, evil, and immovable muscle.

I don’t stop crying. I can’t.

Because I know how this ends.

A pair of scissors appears. He cuts my shirt inch by inch, taking his time. Dragging it out. He’s enjoying stripping me of my clothing — and my dignity.

He grunts after slicing through the middle of my bra, my breasts now uncovered.

I feel it .

His hands, slick with something cold. The crude pressure as he pushes my breasts together.

And—

His dick is out.

The slap of his body. The weight. The sick rhythm of what he’s doing.

I clench my jaw. I won’t look. That’s the only power I have. I keep my eyes shut. Tighter. Tighter.

“Look at me, you blabbering cunt.”

“No.”

“Look.”

“No.” I spit the word.

He grabs my chin.

“I said look! Or I’ll kill you first.”

“Fuck you,” I hiss. “You’re nothing. You’re pathetic. You have to tie up girls to get off. That’s not a man. That’s a fucking loser!”

He growls. A dark, feral glare flashes across his face.

Good. Let him be mad.

Because if I die here, I’m not dying quiet.

“Help! Help!” I scream into the hopeless void.

Suddenly, glass explodes .

A window. Shattering.

Riser jolts upright.

“What the— ”

The van rocks. Metal groans. Something heavy crashes in. Boots hit the floor. A blur of movement. Punches emit the primal sound of knuckles hitting flesh and bone.

Riser whirls, but he’s too slow.

A fist slams into his face. Another. A knee to the ribs.

It’s him.

Through the chaos, the slivers of broken glass and moonlight, I see him.

Grayson.

His jaw clenched. Eyes murderous. His whole body made of rage.

They slam into the van walls, the metal warping and crinkling. I scream as a foot crushes my shoulder.

“Ah!” I cry, half-sobbing.

Please, don’t let them crush me.

Then—

“Charlotte,” Grayson shouts, breath ragged, “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

That voice.

That voice pulls me back into my body.

Tears flood my eyes, and I lift my head. Not far from me, Riser lies folded over, unconscious. Grayson stands above him, knuckles bleeding, chest rising and falling like he just ran through hell.

His gaze drifts from Riser to me.

But he freezes.

His whole body stiffens .

“Holy fuck...” he breathes, blinking.

His eyes sweep over my body. Over the ropes. The cuffs. The oil slicking my chest.

Over me.

“Grayson!” I sob, feeling so ashamed to end up in this situation.

I arch up, pulling at the ropes with my legs, desperate to free myself and close the distance between us. The van creaks under my struggle.

But Grayson doesn’t move. He seems shook. Staring.

His lips remain parted, breathing ragged, and for a terrifying second, I think there’s something else in his eyes?

Heat.

Want.

No.

I stop moving. The van goes still. That’s when I hear it. His deep, raspy voice, barely audible as he speaks to himself. “Come on, Grayson. Quit looking. It’s her . She needs you.”

A beat.

Then, sharper and more commanding: “Yeah, that’s it. She’s my girl.”

My heart stutters, confused in every way possible.

“Grayson?” I choke out, afraid again... but not of Riser.

This time, he blinks. His trance shatters and he drops to his knees.

He unclips my wrists, but the cuffs remain. He unknots the rope at my ankles fast, silent.

“I—I thought he was gonna kill me,” I say, my voice shaking.

He pulls his shirt off, then tugs it down over my head, shoulders, and handcuffed wrists. His face is a storm of shock, frustration, and rage all crashing together.

Grabbing my arm, he drags me out of the van.

“Get in the truck,” he growls, holding my door open.

I step up and he hoists me inside, buckling my seatbelt. He barely looks at me the whole time.

Soon, we’re flying down the road. Streetlights blur past like ghosts.

Grayson grips the wheel so tight, the leather creaks under his palms.

Every inch of him is flexed. Wired.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

Again, he doesn’t look my way. His voice is hollow.

“You didn’t answer. You didn’t text. I went to thirty bars. I thought—”

He swallows whatever comes next. Hard.

“I said I’m sorry,” I repeat.

Honestly, I expect some sympathy from my boyfriend, but I’m unsure I’ll get any.

I reach to touch his arm, but he flinches and jerks away.

“Don’t,” he growls.

He finally side glances. His jaw tightens again, shadowing his sculpted face. His gaze drops to my hands rested on my lap, clutched in a ball, and sticking out the bottom of the shirt. Still cuffed .

His breath hitches.

He shifts in his seat, practically about to break his molars from clamping his jaw down so tightly. A muscle in his thigh jumps.

Then I see it.

The bulge in his pants.

He tries to hide it. Adjust his hips. Turns away.

Guilt blankets his face.

And then, pieces fall together, and a soft gasp escapes my lips.

He’s hard: Because of how I look.

My body was exposed and slick with Riser’s oil. My wrists and ankles left me helpless and bound. He liked it. He wanted it.

For one horrible moment, my brain screams: He’s like Riser.

Long ago, he said he liked girls tied up in the bedroom, but I thought that was a role play thing. That it wouldn’t turn him on if the girl was truly scared.

I cry to myself, feeling ashamed, scared, and so damn confused.

But then, my heart fights. Deep beneath the flood of emotions, it uplifts a powerful sense of doubt that breaks free. Because Grayson searched for me. He fought for me. Bled for me.

He saved my life.

And that look in his eyes, the one he’s trying to hide, isn’t cold like Riser’s.

It’s tortured.

Wrecked.

Possessive.