Page 34 of Hell and Halos

No. I shake my head, just a little, as Marcus takes his kisses down my neck.

No. I will not fuck this man to save my life. I would rather die. I will claw his eyes out with my fingernails before I fuck this man.

He's kissing my ear now, nibbling the lobe so gently. He whispers, "You were so fucking perfect with me. The way you let me fuck you. You got wet for me too, darling. Remember how I used to stick my fingers inside you? Hmm? Do you remember how your pussy used to drip at my touch?"

He hums this against my ear, low and satisfied, like a man who thinks memory is the same thing as consent, and his words do not excite me. They do not thrill me, or warm me, or conjure a single thing worth salvaging from whatever I used to feel. They elicit shame.

Pure shame. Disgrace. Dishonor.

And—underneath all of it—humiliation.

How could I ever. How did I ever look at this man and see anything worth wanting. How did I let his political shine pass for warmth, let his expensive suits pass for character, let his careful public tenderness pass for love.

That's dumb, Savannah. That is so profoundly, inexcusably dumb.

"You were so perfect," he says again, his lips still moving against my skin like a prayer I never agreed to receive. "So perfect before… he returned."

And then his hand is around my throat. Squeezin'.

And he doesn't press me backwards. No. He presses upwards. So I have to go up on my tiptoes to avoid his hold.

I start clawing at his hand.

Go for the eyes, go for the eyes!

But I can't. I can't think about anything but removing his hand from my neck.

"Shhh," Marcus hisses. "Don't fight it, baby-doll. If you fight it, you'll bruise, sweet-pea. You know how I hate bruises."

I do stop. Not because he told me to, but because I'm losing consciousness and my muscles are no longer working and…

I open my eyes, sitting in the chair. Marcus is kneeling at my feet, pulling my jeans down my legs.

"Welcome back, honey-bee. How do you feel?" He says this as he jerks my jeans inside out, removing them completely. "I'm sorry for the blackout. I don't like to do that. But I saw the fight in you, Savannah."

He tosses my jeans aside, staring intently at me. "I don't like fight, Savannah. Unless I've asked for it. Which I have not. I want my pictures. And there's nothing you can say or do to stop that. I know you think otherwise."

He smiles here. Eyes bright. And then he leans forward, taking my face in his hands. Palms flat against my cheeks. And kisses me. Whispering, "You need to stop fighting now, lovey-dove. You need to stop. I've waited my whole life for this chance and if you ruin it for me, I will ruin things for you too."

Play the game, Savannah. Gun. Safe. Ten seconds.

"OK," I croak. The word, hoarse and raspy from being choked. "OK," I repeat. "What do you want me to do?"

This is not a good plan. This is not going to buy me ten seconds to get a gun out of the safe.

But it will buy me minutes of his attention.

Not a great trade. A very bad deal, in fact.

But it's all I've got.

And it works. Instantly, Marcus's smile changes. It goes from forced and coercive to eager and hungry. He even lets out a breath. Which is a sign of weakness, I think. Because it means he was stressed. And my reaction was the cause.

He's not sure he can control me.

A thrill shoots through me at the thought of me having that kind of silent power over him.

Good, I think to myself.