Page 17 of The Contract

I know we’re not heading back. That much is clear.

And the farther we go, the more I imagine the soft echo of a chainsaw buzzing in the distance.

I swallow hard. Curse my love of true crime.

And hell no I’m not becoming the next headliner in someone’s basement podcast.

Urgency takes the helm as I fumble at the zip tie. Because wherever we’re headed, it’s definitely not the local library.

Not unless the romance section doubles as a kidnappers-and-stalkers support group.

The village caveman tromps me through the night, down every back alley in the city.

I bounce against his shoulder like a sack.

A sack of churning indignation and low-boiling rage.

“Look, Darth Vader, this would be much easier if I just walked.”

And maybe give me a sporting chance to run screaming into the night.

Silent stomping.

“I’m pretty sure there’s a swamp missing an ogre right about now,” I taunt, setting my frustration free like a toddler with scissors.

“Quiet!” A crack lands on my ass hard and swift, exploding into color and light, and instant, cringeworthy wetness.

I go silent.

Stunned.

For a long, long while, I wallow in the shame of two horrifying truths:

One—this can’t be the end.

I’ve got way too much life left to live. An entire bucket list of things I haven’t done. Regrets I have yet to experience…

Which brings me to two—what in the actual fuck?

He spanked me.

And I gush like a broken fire hydrant at a summer block party.

When dampness presses past my panties, curves along my inner thighs, and begins a slow path down my leg, I bite my lip.

At least from this angle—nose-to-ass, courtesy of Mr. Quasimodo—he can’t see the sheer horror painted across my face in bright red waves of mortifying heat.

It moves fast, and I squirm—supremely uncomfortable knowing that any second now, he’s going to see it. Feel it. His hand is positioned perfectly to notice the subtle cascade of a slip-and-slide trickling down my leg.

This is how I die. Horny and humiliated on the broad shoulders of a mammoth Russian.

I fidget again. “Are you going to put me down?”

His hold only tightens. “Well, well, well. Quiet for five whole minutes.” He makes a hard right at the street. “Pardon me while I call Guinness.”

This time, I wiggle harder. “Testa di cazzo…” I mutter under my breath.

He steps halt abruptly. “Dickhead?”

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