Page 136 of Savior

Matteo is on me before I can stand, clutching my hair in hand as he shoves my face into the toilet bowl filled with my vomit.

I scream, and bubbles make wake around the bowl.

He’s speaking beyond the toilet, but I can hear nothing.

I can’t breathe.

And if this is the end, I’ll go willingly.

What I’d just endured was worse than rape. He took something far more important than just a few stolen strokes in my body. He took away my peace. My escape. He turned my dreams on me.

He pulls my head back just as I’ve given over to the burn in my lungs.

“You spiteful little bitch. You’re going to heel whether or not you like it. If it takes months, years, decades to get you to scream my fucking name like you just screamed his when you came, I will wait. You belong to me, and the sooner you get used to the idea, the more fun we can have.”

“Why? So you can murder me when you decide that you’re bored?”

“Because I paid a small fucking fortune for you, that’s why.”

“Well, I don’t belong to you. I didn’t belong to Giani Adamo. I belong to no one but myself.”

He lets me go, and I scramble to the side of the tub. The scent of vomit permeates the air and has my stomach coils all over again, but I tuck into myself as he crouches before me.

He pries my legs open, shoving his fingers inside me and crooking them to gather up some of the cum he left behind.

He pulls them out, holding them in front of my face so close I can smell the heady scent of his release on his glistening fingers. “Do you see this? This means you belong to me now. Forget your past. No one’s coming to save you.”

Tears burn to be released, but I hold them at bay.

“Suck!” he commands, and for once, and I don’t know why, I don’t fight him.

I lean forward and gag on the taste of his cum before sitting back, the chilly edge of the tub reminding me this isn’t a dream.

When I hear him click the bedroom door closed, I lose it.

Sobs wrack my body, and I tuck into myself tightly; I know there’ll be bruises in the morning.

“Fucking hell, Sloane,” Hannah says.

He always sends her after he’s made a mess. At first, I thought it was because he felt terrible for what he’d done. Now, I think it’s because he doesn’t want blood or vomit setting into the tile.

“Let’s get you up. Come on, let’s get you washed.”

I allow Hannah to heft me into the shower and listen to her cleaning the vomit-laden mess outside the tub. She doesn’t say a thing to me. Thank God.

It’s the smallest mercy I’m granted tonight.

I robotically let her dress me after I’m washed, and when I crawl into bed, letting her cover me and tuck me in, I look into her eyes and watch something flare in hers.

Contentment.

She sighs, softly rubbing my face. “I’m so sorry that he’s broken you, Ms. Sloane, but it will be easier for you from here on out.”

Her words settle as she leaves the room, but no emotion follows them.

Numbness seems to trickle through me like running water as I stare at the ceiling over my bed, humanity seeming to slip away by the second.

Giving up is easier.

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