Page 95 of Baseball and Shifters

Then I see him.

Trent.

He stands over me, arms crossed, watching me squirm with a heat in his eye.

A scream rips out of me before I even register the breath behind it.

“Shut the fuck up, bitch.”

His foot rears back, then pain explodes white behind my eyes as he kicks me in the temple.

The world crashes back to black.

I wake again, slower this time. The pounding in my head echoes my pulse in my ear with every beat of my heart. The burning in my throat reminds me of the screaming last time I was awake. The sting bursting across my cheek brings back the memory of a kick to the head.

Trent!

Even fighting the drugs and headache, I could never forget his face when I first saw him. I knew there was something wrong with him. But I never thought he’d stoop this low. The hunger and excitement in his eyes at the sight of me tied up on the floor may haunt me for the rest of my life… which, by the state of things, may not actually be that long.

Half a conversation attempts to penetrate the buzz in my ears.

“…yeah. East edge of campus, that busted old shack near the creek. No one comes out here.”

So we’re still on campus. That’s good.

Silence. Whoever is on the other end of the line has a lot to say. Boots thud against the uneven floor and I stay perfectly still, praying he thinks I’m still knocked out.

“No, she’s out again, but she’ll wake up. I got it under control.”

More silence.

Then, “Yes, sir.”

The room goes silent again before his voice changes to the smooth smug tone that will haunt my nightmares

“Well, well. Look who’s awake.”

Fuck. It didn’t work.

“I know you’re awake, Foxy. You can stop pretending.”

My eyes flutter open. Guess the gig’s up. Might as well get on with it.

Trent crouches in front of me, phone still in hand, a twisted smile stretched across his face. There’s a wild gleam in his bloodshot eyes. His shirt is rumpled, streaked with something dark at the cuffs. Mud or maybe worse.

My pulse pounds in my throat.

“Did you miss me, Foxy?”

I don’t answer him. I just stare.

That's all I can do. My throat’s too raw to scream again, and I’d never admit to having any feelings for him, even to save my life. The thought of playing along with whatever sick fantasies he has makes my fox feral. She won’t let him touch us like that. No one gets to touch us without our permission.

He bends lower, close enough for me to smell the sour tang of his sweat and whatever cologne he’s doused himself in. His grin is stretched too wide, like he’s done something to be proud of.

“You know, this isn’t how I pictured it,” he says, almost conversationally. “I always thought you’d come around on your own. Sooner or later, you’d realize I was the better man. But you just had to keep playing the victim, didn’t you?”

I say nothing.

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