Without Mercy, page 31
part #4 of Running with the Devil Series
She left the kitchen, this time letting the soft light guide her to the living room. As she entered, her path was suddenly blocked by a large chest of steel, a tall hard man were her initial impressions before her brain started screaming at her. Her hands turned to jelly and she couldn’t keep her grip on the wine glass. It slid through her fingers, hitting the floor with a harsh shriek and then splintered. Shards scattered every where and wine splashed on her feet and the shoes of the man in front of her. Icy dread snaked through her, freezing her in place, barely aware of the broken glass. The primal part of her brain was screaming at her to run, and finally she did, turning toward the front entrance. But before she could take a single step, she hit another solid chest of muscle. For someone so large, the second man had managed to creep up on her, effectively sandwiching her between himself and the other intruder. She was not going anywhere.
She drew in a breath to give strength to the scream forming in her throat, but it never made it past her lips as iron arms encased her from behind, one brutal hand over her mouth and the other gripping her throat. The intruder in front of her gave her a quick punch to her stomach with his fist, forcing a whimper where her scream had once been, and then she lost her breath, gasping for it as her knees crumbled. But instead of falling, she was lifted off her feet by the vice-like grip of the man holding her. He carried her into the hall, away from the shattered glass and towards her front door, setting her down carelessly. Her legs buckled as she struggled to draw air into her lungs and her knees cracked against the hardwood, but she barely registered the pain as she wrapped her arms around her stomach, rocking herself, trying to cry out, trying to scream but not even being able to draw breath.
“Mira,” the man who punched her hunkered down beside her, talking to her as if she were an unruly child at a funeral. He splayed his hand across the back of her neck, fingers digging into her tender flesh. A subtle promise of pain if she got out of line. “This is what’s going to happen. We’re going to walk out of here together. Me and you, like we’re tight. Get in the car and leave your little shithole of a neighbourhood. Andre’s going to do the driving so I can keep you company in the back seat.”
Mira shuddered at his touch, at his words. Tears pricked at her eyelids and her stomach folded into itself. She thought she might vomit. Was this what it was like for victims of rape? The understanding that you were helpless. That you couldn’t win. That your soul was about to be ripped from you.
“My boss told me to bring you to him in one piece – to me that means your heart’s still beating and all your body parts are still attached and working. That’s all it means. Don’t draw attention to yourself while we’re walking to the car. If your neighbours come out, I have no such instructions not to hurt them. Got it?”
Mira nodded, her face a tight mask, her eyes lowered to the floor, her lungs still starved of air. A reprieve, a small space of time before whatever happens next. Her torturer moved his hand from her neck to her face, taking her chin and tilting her head up to look at him. “Nodding is not good enough. Say yes.”
Mira searched his face for compassion, but his eyes were hard, the set to his mouth arrogant. “Yes.” Barely audible, her voice shaky to her ears. She wasn’t stupid, there was no possibility of her getting out of this. Either she complied or what? Her neighbours died? She got hurt? She doubted anyone would risk their lives to come to her rescue. She didn’t even know the names of those closest to her. Her fault, long hours, crushing workload, dinner at her desk or with colleagues or clients. Tears pricked at her eyelids. No family, no boyfriend, not even a best friend. Who would miss her?
He smiled at her, maybe at her acquiesce, maybe at his victory. “I heard you were smart.”
Her arms protested his rough handling as he yanked her to her feet. She couldn’t contain a small squeak.
He furrowed his brow and glared at her. “Shut the fuck up.” A rough shake as a reminder. Then he pulled her through the door, unmindful of her lack of coat and shoes, his hand gripping her waist, his fingers bruising her flesh. The dark night stroked her with a cool breeze, causing her skin to pimple, her nipples to harden. She stumbled over small sharp pebbles, but she swallowed the pain, didn’t want to anger these men further by crying out.
As they neared the car, the driver, Andre, used the key fob to unlock it and then opened the back door. Mira was shoved onto the seat and then forced over awkwardly as her tormentor slid in beside her and slammed the door. She flinched and shrank from him as he reached across her and put on her seatbelt. Then he covered her head with a sack, effectively blocking her vision. She sat there passively, breathing in the smell of canvas, hands clenched together in her lap, letting this happen to her, hating herself for not being stronger, for not fighting even a little. But conversely, she also credited herself for her mental strength, her presence of mind. For knowing there would be time to fight back, but now was not it. She willed herself not to cry.
As the car pulled away from the curb, she recalled the times she interviewed victims of crimes. What did they see? What did they hear? What did they smell? This helped her to focus, to concentrate on what was going on around her. Helped her to breathe, helped her not to scream. Stay in the moment. Quiet conversation between her captors. Nothing of value, just discussion of a future activity, what was to be after this. Lots of starts and stops. And then fewer as the trip progressed. Darker too, no more constant light leaking through the cover on her head, so they were out of the city. But flashes of light and car noise, smooth pavement, for a least an hour, maybe more. And then slowing down, turning, another road, not as well-paved, and she was jarred around. Then another left turn, a winding road, uphill she thought, and then a few more minutes. The car rolled to a stop and she heard the driver’s window roll down, the rush of cool air. A brief discussion with who? A guard. All seriousness, no lightness or humour. Then she sensed, heard maybe? Gates opening, the car rolling forward slowly. A minute, maybe two. Then it stopped, Andre putting it in park. The asshole beside her opened the car door and moved to get out, pulling her with him. The roughness of concrete under her bare feet, cool air brushing her underdressed bod. She shivered, wishing she could cross her arms. But she was sandwiched between them again as they lifted her by her arms and carried her up a set of stairs and inside.
Acknowledgements
I’m grateful to Jem Monday Publishing Inc. for taking me on and supporting me through the writing and publishing process.
A huge thanks to my good friend, Nikita Slater, author of not-for-the-faint-of-heart dark romance, for her support, advice and editing skills.
xxoo
Jasmin
About Jasmin
Jasmin Quinn is a writer in her heart and soul and loves reading and writing highly erotic romance novels with strong male and female characters. She writes intense and sexy romance with a hint of suspense, a splash of intrigue and a whole lot of Alpha male.
Jasmin tries not to take herself too seriously, but some things matter to her – like good manners, compassion for humans and animals alike, and Canadian maple syrup on vanilla ice cream. She generally disregards other people’s opinions of her unless they’re complimentary, in which case she fully embraces them.
When Jasmin isn't writing, she's a beta reader and editor for Jem Monday Publishing. She also likes to fuss with her website, lunch with her friends, indulge in retail therapy, and play the occasional computer game. She stays in shape by exercising her rights to her opinion.
Jasmin lives in beautiful British Columbia, Canada with her husband.
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Jasmin Quinn, Without Mercy
