Chapter Eighteen
Yulia
My knees shaking, I collapse against the closed bathroom door and try to calm my frantic breathing. What nearly happened in that kitchen shouldn’t have freaked me out so much, but it was too close to before… too close to that dark place I’ve fought so hard to escape. The position—on my stomach and helpless, with a man who’s determined to punish me on top—had been all too familiar, and I panicked.
I panicked like that fifteen-year-old I thought I’d buried.
Perhaps it wouldn’t have been so bad if it had been someone else—anyone else. I could’ve put up that steel mental wall, the one that kept me sane before. If fear and disgust were all I felt for Lucas, it would’ve been easier.
If I hadn’t had those stupid fantasies about him in prison, it would’ve been less devastating.
Taking deep breaths, I force myself to straighten away from the door and use the toilet. I have only a couple of minutes before Lucas returns for me, and I can’t afford to waste them this way. As I wash my hands and brush my teeth, I stare in the mirror, trying to convince myself that I can do this—that I can withstand whatever punishment he chooses to dole out, even if it’s of a sexual variety.
“Your time’s up.” His deep voice startles me, and I realize I’ve been just standing there, letting the water run. “Come out.”
Panic floods my veins. “Just a second,” I call out.
I’m not ready for this. I’m not ready for him. For the first time in weeks, I’ve eaten a normal meal and had a shower, and somehow that makes it worse. Because now that I feel semi-human, I’m keenly aware of my nakedness and how much I am at the mercy of a man who wants to hurt me.
My heart pounding, I scan the bathroom. Lucas wouldn’t be stupid enough to leave a weapon lying around, but I don’t need much. My gaze falls on the plastic toothbrush I just used, and I grab it. Using both hands, I snap the handle in half. As I’d hoped, one side ends up sharp and jagged, and I clutch it tightly, concealing it in my right hand.
Taking another deep breath, I open the door and step out. “All done,” I say, hoping he can’t hear the strain in my voice.
“Let’s go.” Lucas grabs my left arm, and I stumble, on purpose this time. He turns to steady me, and in that moment I strike upward with my makeshift weapon, aiming for his kidney. I shut off the part of my brain that cringes at the thought of hurting him, the part where those fantasies still live, and I let my training take over.
He twists at the last moment, his reflexes razor sharp, and I graze his torso instead of stabbing him. The broken toothbrush catches on his shirt, forcing me to let go of it, but I don’t let that stop me. He’s still holding my arm, so I drop to the floor, letting my full weight hang on that arm, and kick up with my right leg. My foot connects with his jaw, the impact sending a shock of pain through me, but he reels back—which gives me the split second I need to twist free of his hold.
Scrambling to my feet, I sprint for the kitchen, desperate to grab a knife, but before I can take more than two steps, he tackles me from behind. I manage to turn, half-rolling as we land on the carpet, and my elbow slams into his hard stomach. The impact makes my arm go numb. He continues rolling without so much as a grunt, and a moment later has me pinned down, his hands capturing both of my wrists and lifting them above my head at the same time as his powerful legs anchor mine to the floor.
I can’t move. I’m once again helpless underneath him.
Breathing hard, I stare up at him, my insides squeezing with dread as I wait for his retaliation. Our fight aroused him; I can feel the hard bulge in his jeans against my naked stomach. Or maybe he’s still hard from earlier.
Either way, I know how he’s going to punish me.
He’s also breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling above me. I can see the rage burning in his pale eyes—rage and something far more primal.
To my shock, a tiny tendril of heat snakes through me, my mind transposing the horror of my current predicament with the stunning pleasure of that night. I lay underneath him then, too, and my body doesn’t seem to understand that it was different.
That the man on top of me doesn’t only want my body.
He wants revenge.
He lowers his head, and I freeze, scarcely breathing as his lips brush my left ear. “You shouldn’t have done that,” he whispers, the damp heat of his breath burning my skin. “I was going to give you more time, let you get stronger, but no more…” His mouth presses against my neck, and I feel his tongue flicking over the delicate area, as though tasting it. “You’ve used up all my patience, beautiful.”
I shudder, trying to arch away from that hot, wicked mouth, but I have nowhere to go. He’s all around me, his muscular body large and heavy on top of mine. The brief burst of energy I felt after my meal is gone, my strength nonexistent after weeks of deprivation. Exhausted, I stop struggling—and realize that the tendril of heat is expanding in my core, making me slick with unwelcome need.
“Lucas, please.” I don’t know why I’m begging. I just tried to wound him; he won’t show me mercy ever again. “Please, don’t do this.” My body’s irrational response should’ve made this easier to bear, but it just highlights my helplessness, my complete lack of control. I can’t face this with him. It would destroy me. “Please, Lucas…”
He shifts on top of me, his mouth still hovering near my ear. “Don’t do what?” he murmurs, transferring both of my wrists into one of his large palms. Moving his free hand, he wedges it between us, his fingers slipping between my thighs to find my sex. “This?” His thumb presses on my clit as his index finger penetrates me.
I jerk at the invasion, the heat inside morphing into a pulsing ache. My nipples tighten, and I feel myself getting even slicker, my body eager for an act that would leave my soul in pieces. “Don’t. Please don’t.” Tears, stupid, pathetic tears, come, and I can’t contain them. They spill out and roll down my temples, making me burn with embarrassment at my weakness. “No, please…” His finger advances deeper into me, and the old memories crowd in, taking me back to that dark, suffocating place. My breathing turns into frantic pants, my voice rising in pitch. “Please, Lucas, don’t!”
To my surprise, he stills, and then with a curse, he rolls off me, rising fluidly to his feet. “Get up,” he snarls, grabbing my arms to pull me up. As soon as I’m vertical, he drags me into the living room and pushes me onto the couch, gritting out, “If you move a muscle…”
Dazed, I watch as he disappears around the corner and reappears a moment later carrying a chair and a coil of rope. He places both in the middle of the room. I haven’t moved—I’m shaking too hard for that—and I don’t put up any resistance as he picks me up, deposits me into the chair, and binds my arms behind my back, securing them against the chair’s sturdy wooden frame. Then he uses additional rope to tie my ankles to the legs of the chair, leaving them spread apart.
When he’s done, he stands up and stares at me. The bulge in his jeans is still present, but the heat in his eyes has cooled, turning them into familiar slivers of ice.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” he says harshly. “When I return, you better be ready to talk.”
And before I can respond, he strides out of the room, leaving me tied up, naked, and alone.