Page 109 of Black Castle

“I’m going back to Russia,” he says, smoothing out his shirt. “Will be gone for a little while. But, don’t worry, I’ll be back before you miss me.”

Then he turns toward the door, walking away, his steps lithe and powerful. By the doorstep, he pauses. “I’m watching you, ladybird. Smile at another man and I’ll fucking hang him on a cross.”

With that, he’s gone like the wind, leaving behind the scent of whiskey and the echo of his dark promise.

Chapter Thirty-three

Vivienne

Darkness.

A suffocating, endless void.

Then hands. They claw at her skin, grip her thighs, and rip her clothes.

The air in the alleyway is damp and thick with the scent of rotten garbage and urine. Her hands scramble against the cold asphalt, nails chipping as she tries to crawl out of their captivity.

“Fucking cunt,” one sneers in French. “Where do you think you’re going, huh?”

She can’t see his face. Can’t see any of their faces. She just knows they are four in numbers. And they weigh heavier than her. Their shadow stretches across the wall, grotesque monsters with way too many limbs.

“I want you to know that you deserve this.” A sharp ache ripples between her thighs as one shoves himself inside her, hard, rough, while the others hold down her hands, her legs, hand muffling her screams. “So, stay still and take it like a good girl.”

“I see you have never had a man down there,” he cackles and the rest joins in. “So fucking tight.”

“Hurry up,” another utters, the sound of a zipper piercing through the chaos in her head. “You can’t take all the fun.”

“There’s plenty enough to go around,” the one on top of her says, pulling out only to slam harder into her, gravel biting into her skin at every wicked thrust. “She’s still so fucking moist.”

They continue to laugh.

They take turns. Some go twice, some think they need more after the third one. So turn after turn, thrusts after thrusts, punches after punches, they soil her, they steal her innocence, they milk her dry.

Screaming won’t help. Yet she screams until her throat is raw. Until the stars above blur into nothing. Until she can’t feel her body anymore.

She fades.

She drowns.

She—

Beep! Beep! Beep!

Her body jerks, her breath hitching as the sound of the alarm rips her from the nightmare. A long gasp tears through her chest, her heart hammering against her ribcage. The cotton sheets are twisted around her, damp from sweat.

Her finger claws at her throat, tugging violently at their wicked grips, the phantom presence of their fingers pressing, suffocating.

For the first few seconds, she isn’t in her room. She’s still there, the dark alleyway before Rue Augustin Boulevard. The scent of filth and blood coates her tongue, the echoes of laughter crawling beneath her skin.

But the faint glow of the nightstand lamp grounds her. The alarm clock reads 7:00 a.m.

She swallows her, rubbing her face as she forces herself to breathe.

She runs a finger through her hair, the heels of her palms pressing into her eyes, exhaustion weaving into her bones.

The nightmares have been back for a week now. When Lucan’s steady voice could no longer serve as an anchor, that, for some reason, has managed to keep her from drowning in the past before. Now, she hasn’t heard from him in days, and the lingering memory of him is no longer strong enough to keep the darkness at bay.

She didn’t notice the pattern until that time they went on a break and didn’t talk for weeks. The nightmares started to crawl in. And that’s when she realized until they stopped talking, she hadn’t been having them. Then she went to Russia to see him, and in those few days she spent, she didn’t have any nightmares. He is gone again, hours turning to days, days turn to weeks, and five days ago, the nightmares came back, ravenous, feasting on the silence he left behind.

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