The King(72)

The man who came down the staircase was the one with that huge birthmark on his face. Dressed in black combat pants and a muscle shirt, he was grim, hairy, and mad.
“…goddamn idiot, dying on me. Least that shut him the fuck up—”
She closed her eyes … and there was another clank.
Abruptly, his voice was much closer. “Wake up, bitch.”
Rough hands grabbed her arm and flopped her over onto her back, and it took all her self-control not to gasp in agony from her head and her leg. “Bitch! Wake up!”
He slapped her across the face, and as she tasted blood, she figured he’d split her lip—but whatever pain flared up was a drop in the bucket to that thigh of hers.
“Bitch!” Another slap, even harder. “Don’t you fucking play with me!”
Her chest jerked up as he grabbed the front of her parka and ripped it open—and as her head scraped across the concrete, she couldn’t keep in the groan.
“That’s right—I’ll wake you the fuck up.” He yanked up her shirt, and there was a little pause. “Nice.”
Her bra had a front fastener and he snapped that free, icy air hitting her skin.
“Oh … that’s … yeah…”
She gritted her teeth as he felt her up, and had to force her limbs to stay limp as he went for the waistband of her pants. Just like with the flare she’d found in the trunk, she had one shot at this, and she needed him well and properly distracted.
Even though she felt like she was going to vomit again.
The guard stripped her jeans along with her panties off in a series of harsh tugs, her bare ass slapping against the cold, scratchy floor as he yanked and pulled.
“You owe me this, bitch—now I gotta tell him about that little shit you killed—what the fuck with your boots!”
He frantically pulled the laces free and yanked the things off, one after the other. And while he worked on her, there was the temptation to try to kick him in the face, but she wouldn’t have enough power at this angle to really do damage—and if she fought back too soon and lost, he was no doubt going to chain her to that fucking wall.
As his hand went between her legs, she couldn’t fight her body’s panic at the invasion—no matter what her brain commanded, her thighs pressed shut around his wrist.
“You awake now?” he gritted. “You want this, don’tcha.”
Relax, she told herself. You’re waiting for one thing and one thing only.
His hand retreated. And then the sound of a zipper being yanked down gave her the extra incentive to let her legs fall open. She needed him to try to mount her.
And what do you know, he gave it a shot.
Shoving her thighs even wider apart, he got down on his hands and knees and began to crab-walk into position.
One shot. And she took it.
With a sudden burst of energy, she jacked up and nailed a grip on the motherfucker’s nuts like she intended to castrate him. And gee whiz, that was exactly what was on her dance card.
Wrenching as hard as she could, she ignored the screams of pain in her thigh and her head and twisted with every ounce of strength she had. The guard let out a high-pitched holler, like a lapdog that had fallen into a deep fryer, and listed to the side.
That was all she needed. Throwing him off of her, she jumped to her feet as he cupped his cock and balls and curled into a ball.
Looking around quickly, she needed …
Limping across in her socks, she unlatched one of the chains that had been intended for her and dragged it back across the floor. Coiling it up around her fist, the heavy links formed a cage around her tight hand.
She went across and straddled the man’s head and shoulders. “You want a good fucking, asshole? How ’bout this.”
Lifting her arm high above her head, she brought the weight down with as much force as she could, striking at his cranium. The man immediately let out a roar and tried to cover himself up top, his arms forming a barrier around his skull.
Fine. Lobotomy later.
She went for below his ribs, for the soft field of flesh that protected his kidneys and his spleen. Over and over again, until he attempted a new defensive crouch. Back to the head—harder this time, until she broke a sweat even though she was mostly naked and the cellar’s air temp had to be in the fifties.
Over.
And over.
Again.
Anywhere she could find a place of vulnerability.
And it was the strangest thing: She had all the strength in the world during the beating; it was as if she were possessed, her injuries fading into the background in deference to the superior need to ensure her own survival.
She had never killed anyone before. Stolen from people? Ever since she was eleven, sure. Lied when she had to? Yup. Broken into all kinds of places she hadn’t been welcome in? Nailed it.