Page 103 of Heartless Sinner

Could barely fucking breathe.

“Stop!” I screamed into the tape.

Another hard turn threw me into the wall.

Everything suddenly went still.

I counted to ten.

Fifteen.

Twenty.

The car didn’t move. Neither did I.

I was too busy trying not to choke on the vomit trapped under the tape.

When the trunk finally popped open, cold night air flooded the cramped space.

“Here, Fawny, Fawny,” a cruel voice sang.

Oh, definitely fuck this guy.

I didn’t move, didn’t mutter a word, didn’t fight against the restraints.

They pulled me from the trunk and dumped me onto the dirt. My shoulder hit first, then my cheek.

Groaning, I fought to push myself off my side.

“On your fucking knees,” that same voice demanded.

“Kind of fucking hard,” I muttered into the tape. “Prick-ass bastard.”

Someone jerked me upright by the zip ties, the plastic biting into my raw wrists. A cold steel-toed boot slid under my chin and forced my head back.

I heard someone crouch in front of me. I still couldn’t see anything, but I could feel them everywhere.

Watching. Waiting. Plotting.

Someone ripped the tape from my mouth, taking what felt like the top layer of my lips with it.

I spat into the dirt, desperate to get that disgusting taste out of my mouth, then did it again because once wasn’t enough.

It didn’t help. The bitter aftertaste still clung to my tongue.

Someone shifted behind me, and a familiar hint of cinnamon slipped through the disgusting mixture of dirt, sweat, and my own vomit.

Brooks.

“Up!”

Instead of being a fucking gentleman and letting me stand on my own, he fisted my hair and pulled me to my feet. My back slammed against his chest.

I forced my shaky breaths into a rhythm.

In through my nose. One, two, three, four.

Out through my mouth. One, two, three, four.