Total pages in book: 154
Estimated words: 148220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 741(@200wpm)___ 593(@250wpm)___ 494(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 741(@200wpm)___ 593(@250wpm)___ 494(@300wpm)
She bites her lip. “That’s shitty. I’m sorry.”
A harsh laugh escapes me. “Yeah, she said sorry, too. A few years after, that ex was locked up because he took his temper out on someone else, she said sorry and maybe we could try again. Thing was, her face hadn’t changed—but she looked a lot uglier to me than she had before. So I passed up on that offer.”
“Yes,” she whispers. “Someone fucks you over once, you’re not going to let them do it again. No matter their reasons.”
“The reasons matter. Because I get it. Being afraid. Saving your own skin. But no one comes out looking prettier than they went in.”
Her breath trembles. “I just want to get out of it. Pretty or not.”
“Do you? Funny. That’s what Crash wanted, too.”
Grief slashes across her face. Like I slapped her with it.
Because I did. She might have been the bait who brought us here, but nothing in that Cage was her fault. I was the one who betrayed a brother. And it was playing real dirty, hitting her with that.
Because I want her to hit me back. To put some hurt on me. Because it’s hurt that I should be feeling.
But she just continues tending to my wounds. Standing there drowning in grief and sorrow while smoothing the sharp edges of my pain.
I can’t fucking take it. “We’re done,” I tell her hoarsely. “I don’t want you touching me.”
She freezes before nodding. Lips pressed tight, she tapes on another bandage, then begins packing up her kit. “I’ll leave you an ice pack for your jaw.”
From the open door of my stall, Victor says, “You’re not done.”
You’re not done. It’s like a punch to the gut. For an instant, I’m back in the Cage and feeling so goddamn good, because I got shit done, and grinning while Crash asks the guard whether he’s waiting for Santa to bring him a brain. Then realizing what’s coming when Victor tells us, You’re not done.
But there’s only two of us in here now. Cherry and me. And there’s not a fucking thing in this world that will make me lay a hand on her. I’ll just lie down and let her take me out. She’ll probably do it real gently.
More gently than I deserve.
“Did I miss an injury?” She’s looking me over, her brow furrowed. “Do I need to look at your back?”
So Victor hadn’t been talking to me. Now he tells her, “Papa was pleased with Mr. Wall’s victory. He decided that it earned him a reward.”
As if in confusion, she blinks at him, then glances back at me. I don’t know what the fuck he’s talking about, either. I heard him say something about a reward, but figured he meant the call to Anna.
But there was something else. Punishment. For disobedience.
Fucking hell.
Realization widens Cherry’s eyes, then her face goes utterly still. “You mean…?”
“Give Mr. Wall his reward, Cherry.”
Panic sharpens her voice. “But Papa says I’m not supposed to—”
“Not in his bed.” Victor gestures to the floor in front of my feet. “On your knees.”
Fuck no. “I don’t want her touching me.”
Not to heal me. Not as a reward for killing Crash. And sure as fuck not because they’re punishing her.
Relief lightens her voice. “He doesn’t want—”
“Then you’ll give Tusk the reward.”
That sick fucker must have heard his name. He calls out, “You’ll give what to me?”
Her face goes white when Victor adds, “Considering where his cock was earlier tonight, I don’t think you want to suck that off.”
Horror fill her expression. “No.”
“Number thirteen also won.” Victor’s eyes narrow. “Maybe we’ll make you reward him.”
The neo-Nazi. And Cherry’s reaction to that suggestion seems more frantic and horrified than her reaction to Tusk, shaking her head wildly as she backs up a step. And Christ, my stomach’s all twisted up in sick knots. I don’t know how much of that rot is the thought of this being a punishment or because I can’t stand the idea of her touching someone else.
“I’ll take the reward,” I grate out and her frantic gaze shoots to my face. “I’ll take it.”
Gratitude fills her expression. Fucking gratitude. And sheer relief. She starts toward me, then halts when I tell her, “Grab the pillow and put it on the floor.”
Or else she might be kneeling on that cold concrete for a long time. Because I don’t want a blowjob. Not tonight. Not after Crash. And not while chained upright in a freezing cell, my wrists and ankles in restraints.
Except my dick doesn’t give a shit. I watch her bend over to snatch the pillow off my bunk, that tiny nurse’s uniform riding up to give me a glimpse of tight little ass and all that smooth skin above the lace tops of her stockings. The weight between my legs grows heavier, thicker.