Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80471 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80471 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
This was the risk, wasn’t it?
When you were a woman in a violent, male-dominated field.
When you went out alone at night.
When you dared to have a drink at a bar.
When you trusted the wrong man.
When you were a woman… period.
That these devils in men’s clothing would grab you, hold you down, violate you.
I’d known the risks.
I’d taken my chances.
But knowing of a potential threat, and being held down on a filthy floor by three men who wanted to gang-rape you before finally killing you? It was a whole different thing.
It lit the flame of fury inside me.
Making me think past the pain, past the hopelessness.
My reflexes were quick this time as his fist flew out, turning my head at the exact right second, making it impossible to pull his punch, and sending his fist right into the cement instead of my face.
The roar that escaped him as he reeled back only fed the fire inside of me, giving me the strength to curl my lower half toward one side, striking out with the heel of my foot toward the face of one of the men holding me down, sending him crashing onto his ass.
“The fuck are you doing?” the ringleader growled, clutching his hand to his chest as the second guy struggled to hold me on his own.
They were all bigger than me, stronger, too, even if it hurt my pride to admit it, but I had the animal instinct to survive inside of me.
It allowed me to take another hit to the face without slowing me down as my own fist shot out, missing its mark of the jaw, but colliding instead with a much more tender target.
His throat.
Leaving him choking and gasping as I scrambled up onto all fours, then started to stand.
Only to have my ankles grabbed back hard, pulling them out from under me, leaving me barely enough time to throw out my hands, feeling a screaming pain shoot across my wrist and up my arm as I caught myself.
It was okay.
It was my left hand.
I could still fight.
The man I’d struck in the throat was still struggling to breathe, sitting on his ass several feet away, both hands clutching his neck, his eyes wide with panic as he couldn’t draw in a proper breath.
But there were two hands landing blows.
And, worse yet, a set of boot-clad feet.
Hitting my hip, my stomach, the side of my face.
All there was for what felt like hours, weeks, years, was pain and blood.
I fell, then crawled, clawing my way away from them each time.
The taste of blood filled my mouth as I was suddenly grabbed and whipped onto my back, my head cracking against the ground with enough force to knock my teeth together, to make my vision flash black.
“I want her first,” one of the henchmen said as he crawled toward me, his hand going to his fly.
He struggled with his zipper, giving me just the slightest opening.
“Watch—“ the ringleader tried to warn him.
But it was too late.
I yanked my leg in, then kicked out with everything in me, my foot colliding with his crotch, the pain, I had to imagine, only amplified by his sick, hard desire. He fell backward, both hands clutching his dick as he howled and hissed.
I couldn’t savor the victory as I whipped myself back over onto all fours to push myself up, needing the help of the ground with my weakened ribs, with my muscles and tendons that were starting to feel like they were more ornamental than functional at that point.
“Oh, you don’t get away that easy,” the leader said, his knees coming down on the backs of my thighs, slamming me down onto my face.
And this time, my vision didn’t just flicker.
It went out.
I woke up with my heartbeat hammering, like a hypnic jerk sending adrenaline shooting through me, some baser part of me screaming at my body to survive.
I felt the hands on me then, fingers hooked inside the waistband of my pants and panties, nails digging into skin as he struggled with the tight, uncooperative material of my leather pants.
How long was I out?
Five seconds?
Ten?
The wet, gasping sounds to the side of me said the guy I’d punched in the throat was still struggling. And the low, tortured moans suggested the other was still cradling his dick and balls.
It was just me and the man responsible for all the pain gripping my system.
“Fuck,” he growled, grabbing harder, and yanking hard, the material scratching over my skin.
My gaze scanned around, looking for the closest exit, hoping for one last Hail Mary run for freedom.
Instead, I saw something shining and sharp.
The neck of a glass beer bottle.
Severed and jagged.
Just out of reach, though.
Trying to suck in a breath, I acted like I was trying to wiggle away, a pathetic, girlish fight that had him chuckling and smacking my ass hard.