Page 2 of Savior

His smile remains in place while his hold tightens. Always taunting. Always tormenting.

I blink slowly, remembering the one beautiful moment long ago when I responded to his devilry by spitting in his face. He’d balked. Stared. Snarled. His shock at my stupidity had been a reward, at least for a few brief seconds until reality set in and clenched fists rained down on me.

I used to lash out freely. I tried to deny him my humiliation whenever possible, yet he always claimed it more tightly in the aftermath.

Now I’ve come to realize I can manipulate him if my aggression is tactical. I only bite when I know it will work in my favor. I snap in the moments when I’m well aware he’s going to violate me. I save all my fight for those momentsnotbecause his abuse still scares me after all these years, but because aggression is my only defense.

I scream and kick to excite him. To quicken his climax.

I bite and punch and thrash because my hostility is the only thing saving me from a far worse fate.

Now isn’t one of those times, though. Not when he had me less than eight hours ago. Luther Torian is becoming an old man. I’m told he’s already a grandfather. If I trigger any sort of a thrill the resulting perversion will take longer to conclude.

So I clench my teeth. Breathe deep. Force calm. And don’t give him one fucking glimmer of what he wants.

“No.” I hold my chin high. “I didn’t dream of you.”

His laugh lines deepen. “This is why you’re my favorite, pretty Penny. You cling tight to your anger. It’s invigorating.”

He’s right. I cling so tight.

Anger is all I have.

I hoard the emotion deep in my chest, using it as armor. I rarely show my fear anymore and never, ever weakness. I stopped giving him insight to those parts of me long ago, back when I figured out he detests fragility.

What he enjoys is the battle.

It’s what he craves.

And as much as I hate to hand him his filthy perversions on a silver platter, it’s far better to live under his roof than inside the haunted walls of the place where he houses the majority of his sex slaves.

Here, in his Greek Island mansion, I’m only forced to do unimaginable things once or twice a week.

If I was sent to live with his less fortunate captives, I’m led to believe I’d have to perform once or twice an hour. The beating and torture would be unending instead of intermittent.

Permanent, not cyclic.

He releases my hair and grips my chin, his fingers digging into skin. “Don’t worry. One day I’ll grow tired of you.”

I swallow, the deep chill of fear increasing.

It’s such a twisted, nauseating reality to want to be here. To fight to remain under this roof where I have clean sheets and a comfortable bed. I’ve made friendships in this gilded cage. I have relative freedom.

I’ll do anything—giveanything—to remain as far as possible from the revolving door of Luther’s personal harem. And so far, my tactics have worked. I’m the longest-standing woman in residence, having seen innumerable victims—sisters—come and go during my time.

I can’t lose my position.

I’ll never survive if I’m forced to leave.

“Go.” He shoves me backward, chin first. “Make yourself look pretty. We’re going to have visitors soon.”

I stumble, quickly righting myself, the voice of curiosity tingling at the tip of my tongue.

Visitors are never a good thing. New faces mean new perversions. Fresh instruments of torture.

“I’ll make sure I’m at my best.” I turn and walk for the door, my stride confident before I grab the handle and twist.

I should be relieved to have survived another night in his bed. But that emotion is never present. Not when I’m dead inside.

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