Tongue (Ruthless Kings MC #8) - K.L. Savage Page 0,4

wealthy man lives in this house when we barely make rent every month because of his extra lifestyle. It’s the kind of room that makes it appear like someone has their life together.

It’s cruel how appearances can lead someone to trust, but I have the truth stamped all over my body.

“Get into position, Wayne,” Justine orders, and the sound of his voice has me tilting my head up and wiping the water from my eyes to see him leaned against the wall. His robe is off, the rollers are out of his hair, and big curls tumble down his shoulder. The slight chub he has around his stomach hangs over the tight panties he wears. I can ignore all of that, but I can’t ignore the cigarette in his mouth. I know what he’s about to do, and I’m sick to my stomach.

What if I fight him? What chance do I have? I’ve never thought about it before because, for the longest time, I thought it didn’t matter.

But what if it does? What if I can find a home better than this? Is it possible? Will someone want me? Am I worthy of something other than pain?

Justine’s smile is anything but nice. He steps into the light, his large feet stuffed in pink high heels, and he stops at the end of the bed. “You really don’t know how to listen, do you? Your parents, my sister, God rest her clueless soul, died probably to get away from you. Who would want a kid like you, Wayne? Hell…” He takes a long drag of the smoke, and the ashes tumble free when the cigarette can’t support how heavy the burnt tobacco is. “You can’t talk to save your life.”

That’s not my fault. No one has taken their time to teach me. My tongue is damaged because of him too. Everything has been against me. It gets too tiring when I’m the only person in my corner.

Swaying like snow as it falls, Justine wraps his long skinny fingers around my ankle to make me stay still. I try to get away, but he digs his nails into my skin, and I arch my back, crying out when the ashes land. The smell of burnt leg hair is quick, instant, and as quick as the scent is there, it’s gone.

“You’re that kid their mother should’ve aborted.” He laughs, and smoke tendrils out of the spaces between his teeth. “I tried to tell her. I tried to tell her that your father had bad seed, but she didn’t listen, and she had you anyway,” he raises his voice as he lectures me and stabs my thigh with the cigarette.

I cry, shouting how much it hurts into the walls. I gag, and my stomach turns when the scent of burnt flesh fills the room. I don’t bother begging for mercy because I know he won’t give it to me. I bury my face into the pillow, but he grabs ahold of my hair and snaps my head to the right until the muscles are stretched to the point I’m afraid they’re going to tear.

“Don’t get your tears on my pillow. You’ll ruin the silk,” Justine seethes as his palm settles against my airway.

I cough and try to slap his hand away, but he’s bigger, stronger, and filled with more fight. I struggle to speak, but the pressure is too much. I gasp, blood rushing to my face. The heat in the back of my eyes water, and a tear falls to my cheek.

Justine reaches toward the headboard and pulls one of his scarves from the post. I know what these scarves are used for. He likes to tie up his partners. It’s one of the things they pay him to do, strutting around in leather as they lay helplessly, playing the victim.

I bet none of them have ever been victims.

Not like me.

“So weak,” Justine mumbles, trying to tie the scarf around my left wrist to pin me to the bed. I pull against him, yanking my arm so he can’t control me, but he growls, tightening his grip. “Stop fighting me!” He rears his arm back and punches me across the cheek. “Stop!”

“Un-uncle Jer … emy, please,” I sob.

He tugs the ends of the material around my wrist so tight, pinpricks tingle the end of my fingers. “What did I tell you about calling me that? Huh? You’re like talking to a fucking wall.” He takes another scarf and ties it around my other