my chin. He brings the cherry closer to my eye, and I whimper, gritting my teeth as I start to tremble. “Ah, that’s it,” he whispers, “I like that sound. Did they sound anything like that?”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out but another fucking whimper.
His smile widens. “You sound like a little bitch, J,” he says softly. “Just like them, huh?” The cigarette comes closer and I blink, darting my hands out, curling my fingers around his arm, trying to force him off of me, but he’s stronger. A year after getting out of that cage, and I still haven’t built up my muscle yet.
He leans against me, and I can’t fight him off, his scent overwhelming me, the heat from the cherry too close to my eye. It starts to water, and my hand trembles against his forearm.
He laughs. “Stupid fucking idiot,” he says in that hoarse voice. “Can’t stop shaking, huh? I scare you that much?”
He moves the cigarette away from my eye, and I exhale with relief. But his fingers are still on my face, and when he says, “Stick out your tongue,” I start shaking all over again.
“No, L-Lucifer, p-please don’t—”
“That what they said to you, prick?” he growls.
I don’t answer him, my fingers still curled around his forearm as I shake my head.
“Answer me, you piece of shit.”
Then it happens.
My bladder loosens. A habit from being in that cage.
Warm urine coats my sweats, seeping through my boxers. I pray in my head that he won’t notice. That if I just do what he says, he’ll leave me alone.
He’ll go away.
I start to open my mouth, my face flaming with humiliation, but then he wrinkles his nose and leaps to his feet, backing away from me.
“You pissed yourself?” he asks, incredulous as I squeeze my hands around my shins, rocking in a ball all over again, humming to myself, pretending I’m not here. “You fucking pissed yourself?”
I hear someone else in the distance, someone calling his name.
He laughs and turns his head, cupping his free hand over his mouth. “Mav, this asshole fucking pissed himself!” He laughs, drops his hand and turns back to me. “You’re fucking disgusting.” Then, when I think he’s going to walk away, to go to Maverick, he steps closer to me and I hold my breath.
Waiting.
Shaking.
Still rocking.
Before I can even think of what he’s doing, his foot collides with my stomach, pain reverberating through my ribs.
I go down on my side, curled up in a fetal position, my face against my own urine.
Just like in that cage.
I close my eyes and he laughs, then I hear a zipper.
His footsteps coming closer.
No. Please don’t. Please, please don’t.
He laughs again, and I feel something hot against my face, dripping into my eyes, my mouth.
“We’ve got some faulty fucking plumbing in here, Mav,” Lucifer calls as his urine coats my mouth. “But at least there’s a goddamn toilet.”
“Jeremiah!” Sid is saying, her voice high-pitched. Scared. Unnatural. Her nails are still digging into my arm, my hands are around her throat, my thumbs against her windpipe, but that fucking bandana is touching me.
I release her, holding up my hands and stepping backward on the dark hardwoods of my room, breathing hard and gritting my teeth as I try to focus on the silver of her eyes.
Her long lashes.
Those swollen pink lips.
Her growing tits visible beneath her low-cut white tank. Those are getting bigger with every week that passes. And I want to touch her, and bite her and fucking hurt her, especially as my eyes rake over that bandana again. But I won’t.
I won’t.
It’s not her fault.
It’s not her fucking fault.
I swallow hard and drop my hands, aware that I’m completely fucking naked and I don’t get naked for anyone. Clothing is an armor.
A shield.
I long to disappear into my walk-in closet, to the right, to don a suit and fucking cufflinks and maybe even a goddamn tie, just to cover up. I work out without a shirt, I’m comfortable enough in my own skin.
But being completely unarmed, I don’t like it.
Especially as Sid’s wide eyes rake over the scar slashed across my ribs. From him.
I curl my hands into fists. “Do you need something?” I ask her, trying to calm my temper. To hold back.
For her.
Always doing every fucking thing for her.
She’s got her palms flat against the dark gray accent wall at her back, her spine pressed flush with it, too, but at my question, her eyes narrow. I see shadows