Page 30 of Savage

I rise to my feet and glance at Tank as Prez advances on the girl. Tank’s face is stoic—no surprise there—but he won’t meet my eyes, an action so at odds with everything I know about the man. I dart my eyes back to the girl just as Prez backhands her across the cheek. She’s corralled into a corner, trying to fend off Prez’s greedy fucking hands. He pokes at her, the way you’d poke a stick at a dead animal.

“Here, kitty, kitty,” he says, lunging for her. He wraps his hand around her throat, lifting her from the floor as she struggles against him, her face contorted in pain, the wall at her back. “That sweet little pussy ready for me, yet?”

“Fuck you.” She grits out the words around the fingers clasping her throat.

“No, sweet thing.” I can’t see his face, but I know he’s grinning like a homicidal maniac. “Fuck you.”

Her eyes meet mine over his shoulder. They’re not pleading for me to make him stop, but challenging. The bitch is fucking daring me to watch as he breaks her body. I can’t do this again. I bend double and glare a hole into the floor. “Kick, get over here.”

I take a deep, shuddering breath, my chest squeezing tight. My head doesn’t want any part of this, but my cock is already straining against my jeans. I straighten. Do I see a way out of raping this girl? Yeah. I could stab my prez in the kidneys, the way I would have done if Tank hadn’t been here to stop me yesterday. I could beat the shit out of Prez, take the girl and run, but would Tank let me? Not fucking likely. If any brother but Ethan ever had my back, it’s Tank, but even he’s not dumb enough to let me get away with that shit.

Prez turns to face me. “Sometime to-fuckin’-day, son.”

Hatred burns my gaze as it bores into him. I take a step forward, my body going through the motions, but my mind is flailing around like a fish out of water, not knowing what to do. If I kill Prez and take the girl, I betray the brotherhood—assuming I can get past Tank, that is. If I go through with Prez’s orders, then I’m as fucked up as him. I want this girl, but I want her on my terms, not his. If it were any other bitch, I might not bat an eyelid. I’d do what I had to because it meant I didn’t wind up with a bullet in my skull.

I stalk forward, knowing without having to make the decision what I will do because there’s only one option here … to follow orders.

Prez smiles. He pats me on the back as I stand next to him. The girl begins thrashing; he has her pinned to the wall with one hand. He laughs as she strikes him. “Fuckin’ feral bitch, this one. Wanna watch your cock doesn’t get chewed up by that vicious little cooter of hers.”

I step between them, forcing Prez’s arm away, and I trap her against the wall with my lower body. She throws out her fist and strikes me across the side of the face with it. It isn’t some half-arsed girly attempt; this bitch knows how to hit, and she’s not pulling punches. The blow hurts like a motherfucker, my cheek throbs, and pain radiates through my skull. I catch her wrists up in mine before she can deal another blow and force them up above her head, slamming her into the wall.

I lean in and whisper close to her ear, “This will go much better for you if you stop struggling.”

I hate that I’m forced to take her like this. If I could just tell her that I have every intention of making this as pleasurable as it can be for her, she may be less inclined to fight, resulting in less damage. But rape is still rape and admitting that I don’t want to hurt her, that I’m forced to follow orders, in front of my prez is as good as a bullet to the brain. Gripping her wrists with one hand and undoing her pants with the other, I slip my hand inside, cringing inwardly when I feel the crusted blood over her swollen pussy. She bucks her hips, pressing herself further into the wall to escape my touch. That only aids me though, giving me a better grasp on her cunt, and the second she realises this, she begins twisting and writhing against me—no, not writhing against me, trying to get away from me. Though both my mind and body want her, I have to see this for what it is: rape. That’s all it can be, because as much as I might want to slide my fingers, and my cock inside her, she doesn’t want that, and this is the decision I made. This is the choice that keeps me alive—albeit a shitty one—but it is what it is, and I am who I am. I don’t make any excuses for that.

“Stop. Fucking. Struggling,” I whisper.

“Fuck you.” She rears her head back in an attempt to head-butt me, but I snap my head back out of reach. My fingers shift inside her pants, spreading swollen lips and searching for that sweet spot. I know the second I find it because she quits struggling, at least for a beat, and then she’s back to bucking like a wild animal. I rub furiously at her clit until I feel her body jerk involuntarily. Her legs tremble, her flat stomach quivers against the heel of my hand, as her muscles war with her head. She lets out a whimpering cry, half torment, half pleasure. I slow my tempo, stroking in long, sure caresses, soothing her, coaxing her pleasure from her slowly, despite the anguish she feels, despite the fact that I’m the one forcing her to feel it.

Her eyes lock onto mine, and in that moment everything slips away. Prez, Tank, her pain, the room she’s held captive in—all of it. There are only her eyes on mine, and her body succumbing to pleasure under my deft hands. Tears stream down her face, and her eyelids fall closed as her body jerks with orgasm. I continue stroking, petting, playing, even as she tries to squeeze me from between her legs by clamping them shut. I stroke until I feel the violence of another release rip through her, and then I pull my hand free and lick my fingers clean, savouring the taste of her arousal tinged with the tang of blood that dances across my tongue as she slides down the wall and curls into herself, her eyes squeezed tightly closed and her mouth open with a silent, sobbing scream.

My prez brutalised her, and she may have screamed and cried for help, but even bruised and bloody and in more pain than I imagine she was letting on, she remained strong, resilient, defiant. He couldn’t break her, but I just accomplished that feat in a matter of seconds. I knew the second her eyes met mine. I felt it, and I forged ahead anyway when I should have walked away. Sometimes kindness is a far worse weapon than brutality

Fury wells within me. Fury at him, at her, at myself. I take a step back. Prez laughs. It’s a fake, obnoxious sound, and it makes me want to rip his fucking face off. He slaps me on the back. “Jesus, son, those are some magic bloody fingers.”

I shrug out of his hold and put some distance between the girl and me. I don’t trust myself with the taste of her on my tongue. I don’t look at her but at Tank instead, who’s been all too fucking quiet since he walked in. He returns my glare and gives me an imperceptible nod. Is he fucking congratulating me for not attacking our prez? I’ve never wanted to beat the shit out of Tank before, but these last two days have shown me a different side to my brother. A side I badly want to eradicate.

Prez pulls the girl up by her hair. I expect her to scream or cry out, but she does nothing—she just allows him to move her body wherever the fuck he wants. He spins her around to face me, positioning himself behind her as he takes hold of her throat, and his other arm snakes around her waist. Her eyes are red-rimmed, glazed and vacant. The rent in her lip has opened up again, and blood slowly pools on the surface. Her eye, where Prez beat on her yesterday, is still swollen shut.Jesus Christ. “Take off her pants. You’re not done yet, son.”

I glower at him, ready to tell him to go fuck himself, because I can’t rape this girl, and I know that still makes me scum because with anyone else, if it were the choice between staying alive and following orders, I wouldn’t hesitate. I wouldn’t falter. You do what you have to in order to stay alive, regardless of whether it helps you sleep at night. But not with this girl. Not her. I slide my hand to the knife holstered at my waist and open my mouth to speak when Prez’s phone rings in his pocket. And then Tank’s phone rings, too. Prez tips his chin in Tank’s direction, signalling for him to answer it.

Tank pulls out the phone, and his deep baritone fills the room. “What?”

His brow creases–that’s about the only expression you’ll ever get out of the man, unless you make him really mad.

“Fuck.” He hangs up and pockets the phone. “Cops are at the gate, Prez.”

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ? Can’t a man get fucked in peace?”

“What do we do with the girl? Can’t leave her here. Frogger says they’ve been out there for the last thirty minutes. Can’t come in without a warrant, but that doesn’t mean they’re not getting one.”

“FUCK!” he bellows and releases the girl, throwing her towards me. He stalks to the door, and then turns back to me, pointing. “Get her into the shower, you keep her in there until they pry you two apart. You don’t know nothin’ about no raid, you’re just fucking your old lady on a lazy Sunday afternoon. Got it?”

I nod.

“And you.” He turns his attention on the girl. “You make a fuckin’ sound that isn’t like he’s just fucked the shit outta you, and once those little piggies are gone, I’m gonna let every single one of my boys bury their cock in every fuckin’ hole you have to offer, bitch.”

She doesn’t say anything in response. She doesn’t even flinch. She just continues to stare at the floor as I take hold of her arm and push her forward towards the exit. Prez and Tank are already running ahead of us. There’s shit to hide, incriminating evidence to get rid of, and drugs to flush.

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