Home > Bayonet Scars #2 - Thrash(9)

Bayonet Scars #2 - Thrash(9)
Author: J.C. Emery

The memory makes me want to scream at the top of my lungs and start hitting things at random. He’s been gone a long time, and there’s little chance he’ll be back anytime soon with the way he’s going. All I have now are my memories.

“Turn around,” Duke says, his deep voice steady and calm now. I open my eyes and blink away all thoughts of my dad. It’s just wrong to stand here and think about him while I’m in this room. As far as I know, he doesn’t know what I’ve become, and I don’t want him to know, either.

Taking a deep breath, I turn around and narrow my eyes at Duke. I may be complying, but I’m not about to be pleasant while doing it.

“What?” I say, drawing the word out. Letting out a huff, he raises his hand.

Remembering the way he looked when I brought up his precious little Princess, I flinch back at the movement. Steeling my jaw, I squint my eyes in anticipation of an impact that never comes. Strong hands cup my jaw and pull me forward. Holding my head to his chest, Duke strokes my hair and whispers, “You think I’d hit you?”

I say nothing. I have nothing good to say. It doesn’t matter how violent these men can be. They don’t like to be reminded of their cruelty. Instead, I opt for placing a light kiss on his cut, just above his SECRETARY patch. It’s the closest I can come to an apology. He pulls my head back slowly, his eyes searching mine for an answer. Keeping my face as carefully blank as possible, I don’t break eye contact no matter how much his attention makes me squirm.

“Who hit you?” he asks, surprising me. My lips part, and my brows draw together.

“Nobody,” I say. My lie comes far too quickly to be believable, but it doesn’t matter. This isn’t something I’m willing to talk about with anyone, much less Duke.

“One day you’re going to trust me,” he says. “But in the mean time, we need to get a few things straight.” Setting his feet wider apart, he leans in, whispering, “Do not ever speak to me like that in front of my brothers again. This can only work one way, and that’s you figuring out your place. You got that?”

“My place? I have to figure out my place? Oh, hell no,” I snap and push back off his chest. I don’t want to be that near to him anymore. I don’t want to be bullied. I just wanted that moment to last a little longer. It was calm and quiet and gentle, and I just don’t have enough of that in my life.

He grabs at my arms and pushes me up against the wall. I brace for a hard hit, but it doesn’t come. I know he won’t hurt me, but damn it, the panic seizes at my chest anyway. He’s so in control in everything he does, it seems. I’m about to say a hundred different things about being cornered here when I realize it’s all useless. I could scream at him until I lose my voice. I could try to push him away in every physical and emotional way possible, but none of it matters. He’s targeted me, and he won’t go away until he wants to. And he won’t give me any notice when he’s done with me. It’ll just be over, and my life will go back to being like it was before all of this began. Only, by that time I’ll be used to having a man promise me stupid shit he never intends to keep. And that’s the dangerous thing about having something worth losing—once it’s gone—and that always hurts.

“You over your shit, or do I need to fuck the attitude right out of you?” he says with a cocky smirk.

“Fuck you,” I snap and try to push him off me. His smile falls as he expertly twists my wrists with my arms up over my head and holds them in place with his right hand.

“Keep it up,” he says. “You won’t like where this goes.”

“No, I probably won’t,” I hiss and glare up at him. He drags his free fingers along the top of my jeans before flicking the button open. His tongue peeks out and licks his lips. My attention diverts from his eyes to his mouth. Wanting him despite everything just pisses me off to a point of irrationality. Two months. Two fucking months, and this is the shit he’s pulling? I’m not giving into him that easily. “Maybe Princess will let you fuck her royal pussy.”

His grip on my wrists becomes painfully tight, and his eyes narrow, but he doesn’t say anything. His ability to keep himself in check when he’s being taunted is aggravating, and words spill from my mouth before I can stop them. Everything I want to say boils over and flies out. “Go find your whore, because I’m done.”

“I already got my whore, babe. Might want to think twice about the shit that flies out of your mouth,” he says. Slowly he drags the zipper of my jeans down, keeping his eyes on mine. “Princess ain’t who you think she is, but let me check you about a few things since you’re a slow learner.”

I don’t even know what the fuck he’s going on about. My lungs struggle to pull in enough oxygen to keep up with the angry way my chest heaves. For a moment my vision blurs as my eyes cross, and I try to push off the wall, but he’s not having it. He slams his hips into mine, making his attraction apparent, shoving me back, and this time I smack my head against the exposed brick with a loud thunk. My jaw locks, and the dull throbbing from the back of my skull sends me into a maniacal fit.

“You’re such a cock-sucking bitch!” I scream. My face heats and my ears are practically burning from the blood rushing to my head. I don’t even give a shit what he does anymore. I just want him to know that I’m not okay with this. “Don’t fucking manhandle me!”

From his left hip, he produces a long, black serrated edge knife that looks like something straight out of a war game. I’m so jacked up by his macho shit that I can’t even bring myself to be afraid until he brings the knife down to my open jeans. Refusing to let panic take over, I force my breathing to stay controlled. I don’t want to fall apart despite the circumstances. With a stiff upper lip, I take my eyes away from the knife and look him square in the eye.

“Do what you gotta do,” I say. “I get it. I’m just the club whore. I get no say. Cut me, beat me up—go for it,” I hiss in his face. My eyes well with unshed tears. Whether they’re from anger or fear, I don’t know. “But this is the last time you touch me.”

The fabric presses against my pussy, and a second later it’s gone. He clips the knife back in its holder and skims his hand down my side and to my hip. “You are one stupid bitch,” he says. Gripping my hip with enough force to leave a bruise, he closes his eyes and rests his forehead atop my head. His warm breath washes down over my face. Every minute or so, he gives both my hip and my wrists a squeeze. When he loosens his grip he finally lifts his head and opens his eyes. His free hand travels from my hip down the line of my jeans, tracing the star tattoos on my lower belly. With his index, middle, and ring finger, he slides into my jeans, curves up, and slams himself into me. Shock from the movement causes me to tighten around him and freeze up.

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