Page 113 of Painted Scars
The slow drag of his fingers as he brushes the hip of my black skirt makes the bile thicker and more urgent. “So ungrateful. After all I’ve done for your career.”
I remove the kubaton from my pocket and slide my fingers into the grip. “Move or I’ll fucking make you, asshole.”
Burt laughs in my face, a cruel, mocking sound that says I’ve got no power here. His spindly body crowds me against the printer, and my breath freezes.
“You’ve been teasing me for months.” He glances down at my shivering body. “Short skirts. Low, tight tops. It’s time to deliver.” He says the last part as if he offers me a deal for a promotion.
He unpins his belt buckle, fingers working the metal with disgusting arrogance. “Now be a good girl and suck my cock like I’ve wanted you to for a year.”
Rage is instant. Hot. Bitter. Nuclear. I slam my weapon into his chin, and he stumbles backward, blood pouring out. My knee follows into his swelling groin. The asshole folds with a strangled grunt.
Somehow, he recovers swiftly, wheezing and red-faced. He seizes my hair and slams me into the printer. Blinded by pain, I sag against it. His bony chest digs into mine, his groin grinding against my back.
His breath ices over my skin. “Preston Blackthorn sends his regards. He says you’ll be cooperative now.”
Burt slams my temple into the desk before I can process it.
My kubaton falls from my fingers and clatters on the floor.
“Nooo,” I moan.
Not a-fucking-gain.
“One way or the other, you’re going to make this worth my time, sweetheart.” He fumbles with his pants.
I thrash, reaching for anything to use as a weapon. Pack of photocopy paper. Heavy-duty stapler. Binding machine. All out of my grasp. He’s wiry strong, every inch of him a vise. Panic drips ice into my veins. Tears blur my vision, and I buck and twist. My hand finally collides with something long and thin. A pencil with a blunt tip and a rubber on the end. Not ideal, but it’ll have to do. I jab it backward, hitting something soft. Burt yowls, arching away. The split-second gap is all I need. I stagger sideways, sucking air. Blood stains his cheap grey suit trousers to match his shirt and tie.
“Fucking bitch.” He lunges, hand crushing my throat, cutting off my scream. “You’re going to choke on my fucking cock and enjoy it.”
Stars burst in my vision at the impact of his fist. Warm liquid trickles down my nose.
“I’ll let the investors take a go at you next,” he hisses, slapping my bloody face so hard my teeth clack.
Chaos unfolds. Glass shatters as the door is kicked in. Fist meets bone, satisfying the dark, primal side of me. The pencil snaps, and Burt shrieks as he’s stabbed with two halves.
That growl. “Get the fuck off her!”
Mace, not Grumpy Daddy. Helmeted. Clad in biker armor. This side of him is vicious and unforgiving, marking Burt’s skin with stab wounds I’ve imagined leaving on many occasions.
Relief barrels into me so fast I sway. Damn. My head rings, my vision a glitchy slideshow.
“Where do you get off touching women like that, you fucking asshole?” Mace’s voice is ice over fire. “Never. Touch. What’s. Mine.”
Burt’s head connects with the counter with a sharp crack. He spits out teeth and blood.
I blink back the haze in my eyes. Mace pins Burt over on the counter, stretching his arm over… oh, God. My pulse spikes with anticipation this time.
“Put that away. No… don’t… please.” Burt’s pitiful begging fuels the darkness in me.
Mace lifts the blade of the paper cutter. “You will never harass another female, ever again, or I’ll come back.”
Air whistles as the blade drops and crunches on bone. Burt screams. His bloody thumb bounces on the base with a clear slice between the second knuckle and joint.
Heat snaps through me. Adrenaline. Nausea. Arousal. All fucking three at once. I reach for the bloody trophy.
“Don’t touch it.” Mace shoves Burt aside, and he hits the floor and rolls.
Too late. I’m already planning a formaldehyde display for my shrine of romantic keepsakes when this is the ultimate declaration of love, Lark Montague-style.
