Page 53 of Riot’s Thorn (Sons of Erebus: Reno, NV #4)
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
PARKER
I t takes an hour for Anadell to make me presentable. The way she applied makeup to make me appear younger than I am is disgusting. After she was finished, I had to wait, leaving me with nothing to do but look at myself and be reminded how disturbing this whole thing was.
My cheeks and nose are pink and dusted with fake freckles, my mascara is brown, lengthening my lashes but not darkening them, and my lips are painted with a milky pink gloss.
My hair is predictably in low pigtails and curled into ringlets that hang over my shoulders, and the outfit she chose is just as repulsive.
I almost laugh at how ridiculous I look in the pastel pink babydoll dress with big, puffy shoulders and ruffles everywhere.
I’d look like a five-year-old if not for the fact that the dress is sheer, revealing the lacy pink garter belt and bra set underneath.
White stockings are clipped to the belt, but I wasn’t given panties, so the outline of my pussy can be seen close-up.
Mary Janes with white ruffly socks finish off the outfit.
I hope the pervs at this party are satisfied with looking but not touching because I will bite the dick off any man who dares come close.
I realize I should be more upset than I am, but the last couple of months have taught me I’m a survivor.
Before Dad died, I didn’t think much about anything but school and friends.
Being strong mentally and emotionally wasn’t a priority.
But I’ve lived through some horrific experiences and haven’t broken yet, and even more, I found love through it all.
Love?
It seems a little premature for that, but I feel very strongly for him.
I’ve never met someone so complex. Each time I peel back another layer, I’m amazed at how he’s managed to get through life despite the odds stacked against him.
He’s the only reason I feel like I can handle whatever’s about to happen to me.
The door creaks open, and a tall man in a suit steps inside. He doesn’t even look at me as he gestures to the hallway. “Time to go.”
“And if I don’t?” I ask.
His stone-cold expression doesn’t change. “Kick, fight, scream, yell, I don’t give a shit. You’re coming with me one way or another.”
The last thing I want is for this man to touch me, so with all the pride I can muster, especially given what I’m wearing, I leave the room. The man leads me down the hallway to the foyer, where Bart waits for me.
“Look at you. Every man at the party is going to want a taste.” The way his eyes devour me makes me feel dirty. People judge Riot and the Sons, calling them soulless criminals, but those people don’t know real evil.
Monsters don’t hide in closets or under your bed. They hide in plain sight. They’re the ones who are the loudest in the room, bragging about all the good they do. Fuck ‘good men.’ I want real. I want a man who’s just as open about his negative traits as he is about his positive. I want Riot.
“I can’t wait to kill you,” I say, meaning every word.
He chuckles, coming close enough to stroke the back of his hand down my face. His hand moves lower, cupping my breast and moaning. “I’d love to see you try.”
When his hand lowers between my legs, where he pushes through my outer lips, rubbing through the fabric of the dress, I gather the saliva pooling in my mouth from how sick he makes me and spit it in his face.
It lands on his forehead and drips down to his eyebrow.
I can’t believe I just did that. I’ve never spit at anyone before; I wasn’t even sure I knew how, but dang, that felt good.
“You stupid bitch.” He backhands me across the face, knocking me to the ground and sending my glasses skittering. The diamonds on his wedding ring cut my cheek open. “Goddamn it, you’re getting blood all over my floor.”
It’s not just the tile stained with my blood; my stupid outfit is ruined, making the throbbing pain worth it. I grin, licking the blood from the corner of my mouth. “I wonder if ‘death by a thousand cuts’ is real. Maybe that’s how I’ll kill you.”
He storms over, gripping me by my hair and jerking my head back to look him in the eyes. “And how do you think you’ll do that? You’re nothing but a pathetic whore who’s useless to me now. No one wants to fuck damaged goods.”
“Darn.”
“You think you’re so clever.” He tugs me up to my knees and backhands me again. Unwanted tears well in my eyes. I don’t want to show weakness, but my god, that hurts.
This time, my eye swells so quickly, it impedes my already poor eyesight without my glasses, and blood pours from my cheek like a faucet. But I refuse to let him break me. Just as I push up onto my hands, he kicks me in the side, and I collapse once again, the air leaving my lungs in a whoosh .
All my confidence is gone when the kicks keep coming. I curl into a ball, covering my head, but it does no good. My ribs, my back, my neck—he doesn’t leave any part of me uninjured. I teeter in and out of consciousness, only screaming when he stomps his heel onto my hand, no doubt breaking bones.
Breathless, Bart mutters, “Put her back. She’s no good to me now.”
I’m sobbing as the front door opens and closes. For a long while, the only sounds are my whimpers as I finally concede I’m not as strong as I thought. I was under the assumption there was a level of cruelty Bart wouldn’t reach, but I was very wrong.
“Come on. You can’t go looking like that.
” Someone, probably the guard who brought me down here, grabs my glasses before he picks me up off the floor, making me cry out in pain.
After a short walk, I’m back in the room I left only minutes ago.
The man sets me down on the closed toilet lid in the bathroom and yanks a towel off the rack.
“Hold this to your cheek. I’ll be right back. ”
With one hand around my middle and the other staunching the blood flow coming from my cheek, I double over. This is the worst pain I’ve ever felt. There’s no part of me that isn’t on fire, and my mind is shutting down, unable to process what just happened.
“Sit up.” The guard kneels in front of me and opens a first aid kit. After digging around, he finds some butterfly bandages. “Let me see.”
I lower the towel, and he winces. It’s the first expression he’s shown, so I know it must be bad. He pushes my hair back, looking at each cut and bruise, probably to figure out where to start bandaging them.
“Help me. Please.”
“Don’t do that,” he says. “If I do anything other than what I’m told, not only will I be killed, but so will my family. Do you want that blood on your hands?”
Tears fall down my cheek, mixing with the blood. “No.”
“Then just let me do my job.” He has a slight accent, maybe Russian, because his inflections have a deeper tone and he rolls his Rs the barest amount. His blond hair and large frame could also speak to Eastern European heritage.
“Okay,” I croak out.
He sighs, and for ten painful minutes, he cleans me of all the blood and fixes me up the best he can with what he has.
I remain as quiet as I can, only making sounds when it becomes too much to bear.
He’s right. Just because I’m the one bleeding doesn’t mean I’m the only one under Bart’s thumb.
I couldn’t live with myself if this man’s family were killed because of me.
“That’ll have to do. Come on,” he says, and I follow him to the bedroom, hunched over. “Here are some sweats and a sweatshirt. They’ll be big, but it’s all I have, and you’ll need the warmth.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re someone else’s problem now. Can’t say for sure, but I think you’re going to Canada.”
“Canada?”
“Yes. Get dressed.” He motions to the clothes.
“Why?” I sit and, as demurely as I can, unhook the garter belt and pull off the stockings.
With my legs clenched together, I push both feet into the sweatpants and pull them up to my knees before standing and lifting them over my butt.
It’s stupid to feel shy when he’s seen everything, but Riot was the only man to have seen me naked, and I’m uncomfortable.
Turning my back on him, I pull off the stupid dress and tug on the sweatshirt.
“You fucked up, and now, they’re going to sell you.”
Even though Bart had said as much, it somehow becomes more real now, and I choke on the emotion clawing up my throat. “Please. If there’s any way I can escape, tell me. You don’t have to be involved.”
“I’m just doing my job, okay?” He looks as defeated as I’m sure I do as he grabs my upper arm. “Let’s go.”
Panic settles in, and I dig my feet into the rug. “No. No. No.”
“Fuck,” he curses as I twist and hold the bedpost. “Stop it!”
“No! I won’t let you take me.”
He grips me around the waist and pulls, but my grip on the bed is strong. “Fucking hell.”
I donkey kick him, nailing him between the legs, which has the desired effect. He releases me and drops to his knees. Taking advantage of the situation, I kick back again, this time hitting him in the nose. The crunch it makes is sickening, and when I look back, his face is covered in blood.
He’s a big guy, so it won’t take him long to recover.
I only have a minute or two to get as far away as possible.
Thankfully, I remember my way to the foyer, but as I emerge from the hallway, I skitter to a stop.
Two more guards are there, probably waiting to help transport me.
They aren’t expecting my escape, so their attention is on their phones, but they must sense me.
Before I’m able to turn and run the other way, they’re on me, gripping my arms roughly. The first guard stumbles out of the hallway, holding his nose. For some reason, the other two find this hilarious and start laughing.
“Can’t handle a little girl?” one mocks, pissing me off. I struggle, but it’s useless.