Page 6 of What We Bury

“Don’t make a scene, Sage. No one can hear you out here.”

His hand closes around my wrist.

The world tilts. One second I’m in moonlight and the next I’m being yanked forward, my shoulder wrenching, my feet skidding on wet sand. I drop the shoes and my bag, and I claw for his face, his eyes, anything. He’s bigger than me. Stronger than I thought he could possibly be. He slams my back into the concrete pillar and my teeth clack so hard I taste copper.

“Brock. Stop!”

He clamps his palm over my mouth, fingers prying at my jaw.

“I said get on your fucking knees.”

I try to bite his hand. He grins like he was waiting for it. He shoves and I stumble, tripping and landing on the wet sand. He follows me down, his grip never loosening as he pushes me belly down.

This isn’t happening. This isn’t?—

“No!”

He twists my head until he can reach my mouth and kisses me. Open-mouthed, wet, teeth scraping. I scream, or try to, but it’s nothing—he swallows the sound, pushes closer, hands everywhere, shoving up my skirt, using his body to keep me pinned.

“You like this, don’t you?” he hisses, his hot breath searing my cheek.

“Get off me!” I buck wildly, clawing at the sand, trying to get him off.

I turn my face away and he catches it in one hand, squeezing so hard it feels like my jaw will snap. “No one’s coming, Sage. You’re mine now.”

He fists my hair tighter, forcing my head back until my throat is exposed and I’m looking up at the underside of the jetty.

“Let me go! Please. I won’t tell anyone. Just let me go!”

“Shut the fuck up, Sage. You wanted this. Don’t fucking pretend you didn’t. You’ve been eye-fucking me all night. Practically begging.” He presses his erection against my ass, and I want to puke.

“I wasn’t. Please?—”

“I said shut up.” He jerks my hair and pain blooms across my scalp, bright and electric. “You scream, and I’ll break your fucking jaw. Nod if you understand.”

I hear him. I hear the surf and his belt buckle and my pulse screaming in my ears.

Not again. Not again. Not again.

My body locks up—every muscle, every nerve ending going rigid.

My fingers curl into the sand. Wet grains pack under my nails. I try to move, try to kick, try to make my hands remember what hands are for, but nothing answers. I am breath and pulse and terror, pinned inside skin that won’t obey.

I focus on the sand because if I stay here, in this moment, in this sand, then maybe?—

“Get on your knees and open your fucking mouth, you slut.”

Tears spill down my cheeks. Hot and silent and useless. He yanks my head and my body follows, the blunt head of his cock shoving at my lips, and then?—

Nothing.

Brock jerks upward, his body lifting clean off the sand like gravity has decided to fuck off for the night. His hand rips free from my hair. He lets out a choked grunt, legs kicking wildly, belt undone, pants sagging around his thighs, dick still hard.

I scramble back on all fours, gasping, sand caking my palms and knees. He’s dangling there, mid-air, twisting like a hooked fish, making little wet animal noises.

Then I see the rope.

Thick. White. Looped around his throat. Hauling him up toward the crossbeam of the jetty.