Page 128 of Savior

He shakes his head, crossing his left leg over his right. “Spiteful little creature. But girls like you are all the same. You probably grew up in some gutter with a whore for a mother and no man to teach you how to behave.”

I scoff. But I can’t deny his words. As infuriating as they are, they have some truth to them.

“Mm, just as I thought.”

I keep my mouth closed and look at the ceiling above. It’s a deluge of wires and pipes traveling across with so much purpose—unlike me, who’s halted in her tracks once again, feeling useless.

“You have guts, you know that? I’ve never witnessed such balls, not even on one of my men. Not even on the so-called mafioso men I’ve come toe to toe with.” He stands, coming closer.

My insides tighten.

“Well, you haven’t metmenthen,” I spew.

He laughs, and it’s not laced with malice. It’s only dripping with amusement. Something I’d think a man like him is devoid of.

“Maybe you’re right. Maybe I haven’t. But I’ve met my match in you, baby girl.”

His hand comes down on my cheek, thumb rubbing back and forth in stomach-churning swipes.

I swallow down the bile that rises at his touch.

“Don’t touch me.” It’s all I can manage over the nausea.

He leans in, breath fanning over my face. It smells of cigarettes and booze. “Hermosa, you’ll do well to get used to my touch. Because it’ll be all you feel for the rest of your days. How many days you survive is up to you.”

I swallow, keeping my voice as silent as possible as I drop my eyes away from the ceiling, my gaze connecting with his.

They’re so empty—two spheres with death floating at their surface.

“I will survive you as I survived those that came before you. For a woman like me, I’m certain more will come after you, and I’ll survive even them. It’s who I am.”

My words feed something in him, and his eyes light with something difficult to name, but I recognize it. Even though I likely have only felt it once in my life. When he brushes away a stray tear with his thumb this time, I can almost feel the excitement thrumming from his skin to mine.

I’ve challenged him, and it will be his greatest game.

The thing he gets off on for years to come.

“Do you know what I love most in the world, Hermosa? Of course, you don’t,” he says as he drops his hand and heads to the very edge of the sheet at the end of my bed, where a chest of some kind stands solemnly. “You don’t know me yet, but you will. Don’t you worry.”

A shiver worms beneath my skin as I try to sit up. My body aches from being in this bed for so long.

When he tugs, the drawer opens, metal scraping metal, and the sound only makes my worry dig deeper inside me.

“What I love most is to find the most defiant. The toughest in spirit. Do you know what I do then, Hermosa?”

He turns, a massive wrench in his hand that looks out of place in a medical setting.

“Answer me!” he shouts, veins in his throat working to the surface.

“N—No, I don’t know what you do then,” I manage, genuine fear rushing each sinew of my body.

“I break them.” He grins, coming back to the side of the bed. Ripping the covers back, he fights my movements and my one arm scratching at any part of him I can dig into as he lifts my gown.

Air skitters across my center and a scream rips from my throat as he turns the wrench around, the handle pointed with intent toward my entrance.

“Please, no!” I shout, tears and snot mixing as I fight.

My handcuff slices into flesh and feels as if it digs into bone as blood drips down my arm, wetting the sheets.

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