The second man ushers Jarret and Lorne closer, jabbing their backs with the barrel of the gun. They shout behind the gags and trip over rocks. There must’ve been a scuffle on the ridge, because neither are wearing their hats.
“Hurry.” Conor scoots toward the tree, attempting to put slack on the rope.
The wheezing sounds of her breaths reinforce my number one priority. I’m nothing if not her protector.
“Don’t come any closer.” I tear at the knot, unable to loosen it. I made it too damn tight, and my sweaty hands keep slipping. “Just tell me what you want.”
A boot rams into my side, shooting pain through my ribs and knocking me onto my back.
Whispers: Interactive StoriesMake your own choices and decide what happens next!
“Help! Somebody, help!” She screams at the top of her lungs and fights the rope, causing the shirt to fall and expose her nudity.
Motherfuckers are going to pay for that. Rage crashes through me as I roll back and grab her hips, desperate to cover her.
The masked man towers over me. “Sorry about the headache.”
I glance up. “What—?”
He slams the stock of the shotgun into my skull.
Pain captures me in its fist and rattles my teeth.
I lose my hold on Conor.
Blackness crashes in and sinks me into the ground.
I lose my hold on everything.
Awareness oozes through my head, muddy and nauseating. Pain throbs behind my eyes and prickles down my spine. Rope shackles my hands behind my back, and scratchy cloth fills my mouth. This isn’t happening. It’s not real.
But the sucking panic in my throat already knows what my mind rejects.
I lost consciousness.
We’re in danger.
Can’t scream.
Or fight.
Or run.
This is bad.
Reality barrels into me like a bucking bull. Men in ski masks. Shotguns. Gags and rope. Conor…
I pry my face from the dirt and register the bits of gravel embedded in my chest. I’ve been moved to the other side of the ravine, dragged here on my stomach. Beside me, Jarret and Lorne are bound and gagged with their backs against trees.
The fury in Lorne’s eyes makes me cringe. I’ve never seen him look like that. Jarret wears his distress so blatantly it soaks his face in tears. My brother hasn’t cried since we were kids, and the shock of it speeds up my heart.
How long was I knocked out? Where the hell is Conor?
“Hurry up,” a gravelly voice drawls behind me. “I want another go at her ass before we do her.”
My stomach solidifies with ice-cold dread. I twist my neck and come face to face with a scene so sickening I struggle to come to terms with it.
Two joined bodies. Hers, without clothes. His, still dressed except for the swath of skin between his shirt and waistband. His pants are lowered just enough to expose the part of him that repeatedly stabs into her from behind.
Everything inside me thrashes and howls.
Blood stains her thighs. Puffy welts mark her skin. His hand clamps over the cloth in her mouth, and her hands… The knotted rope still imprisons her to the tree.
I did that. I took away her ability to escape.
Her eyes stare at nothing, rimmed red and dripping tears. Face down on the twisted blanket, her limp body jerks like dead flesh beneath the hammering thrusts.
Thrust.
Thrust.
Thrust.
No sound. No fight. She’s either too exhausted or too broken. They’ve been hurting her for a while.
Violent tremors attack my muscles. Anguish spills from open veins. I bleed helplessness and drown in horror.
Seconds pass before I come up for air, heaving rabid breaths. I push my tongue against the gag and roar, “Get off her. Don’t touch her. Leave her alone.”
They can’t hear my words, but they can fucking see me. I kick and flail, wrenching my arms and tearing my skin against the rope.
He said he’s going to do her after he rapes her again. Does he intend to kill her?
I fight harder, blood pumping, boots scraping dirt, twisting and heaving and going nowhere.
“Calm your ass down.” The voice barks from a mouthless mask. The man who wants another turn with her.
He prowls toward her with a knife in hand. Crouching beside her, he grabs the hair on the back of her head and yanks her neck at an awkward angle to hold the blade at her throat.
She closes her eyes, and the sick fuck on top of her continues to rut.
“I can kill her slow and painful like.” The man with the knife glares from the hole in the mask. “Or I can do it fast and efficient. The how is up to you.”
“Why?” My question garbles against the gag.
Why would he kill her? She’s just a girl. Never hurt anyone. She won’t even squash a spider. We haven’t seen their faces. Can’t identify them. Goddammit, I need my voice. I need them to hear me.
That’s not an option, so I force myself to settle, relaxing my muscles one by one. I need to think. I need time. How can I stop this?