Page 110 of Rogue

I let him pull my jeans free.

Patience.

Put his filthy hands on me as I lay terrorized beneath him.

Patience.

Grunt and fumble as he yanks his pants down around his thighs and pumps his penis with his hand.

The stench of unwashed male forces bile to clog my throat.

Patience.

Somethingcling, cling, clangs on the stone floor. I ignore it, keeping my attention fixed on the three Pricks.

Napoleon is still fighting a losing battle from that punch.

Bull-boy’s up on his knees, ready to charge.

And the third Prick thinks rape is on tonight’s menu. Good thing I’m here to teach him otherwise.

He gets between my legs, cock in hand. Leans over me. Grins a toothy grin.

I bring the sharp edge of the stone into his throat. Digging deep into his windpipe. Then, on behalf of every female whose been abused, manhandled, touched inappropriately, patted on the ass, or had her tits fondled without her permission, I grab hold of his pride and joy, then twist my wrist with a quick snap. Fracturing his penis and wiping that smile clear off his face.

He cries out in agony, and I jump to my feet.

“Goddamn,cailín,” my companion next door murmurs.

But this is no time to gloat because Bull-boy charges.

I shift sideways, off the mattress and onto the stone floor. Causing him to run more on the diagonal than a straight-on charge.

One step. Two steps. Three. I come up on my toes, turn my body, and swing my leg high. Nailing him in the kidney. He doesn’t go down, but I didn’t expect him to. With the heel of my hand, I punch upward, clipping him beneath the nose. Breaking his nose.

“Be a good love and toss me my knife back when you’re done.”

I look down. Sure enough, a long, sharp blade with a custom leather handle rests by my foot. Even though I hate knives, I know what it is. A professional’s knife.

I pick it up and tuck it into the back waistline of my panties.

“As soon as we get out of here, how about you and I share a bottle of Bordeaux and compare notes?”

“For a pint of Guinness, I’ll share even my darkest secrets.”

“Like how old you are, for starters?”

The man by my feet grunts, and I send a devastating kick into his other kidney.

My eyes quickly take in my handiwork. Two Pricks are slumped over, one holding his kidney, the other cupping his groin. And Napoleon is holding his hand up in defeat.

“Company,” my companion mutters.

I stiffen.

“Ah, the elusive bitch, Kylie Smith. I’ve had a hell of a time tracking you down. But I’ve heard quite a bit about you from Francis,” a man says.

Novák.