Page 55 of Logan
He locks the door with a slow, deliberate turn of the deadbolt.
“No one’s coming, Mac,” he says, stepping toward me, the corners of his mouth curling with sick satisfaction. “This time, you don’t get to run.”
My heart is pounding so hard it feels like it might break through my ribs. I back away until the mattress hits the backsof my knees, the frame creaking slightly. I will not cry. I will not give him that. But my hands are trembling. My breath is coming too fast.
I try to lunge past him, angling for the door, but he catches me by the shoulders with a bruising grip and shoves me back.
Pain shoots through my spine when I hit the floor. The carpet is rough against my palms as I scramble to get up, swinging wildly at him, kicking, screaming, every instinct screaming at me to fight.
“Stop it!” he barks, the word cutting through the air before his hand cracks across my face. The world tilts sideways. My ears ring, and the metallic taste of blood floods my mouth.
He hauls me up again, dragging me toward the bed. My legs dig into the carpet, my heels catching, but he keeps moving.
Please, God. Not again. Not this time.
I fight harder, screaming his name, praying for someone, anyone, to hear me.
Logan. Please. Please find me.
His belt buckle catches my eye, his fingers moving toward it. There is a blank, hungry look in his eyes that turns my stomach. I twist and kick, aiming for his knee, but I miss. His fist comes hard and fast, smashing into my cheek. The blow sends me spiraling into blackness for a heartbeat before the world snaps back into focus, blurry and spinning.
“You won’t get away this time,” he snarls, his breath hot against my skin. “And I’ll have plenty of time with you before that biker trash of yours decides to show up.”
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pair of handcuffs. The sound of metal clicking is louder than it shouldbe, echoing in my head. He snaps one cuff around my wrist, threads it through the cold iron bedpost, and secures the other cuff with practiced efficiency.
I yank hard, but the steel bites into my skin, sending sharp pain down my arm. The cuff barely rattles. I am trapped.
I scream again, my voice tearing at the edges, growing raw. Each shout shreds my throat, but I do not stop.
He smiles. A slow, poisonous smile that tells me he is enjoying every second of this. He grips the fabric of my skirt and tears it down the seam. The cold air hits my bare skin and I flinch involuntarily. My panties are ripped away next, the elastic snapping before being tossed aside.
The last to go is my top and bra, the thin material giving way with almost no resistance, the sound of threads tearing filling the space between us.
His hands roam over me, fingers pinching, groping, exploring in ways that make bile rise in my throat. Every touch is invasive, deliberate, meant to strip away not just clothing but dignity. My body recoils from him, but the cuffs hold me in place.
I keep screaming, the words no longer coherent, breaking apart into frantic, animal sounds.
He forces his fingers inside me, and my breath catches, a mix of shock and fury and absolute revulsion. My vision blurs, but I know I cannot let this be the end.
“You’re so tight,” he sneers, his eyes locked on me like he is cataloguing every reaction. “I bet that trash loves it, huh? I’m going to fuck you so hard that it won’t be the case anymore. No one will come looking for you for a while, and I’ll be long gone before then. On my way to the border. Maybe I’ll even takeyou with me. If there is anything worth keeping by the time I’m done.”
He is distracted, his gaze fixed between my legs, his posture lowered as he leans against the bed.
My body feels weak. My head is fuzzy, every thought swimming in a haze. But I reach for the last shred of strength I can find.
I pull my leg back and drive my heel into his face.
The impact is solid. The sound, a wet crack, is followed by a muffled grunt. His body jerks back violently, and then I hear it.
A thud.
From what I can see through the blur of my vision, I think his head hit the nightstand beside the bed.
I hold my breath, muscles tight, watching for any sign of movement. Seconds crawl by. Nothing.
I pull at the cuffs again, the metal cutting deeper into my wrist. The panic and adrenaline are crashing into each other, making my head pound harder.
I start yelling again, the sound tearing out of me in bursts, but each cry sends a sharp, splitting pain through my skull. My vision narrows at the edges, dark creeping in.
