I leaned forward, taking his dick in my mouth. If I didn’t look, it wasn’t real.
But I could feel him, smell him, taste him. He thrust hard and I gagged, then felt the roots of my hair rip as he gripped hard, tugging painfully.
“Hmm, I think you’ve done this before,” he purred.
Let the girl live. Let her live . . .
My eyes watered as his small dick pumped into my mouth. He was getting off on this, I knew it. His dick twitched and when he came with a soft sigh, salty cum pulsed onto my tongue.
I reared back, unable to control the retching as I vomited onto his lap.
He screamed with rage and slammed the gun’s barrel against my temple, knocking me backwards so my head bounced against the window.
Stars danced in front of my eyes and I was close to passing out.
“You’ll pay for that!” he screeched, then shouted something in Russian.
The car shuddered to a halt and a moment later, pain exploded through me as Oleg grabbed my broken hand, dragging me from the car.
I’m going to die.
The thought was clear and exact. I can’t explain, but it was a relief.
My knees hit concrete and I knew that I was drawing my final breath. I spat at Oleg’s feet, hatred burning through me as I lifted my head and stared into his eyes. It all seemed so pointless now: all my dreams, everything I’d worked for—it all crumbled to ashes in front of me, and I was going to die on a dirty concrete floor.
A pair of shiny shoes stepped in front of me and the click of a gun’s safety being released drew my gaze upward again. I stared at the barrel of Sergei’s gun, waiting for the shot, waiting for the explosion of light that would end in darkness. His finger tightened on the trigger and our eyes locked. He frowned, his finger trembling as we stared at each other. My stomach clenched, waiting for the bullet.
But it never came.
And then he was backing away and the car was moving. I blinked, shocked, suddenly viscerally aware. The girl! I scrabbled to my feet, trying to see if she was alive, but the tinted windows did their job, and I was forced to watch as the limousine gathered speed.
I collapsed onto the ground, the concrete cool against my face and hands. I was too tired to move. My eyes closed. I was close to unconsciousness, and I think that would have been a blessing.
But then the memories surged back, and my stomach revolted again, heaving up acid as I spat cum onto the floor. My vision swam and I felt blood trickling through my hair from where Sergei had slammed the gun into my head.
I retched again and again, but my stomach was already empty, I was doing nothing more than spitting phlegm onto the concrete. My eyes streamed and every part of my body hurt, my broken fingers twisted like twigs.
Slowly, I sat up.
I’m alive.
I laughed. And I cried. I don’t remember, but I sat there having a complete fucking breakdown.
When I was finally able to stop my stomach from climbing up my throat, I kneeled up shakily and gazed around, blinking in the dim light of an underground parking lot. My bags from the shopping trip were scattered around me. I touched my head with my good hand, and the fingers came away dripping bright blood. The other hand throbbed relentlessly and I held it against my chest, wondering if I could use something to make splints and a sling.
My brain was skittering in a hundred different directions, making it impossible to focus on anything, to do anything. I felt dirty and violated, sickened beyond everything I’d known. The taste of vomit was still in my mouth, and I spat onto the floor repeatedly, shock, pain and spent adrenaline making my body shudder.
I closed my eyes as a wave of dizziness hit, leaning forwards, resting my good hand on my knees, trying to catch my breath.
I will live through this.
Then I stood up straight and screamed out loud: “I will live!”
“Hello? Who’s there?”
A woman’s voice made me spin around and I nearly lost my balance.
“Oh, is that you, Ash?”
Was I? I hardly knew anymore. I wasn’t the same person who’d arrived in Las Vegas. I wasn’t even the same as when I’d woken up this morning.
Trixie’s heels clicked as she strode across the concrete floor. She was wearing a bright pink pant suit.
It was so surreal that I just stood there staring like an idiot.
My body was ice cold and I was shaking, nauseous.
Her eyes drifted to the blood that masked one side of my face and my hand with the bent fingers, still cradled against my chest.
“Oh,” she breathed out. “Did Sergei do that?”
My eyes shot up to hers. “You knew?”
She nodded.
“He called me to come get you.”
Her tone became brisk and businesslike. She certainly didn’t sound shocked.
“I’m sorry this happened.”
“There was a girl,” I croaked, my throat still raw. “Oleg had her . . .”
“Take my advice,” she said sharply. “Forget everything you’ve seen and heard.”