Page 109 of Rogue

Napoleon—that’s what I’ve decided to call the small traitorous Frenchman with a big attitude, a classic case of little-man syndrome—will be the easiest to manipulate. I cry out as he yanks me by my armpits and onto my feet, then drags my frail, defenseless frame toward the mattress.

“You forgot to secure her ankle.”

I feel a hand clamp hold of my left calf and they begin arguing with each other about my freed ankle.

That’s right, assholes. Keep it up. There’s noIin teamwork.

“You’re going to want to fight them,” my neighbor pipes up. “It’ll numb the pain for what’s to come.”

“Fermez la bouche, vieux sot,” Napoleon warns him with a wave of a fist.

Yep. Shut up, buddy. I’ve got this.

Mattress. Weak woman. Pricks. Yeah, it’s a classic recipe for abuse. I get what’scoming—and it’s not going to be them.

I pretend to semifaint, tumbling forward into the guard who remains aloofly standing by. My biggest adversary, who seems unfazed by my charms. Ever so innocently, my hand drops and the back side of it rubs up against his manhood. Oops. I pull away. And presto, he’s part of my party now. After all, no man, no matter his nationality, size, or utter lack of intelligence can resist a cock cuddle.

Bull-boy grabs my breasts and squeezes hard.

I grunt, faux-surprised, which seems to please him. But Napoleon, predictably, tugs me up against him, cock-blocking Bull-boy.

“Me first.”

“Non, elle est mien.”

“Just hurry the hell up before Novák gets here,” the third man interjects.

“You better do something fast,cailín,” says the fourth wheel to this party, the stranger in the adjacent cell.

Cailín. Scottish? Or Irish?

I bat my eyelashes at Bull-boy, then press my body up against Napoleon.

In a flash, poor Napoleon is ripped way from me, punched in the face, and laid out on the floor.

One Prick down. Two to go.

Bull-boy isn’t playing cool anymore. I’m tackled onto the mattress, his body pinning mine to the dirty floor as he starts tugging at my skinny jeans.

God bless skinny jeans for being such a bitch to get on and off.

I squirm beneath him, making it ten times harder.

He pauses to backhand me across the face. “Stop.”

I accidentally bring my knee up, nail him in the balls, and, drawing on all of my strength, roll him off of me.

“Now we’re talking,” my cell partner comments.

The third Prick laughs.

Patience, I remind myself.Bide your time.

I scramble to my feet and slowly back up against the wall.

Terrified. Yeah, right. I survived Hell Camp—enough said. I feel around behind me for that chip in the stone, my fingers dragging across the small hole in searching of a weapon. My fingers wrap around a loose sliver of stone just as the third Prick drags me back down to the mattress.

Patience.