Page 47 of Illusive
“We don’t have all day,” he said snidely.
Ireland spat out the bile that filled her mouth, gagging as the action made her stomach turn. It felt as if she had no strength; her arms and legs were shaky and weak. The hallway was long, and he was right there behind her, taunting and hurting her.
“Whatever you want,” she managed hoarsely. “My family will pay it.”
“You better hope that’s true, bitch, because it’s the only reason why you’re still alive.”
How was it possible that Gideon…Mom and Daniel…anyone…
Why haven’t they paid for my release?
WHY?
The hallway seemed as endless as her ordeal, her body so tight with expectation of the next kick or blow that every contact reverberated through her very bones. When she finally reached the one open door, Ireland pulled herself up by gripping the doorjamb, leaning heavily against it as she panted desperately for air. Her hot forehead against the cool wall was the scarcest relief.
He came up behind her, crushing her brutally into the jamb’s grooves. She whimpered as he compressed the air from herlungs. His fevered breathing in her ear made her skin crawl. His tongue licked a long, slow lap up the side of her face as Ireland felt his erect penis slide between the seam of her buttocks.
Horrified revulsion made time stop. She became a statue, so repulsed that her limbs were locked with shock.
Trapped in a moment of disbelieving awareness, Ireland was unable even to blink. A scream erupted from her soul, threatening to shatter her mind.
Where was the woman?
Reaching around her, he turned on the light, sending an ice pick of pain straight into her temple. Her watery, blinking eyes struggled to focus on the room they were entering.
It was a bedroom. A perversely, beautifully decorated bedroom.
Ireland found herself in a terrifying bubble within a world she recognized, one her mind identified as harmless. The condo was far larger than her own, the view worth millions. It seemed impossible that her torment and this space could coexist.
There was a phone on a tripod at the foot of the bed, ready to film whatever took place there. Handcuffs with oddly long chains draped the footboard.
Awareness penetrated her stupefied mind in a nauseating flood. The man was rutting against her ferociously squashed body, grunting with excitement as his erection rubbed furiously between her butt cheeks. His hands pawed, squeezed, and twisted her small breasts through the bodice of her dress. He sank his teeth into the shell of her ear so hard that it felt as if he bit through it.
The pain galvanized her, bursting the bubble. Ireland began to struggle, pushing away from the jamb. Her bare heels stomped ineffectually into the tops of his booted feet—the only part of him she could reach.
His laughter in her ear was obscene. Sickeningly delighted. He pulled back and shoved her into the room. Tripping on the train of her dress, her gaze flew to the floor as she stumbled. The tops of her feet were marked by the decorative straps of her missing shoes. Red and welted, the angry stripes jogged her memory.
You’re a tigress.
The sound of Ronan’s voice abruptly entered her mind and echoed with urgency, like a shout into a cave. Her terror and panic coalesced, fluttering in her chest like a trapped bird. Adrenaline surged, and her anger with it, in a chain reaction that scorched through fear and unleashed survival instinct.
Thrusting her arm out, Ireland ripped the phone from the tripod with such force that it clattered to the floor and skidded a few feet away.
“You clumsy fucking cunt!” the man roared.
Ireland clutched the phone in a death grip and pivoted, instantly ramming the butt under his chin. His head flew back. He stumbled, and she surged, her arm lifted high. She pounded the phone into his nose. The horrendous cracking of bone reverberated, fueling something primordial inside her. Blood spurted in her face. He screamed.
She dropped and spun in a low roundhouse kick, swiping his legs out from beneath him. He crashed heavily to the floor, his skull bouncing grotesquely off the tile with a dreadful squelching sound.
Any pain Ireland might have felt was distant; her thoughts fogged in a red haze.
Dropping onto him with her knees in his groin, Ireland’s arm lifted high and powered down again. The corner of the phone shattered his orbital bone. Howling at incredible volume, he thrashed beneath her, steely fingers pinching and pulling at her flesh, short nails ripping into her skin. There was a siren in theroom, a high-pitched shrieking, but she continued bashing the phone into his head at lightning speed and without mercy.
Hot blood splattered her and obliterated the mangled features of his face.
He began to gurgle blood, choking on it and broken teeth. She didn’t stop. Not even when his arms dropped listlessly to the floor. She kept hammering until the bright red blood stopped bubbling from his lips, until her blows had no strength and the room began to spin.
Gulping for air, Ireland stared down at the raw, unrecognizable mass of meat and bone. A distant part of her mind knew the sight was horrific, but she felt nothing beyond the savage beat of her own heart and the heaving of her lungs.
