Page 189 of The Morally Grey Billionaires Boxset

Solene

"Why don’t you sing again?" the man asks me. He’s a tall silhouette against the dark sky.

And he’s not alone. The guy next to him is broad enough to block out the view behind him.

The whites of his eyes gleam in the moonlight.

On his other side, a third man watches me in silence. The hair on the back of my neck rises.

"Who are you?" I snap.

The man who first spoke tilts his head. "Who’re you?

" he asks. His accent is different from what I hear every day. It sounds American. Like in the movies my mother sometimes allows me to see. Only the classics, and only the movies where there are no kissing scenes. Still, it’s my only route to seeing a glimpse of the world outside my own, and while I may never get to travel, at least. this way, I know there’s a reality outside the one I live in.

"I’m the daughter of the leader of the Camorra, which, if you were a resident, you’d know. Clearly, you’re not."

The first guy looks me up and down. "You hear that, fellas? She’s the daughter of the Camara."

"Not Camara; Camorra."

"You say po-tay-toe; I say po-tah-to." He takes a step in my direction. I slide back, bump into someone. I gasp and pivot to find a fourth man I hadn’t noticed earlier.

He cracks his neck. When he smiles, his teeth gleam in the darkness.

My heart slams so hard into my ribcage, I feel faint. The blood batters against my temples.

"So, daughter of the Camara, you’re a pretty little thing, aren’t you?

" He lunges toward me. I feint, then kick out and catch him in the shin.

He grunts and stumbles, and it slows him enough for me to brush past him.

I have to get out of here, have to. It was so stupid of me to think I could walk on the beach at in the middle of the night and get away with it.

How could I have been so careless? I put on a burst of speed, the sand kicking up at my heels.

Go, go, go. I lean forward, focus on a point in the horizon.

The next second, something catches me around the waist. I hit the beach.

The breath rushes out of me. A heavy weight presses me into the sand.

A panting sound fills my ears. Mine? That of the man who has his body pressed to mine?

My pulse booms. Adrenaline spikes my blood.

I begin to struggle, but he’s so heavy, I can barely move.

"Let me go," I yell, but it comes out as a muffled, "leh… m…g…"

Then the weight eases off of me. I’m turned on my back. I draw in a breath and the oxygen fills my lungs. My head spins. I spit out the sand in my mouth and crack open my eyes to find the man straddling me. He grins. "How many of us can you take in one go, little girl?"

What? No, no, no. What’s he saying? Whatever it is, it’s not good.

His lips curl, the intent in his eyes unmistakable.

I try to pull away, but my arms are grabbed and held captive above my head.

I try to kick out, but first one leg, then the other, is grabbed and held down.

I can’t move, can’t breathe. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

Fear twists my guts. My brain is trying to tell me I need to get out of here, but my body is seizing up. This can’t be happening--not to me.

The man straddling me grabs the front of my night shirt and yanks. It tears down the front. The sound slices through the noise in my head.

I open my mouth and scream, "Help, help me, someone, ummmph—" He slaps his hand over my mouth and snarls, "I’m going to teach you what happens to little girls who draw attention to themselves."

Oh, god, no. No, please no, no.

He pulls down my pajama pants, and I scream, but the sound is stifled against his hand. He reaches down and unhooks his belt, then pulls down his zipper, the sound of which is ominous in the darkness.

I begin to struggle in earnest.

He leans his weight into me, and the feel of him between my legs sends a shiver of fear up my spine.

My thighs quiver, and to my shame, a melting sensation—the same kind I get when I’m reading a smutty scene--fills the space between my legs.

No, no, no, what’s wrong with me? No, please, I don’t want this.

Tears leak from my eyes. He grabs the waistband of my panties, and a sob catches in my throat.

Not like this, please. I don’t want to have my first sexual experience like this. I squeeze my eyes shut. If I lose my virginity like this, if my family finds out, they’ll disown me. Oh, the shame. The entire community will scorn me and—

The weight is lifted off of me. I hear the sound of a body hitting the ground.

The sound of a fist hitting flesh, a grunt, a man’s scream.

More sounds of a fight. I can’t open my eyes.

Can’t move my arms and legs. Every part of me feels frozen.

I lay there, trying to breathe, trying to inflate my lungs.

Unable to do so. I choke, my chest rises and falls.

I can’t breathe, oh god, I can’t breathe.

"Breathe," a new voice commands. "Breathe, dammit."

My body obeys him; oxygen fills my lungs.

"One more breath."

My lungs fill up with greedy gusts of air. The feeling is so intense, I feel lightheaded, like I’m dissociated from my body, floating away. Looking down on the scene, on the stranger who’s leaning over me, while I’m fading…fading—

"Open your eyes."

I open my eyelids. The moonlight haloes his face and picks out the intense blue of his irises.

A cerulean vastness, an ultramarine stain so vivid, so brilliant, it’s captured me in its radiance and is penetrating through to my bones, my blood, my cells, the deepest, most hidden parts of me which I never even knew existed.

All of it filled, embraced, burned with a flaming, glaring vehemence that sears me.

Holds me captive. Pins me down to this plane. This earth. This. Here. Now.

"Take another breath, now,” he orders.

I draw in a long, deep, life-affirming gasp, and energy surges through my veins.

"Good girl."

His voice fills the empty, hurting parts of me, turning me to mush, filling me up, turning me inside out, changing me forever.

And ever. A trembling grips me. My hands and legs quake.

My chest hurts. My stomach knots. I can’t stop the quiver that unravels from the top of my head to my toes, then back again.

"She’s going into shock," another man’s voice says from somewhere above me. A small cry escapes me. No, no, no, I can’t be seen like this by anyone else. I can’t.

"Shh, you’re safe." Blue Eyes gathers me into his arms, and I cower.

I try to make myself small enough to fit in his embrace.

I press into him, inhale the scent of dark chocolate with a dash of coffee.

My stomach quivers. How can he smell both exciting and comforting at the same time?

He begins to rock me, tucks my head under his chin, and holds me closer.

"We need to get out of here before they regain consciousness," the second man’s voice says.

I must make a noise in my throat, for Blue Eyes pulls me in firmly against his chest and whispers, "You’re safe, I promise. I won’t let anyone get to you."

I believe him. I don’t know who he is, but he won’t hurt me. He was sent here to save me. My very own Prince Charming. I let out a sigh, cuddle in, and let the darkness overwhelm me.

I come awake with a gasp—my heart pounding, my mouth dry, my throat so parched it feels like I swallowed razor blades.

I glance around a room illuminated with the early morning light streaming in from the open window.

Glancing down, I realize I’m wearing my nightshirt and my pajamas. That’s something, at least.

"How’re you feeling now?" A hard voice reaches me through the semi-darkness.

A small scream spills from my lips.

A man unfolds his length from the chair next to the bed.

I sit up, then scramble back against the headboard. "Who… who’re you?"

"Declan Beauchamp." He steps into the morning light, and his blue eyes gleam.

I swallow. "You saved me from those... those…" A shudder grips me.

He leans forward, and I shrink further back. He pulls the covers up and over me. I grab them from him and pull them up to my chin.

"Wh-what do you want?" I rasp.

He reaches for the bottle of water on the side table and holds it out.

I let go of the cover long enough to grab the bottle of water and tilt it to my lips. I chug down half of it, some of the water spilling down my chin and splashing onto the T-shirt. When I feel somewhat sated, I wipe the back of my hand over my mouth.

His gaze drops to my palm. I curl my fingers into a fist at once, but I know he must have seen the evidence of the caning, for his jaw tightens. “Who hurt you?” He growls.

I place the bottle on the side table and look away. The last thing I want to do is tell this man about the complicated dynamics of my family. I’m certainly not going to tell him my mother caned me.

“It’s nothing,” I murmur.

A nerve throbs at his temple. His shoulder muscles seem to bulge. Anger thrums off of him, a black cloud that presses down on my chest. “Who was it? Someone in your family?” he growls.

I firm my lips. “It’s none of your business.”

“You became my business when I saved you from those men.”

I swerve my head in his direction, and he looks as surprised as I feel by his outburst. For a few seconds, we stare at each other. His gaze narrows. He searches my features then the expression on his face softens. “All I’m trying to say is if someone is hurting you—”

“They’re not.”

He clenches his jaw; a stubborn look comes into his eyes. He’s not going to let go of this, is he? I blow out a breath. “It was nothing, I promise.”

“Your palms are hurt and you’re saying it’s nothing?” he snaps.

“I bruised them climbing down the tree outside my room.”

He opens his mouth, but before he can say anything else, I shake my head. “I promise, I’m fine.”