Page 43 of Kick

I take a deep shuddering breath, close my eyes and stretch my hand towards him. His touch is gentle this time, far more gentle than I’d ever thought someone with so much uncontained violence to him could be.

“Spread your fingers,” he commands. I do, and he lifts the roll of tape, presses the edge to my skin and begins winding it over my knuckles. I close my eyes. The strident sound of it stretching out from the roll makes me want to flee. It makes me want to run as far from his touch—from any man’s touch—as I can possibly get.

The feel of the tape against my flesh, binding, holding, is so much worse. I tug on my hand, but he won’t let go. My heartrate skyrockets, and sweat beads erupt over my brow and upper lip. I’m in that room again, struggling, screaming, trying to fight them off, and failing.

Biker knows it, too. His dark eyes challenge, they dare me to run, but they also implore me to stay. It’s ironic that the only thing keeping me here, keeping me grounded, is the man who abducted me.

He holds my gaze. I don’t know exactly what is hidden in his dark blue one, but it suffocates the panic within me, douses it like water flooding flames. He bends his head to my hand. Taking the paper tape in his mouth, he rips it with his teeth.

I still. I soften. His gaze doesn’t leave mine, not even once. Not even when he starts in on my wrist, gently biting through each piece of tape before pressing it down with his rough hands. I’m mesmerised by his mouth, the piercing, and the soft, full lips. The light catches a silver chain around his neck, something I’ve never noticed before—but then I try not to make a habit of staring too closely at him. Not now, though. Now I watch every twitch, every blink, every intake of breath, and every inch that is swallowed up by his mouth moving closer to my flesh.

Before long he’s wrapping the last piece of tape around the back of my hand. This time when he breaks it off, the soft glide of his tongue sweeps over my skin.

I inhale. Slowly … so I don’t hyperventilate. I imagine his tongue all over me, lapping, licking, and laving at every inch of my body and a bolt of white-hot pleasure shoots through my damn traitorous vagina. What the hell is wrong with me?

Biker smirks, one corner of his mouth turning up as though he knows exactly what I was thinking. He sets the tape back on the shelf and then faces me. “I’m going to position you, exactly where I want you.”

I nod, because it seems my brain is incapable of doing much else at this point. He stands behind me, pulls my shoulders back and manoeuvres my elbows so that my hands are raised face-height in a guarding position. He bends and slides his hand down the back of my thigh. I gasp. My whole body turns rigid.

“A little faith, Spitfire,” he says, as he taps my knee until I step back into position. He straightens again, showing me how to make a proper fist. “I want sharp, even jabs, darlin’. You follow through, you’ll wind up busting your pretty skin all to pieces, and we don’t want that.”

Taking my elbows he pushes one forward after another and I drive through the movement. I’m not close enough yet to hit the bag, but I can still feel what the force of those blows would do, if I were connecting with something more than just air.

“Make the movement hard and fast,” he whispers in my ear.

“I. Am.” Grunting from exertion already, I picture his face meeting my fists and find I work a little harder.

“Alright, Rocky,” he says, resting his hands on my hips and tapping me. “I think you’re ready for the bag.”

I inch forward and take the same stance, and then I jab at the vinyl over and over, hitting hard and fast just the way he told me to, preening with his encouragement and bristling when he tells me I can work harder. I’m sure it’s only been a few minutes, but all at once I completely run out of steam. I stop making my jabs clean the way I’m supposed to, and instead I begin following through after each punch. He’s right; even with the tape, the slide of the bag against my fist pulls at my flesh. I lower my arms, and Kick steps away from the wall he’s been leaning against.

“Again, Indie.”

I shake my head. “I’m done.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I said I’m done.” I straighten and give him a look that says not to push me. He does anyway. He steps in front of me, until we’re toe to toe. I have to look up to him, and it infuriates me. I hate the thought of being obedient, and compliant, and allowing anyone to make me feel small after what those men put me through.

“You think the Cop’s done? You think the Priest is done?” he seethes. “You think they’re gonna stop torturing you, they’re gonna stop raping you just because you’re fuckin’ done fighting?”

I gasp at his words, at the wall hitting my back. I hadn’t even known we were moving backwards. I hadn’t known we were moving at all. “Shut up.”

“Did cryin’ for help work before?” he whispers, and his vehement tone has the hairs prickling on the back of my neck.

His mouth is too close to mine, and his body pens me in. Fear slides down my spine. It unfurls inside me, paralysing me. “Stop it.”

“Would they have stopped? Just because you cowered and begged for mercy?” He grabs hold of my shoulders and smacks me into the wall. My head spins.

He uses my confusion to yank my ponytail, and then he is dragging me across the room, my feet stumbling and tripping over his in an attempt to keep up. He stops in front of the wall of mirrors, standing behind me. His hand is wrapped around my throat, and he holds my chin up, forcing me to see myself.

Tears burn a trail down my red face. I’m pathetic, crying and snivelling, begging him to let me go.

“This girl,” he says, tightening his hold around my neck. My eyes meet his in the mirror. “Is she a fighter, or a fuckin’ victim?”

“A ... f …”

“What?”

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