Page 48 of Swerve
He’s on top of her then, and she’s trying so hard to pull in air that she can’t scream, can’t resist him.
“So, Miss Queen of Ice, I have never believed in waiting for you and the others like you to come willingly. Force works better anyway. Once I am done with you, you will be happy to receive the limp-dick senators who will be your customers.”
He tears open the zipper of her jeans, yanking them off her with a loud ripping sound. The zipper catches the skin of her leg, tearing a scream from her throat. Her air is back, and she begins fighting, clawing at his face as she had wanted to earlier, knowing she will not give up until his blood covers her hands. He unzips his pants, and she feels his hardness against her leg. She struggles, writhing under him as she tries to remember something from the self-defense class Emory had made her take, and then the instructor’s voice comes to her. “Go for the eyes. One finger is all it takes.”
Mia jabs her thumb to the center of his eyeball. He turns his head in time to lessen the blow, but still howls, flinging himself off her, covering his eye with his hand.
She scrambles back to the wall, pulling her jeans up as quickly as she can while she watches him roll in pain, his now limp penis flapping like a flag of surrender.
A key turns in the lock, and the door opens again. Mia looks up to find a woman staring at them both, her expression as blank as the wall behind her. She is tall and intimidating. Her black hair hangs from a center part and glances off her shoulders. She is wearing a dark-gray suit and a white blouse that seem as severe as the storm in her unnaturally green eyes.
“Sergio,” she says evenly. “Leave us. Now.”
Biting back a moan, he stumbles to his feet, pulling up his pants as he goes. Mia bites her lip at the sound of his zipper, resisting a suddenly hysterical urge to laugh.
Another glance at the woman’s stone-faced expression kills the urge, and she pulls her knees up against her chest, holding her gaze on the instinctive knowledge that to look away would suggest weakness. Something tells her that would be a mistake.
“So you drove Sergio to cross a line he has never crossed before? This is interesting. That tells me a good bit about you.”
“If you let us go,” Mia says, forcing an even note in her voice, “I swear on my life that we’ll never tell anyone what happened. We’ll say we ran off for a few days. Just being teenagers.”
The woman laughs, a low, throaty laugh that suggests she is very much used to being in control. “Oh, my dear, I am afraid it is much too late for that. We have plans for you. Guests for you to entertain. Your friend Grace is already well on her way. She’s already grown tired of being hungry and thirsty. She very much enjoyed her shower and the luxurious massage and spa treatment we provided her. As we speak, she is trying on some of the clothes we bought her to wear tonight.”
“You’re lying.”
“In fact, I’m not.”
“What’s tonight?”
“Tonight she will have the chance to become friends with one of our most valued clients. I believe she will impress him.”
A twisting cyclone of fear and outrage torpedoes out of Mia. “You can’t do that. Grace would never—”
“Actually, she would,” the woman disagrees. “It’s a matter of options, dear. She prefers this option to the others we have presented her with. Isn’t that what all of life is? Choosing among options?”
“You’re crazy!” Mia screams. “Please let us go! Our families will give you money—”
The woman laughs. “I am sure you have no idea what you are worth. But I doubt that your families could get anywhere near that.”
Mia wants to argue, but she honestly has no idea how much money she and Emory have. And she knows that Grace’s parents aren’t wealthy. “Please. Don’t do this. You have no idea what you’ve done to our—”
“They will go on,” she says matter-of-factly. “It is a sad fact of life, but we do survive our tragedies. Your family will survive this one.”
“Why are you doing this?” Mia asks, hating herself for the weakness in her voice.
“I have clientele to please. It is simple.”
Mia stares at her, sensing that she is right when she says, “You enjoy this. The cat-and-mouse thing. You being the cat, of course.”
“Of course,” the woman says, smiling now. “Very perceptive of you.”
“Were you born without the empathy chip or did someone create you?”
The woman’s stare becomes a glare. But, as if she doesn’t want Mia to think she has gotten to her, she smiles again and says, “Does it really matter?”
“I think it matters. If you were a victim, you should understand what it feels like to be one.”
“A victim is someone with absolutely no choice in what happens to them. You have a choice.”
