Page 60 of Inside the Wicked

“Can’t say the same.”

“You might soon.”

I highly doubt that, but I say nothing more.

He stalks in, and only then does fear trickle over me. What crumbles my composure is his glance down at the broken camera, and then I realize with cold horror what I’ve done.

No one is watching.

No one would know if he?—

I cry out at his sudden lunge for me, managing to slip from his loose grip. Grabbing the chair is my first instinct. I swing it, but he manages to wrap a hand around the leg, pulling it from me. Then it almost feels over.

He can’t win.

He can’t win.

The man barrels into me, so we knock into the desk. He’s too tall. Stronger and far more feral than me. I fight with all my months of training, as hard as I can. I remember everything Rhett taught me in self-defense last year, but it’s as if it was all a game, and when faced with a threat as vicious and unrelenting as this, I never stood a chance.

I block his first attempt to slap me and manage to jab his throat. He chokes, and I spin, but I only get one step away before he circles my waist and his hand slams the door shut that I wassoclose to escaping through. His hand grips my hair, but I don’t get out a yelp before he slams my head against the metal door.

I become boneless to the sweep of darkness.

I’m overpowered when he straddles me on the floor, and an animalistic growl vibrates close to my neck as he pins my wrists by my head.

I fight to stay awake.Keep fighting, little bird.

His hand grips my jaw tightly, and tears well in my eyes at the bruising hold. His disgusting breath fans across my cheek.

“My name is Micah,” he says, so low and hungry. “I want you to cry it out when I fuck you.”

No. NO.

I strain against him with everything I have, but he’s managed to reach a hand down to undo the buttons of my shorts, pulling the fly down too.

I’m crying now.

I’m too hot. Heavy.

I’m drowning and suffocating.

When I come to enough, I feel his hand dipping down past the waistline of my shorts. His guttural moans tighten painfully in my stomach, and for a moment I want to disconnect. To let my mind drift far away from this nightmare until it’s over.

He can’t win.

He can’t win.

Don’t give up, little bird.

My hand flexes, arm stretching out, as he can’t hold me and finger-fuck me at the same time. His fingers slip out of me to reach for his jeans button.

Then I feel it. Absolute rage and disgust gripped in my fist in the shape of a broken 2B pencil.

I don’t contemplate. I don’t hesitate.

With a scream, I plunge it into his neck.

He chokes, immediately clutching the eraser tip only just peeking through his fingers as they flood crimson. So much blood pours out of him, onto me, and I push him off. Rolling away, I gag at the sticky crimson. My chest heaves with breaths of such volatile fury that my whole body shakes with it as I stand, fastening my shorts.

---