Chapter 242 244

Chapter 242 244
I shove down the nausea to lean into him, and his approval rumbles through his chest as he starts to kiss the curve of my shoulder. “Can I ask you something?”

His eyes slowly lift to meet mine. At first, I’m terrified that I pushed too far. But then he tilts his head and gives me a little nod. “Of course.”

“What happened to you?”

The silence that suddenly fills the room is heavy. So, so heavy and filled with unspoken secrets I probably have no right digging into.

But if I’m going to be sold again—hell, if I’m going to become his personal slave—I think, maybe, I do actually have the right to know what happened to the man I once called “Uncle Raizo.”

He slowly pushes me off his lap.

His touch is no longer sensual or seductive. Instead, it’s enough to let me go and guide me away from his reach as he stares at the top of his desk.

And then he looks up at me.

And for the first time, I see his eyes grow bloodshot.

“Sometimes,” he croaks, “when someone dies, we die along with them.”

He doesn’t have to say anything more. I don’t need an explanation; I only need the memory of him and my mother. And the memory of him at her gravesite, with white roses in one hand and the other balled into a fist as he glared at my father.

He loved my mother.

And her loss broke him.

Raizo clears his throat and blinks away the unshed tears like they never should have existed to begin with. “I can’t help you,” he says, “other than to keep you here with me.”

“With respect, Uncle Raizo…” I know it’s a huge gamble, but I’ve got no other option. “I wouldn’t feel right about that.”

He stares at the wall. Then looks at me and nods.

I don’t know what he snaps in Japanese to his men. He stops them for a second before they pull me away by my arms, gives them another order, then dismisses us with a wave of his hand.

I’m dragged outside and reunited with Martin, who only glares at me with hatred in his eyes as we’re both pushed and prodded toward the shipping containers that fill the depot. We pass several containers with doors open wide enough to see women standing inside; we hear some of them sobbing and crying out to us for help.

One such container is still being loaded. And next to it, a couple of men toss a few bags into an empty one and wave for us to go through.

Martin’s shoved inside first. I’m not handled as roughly, but they make sure I get in without putting up a fight.

“Wait here,” one of Raizo’s men says. “We will come get you when it’s time.”

He shuts the door.

I should have fucking known.

48

CLARA

It’s too bad total darkness doesn’t guarantee total silence.

Martin always has been a heavy breather.

“You…” he snarls. “You fucking bitch.”

I roll my eyes. He can’t see me do it. “Find a new vocabulary, Marty. You’re starting to repeat yourself.”

“Shut the fuck up!”

I do. But only because I don’t have much to say. Not to him, anyway. I carefully move away from the sound of his voice and over to where I’m pretty sure those men left a pair of duffel bags for us.

Bingo. My foot connects with something lumpy and soft, so I crouch down and feel around for the zipper. I don’t know what all was put in here and I sure as shit don’t trust anyone, so I slowly and carefully fish around in the dark until I feel what might… maybe… be a lantern?

It is. It’s a battery-operated lantern. I feel for the switch and turn it on, just in time to see Martin huddled over and sulking in the far corner.

Fine. Whatever. I set the lantern down and use the light to poke through the rest of the supplies. There’s a few granola bars and a crowbar, for some reason. The second bag holds several bottles of water and a few more of the same snacks.

“Did you put up a fight for him, too? Or did you just lie back and spread your legs like a fucking slut?”

I sigh. Now, when I roll my eyes again, I make sure he sees it. “Move on. Get over it. I left you, I dumped you—whatever you want to call it, I was gone. So yes, I happened to find a man I actually enjoy sharing a bed with. Not that it’s any of your business.”

I have no idea where any of this newfound courage is coming from. Old Clara would never speak to Martin this way.

But, to be fair, I think Old Clara died in Oleg’s house.

“The fuck did you just say to me?”

I sigh again and slowly stand. Might as well get it all out in the open. “Here’s the thing, Marty. Aside from being a manipulative, abusive bastard, you’re not all that great in bed. Even outside the bedroom, your lips are always weirdly wet and your clammy hands feel just wrong.”

“You little⁠—”

“Actually, no, you’re the little one. Thank God, right? I mean, you’re also a rapist and a predator and some would even go so far as to call you a pedophile for grooming a minor… but at least you have a tiny dick. Makes the trauma a bit easier to endure.”

I am on a roll. And I don’t fucking care.

Maybe that’s what this is—I’ve simply stopped caring what Martin Patterson thinks, what he feels, or about what he might do. We’re locked inside a shipping container, for fuck’s sake. Stripped down without his badge or his uniform—because the Yakuza took that off him while they were waiting for me—he’s just a pathetically insignificant man who wishes he could be something he’s not.

I leave the insults where they lay and return to rummaging through the pockets of the first duffel bag.

I don’t see his knee scything toward my face until it’s too late.

My head snaps back. Pain blooms in my nose, which instantly starts gushing blood. I think he broke it. I wouldn’t be surprised.

The backhand comes next. Then the kick to my ribs, which I barely manage to block with my shoulder by curling up and hunching over.

But then he swings his leg and aims for my stomach.

And when he does that, something inside me goes feral.

I move like there’s someone else piloting my limbs. I don’t even realize what I’m doing until it’s too late to stop it. But even then, I wouldn’t stop.

Because the sickening crack of the crowbar connecting with his skull is music to my ears.

I thrust a solid kick against his chest to give myself some space to stand up. Before he has a chance to lunge at me again, I swing the crowbar again and land a blow against his ribs. More shit goes pop.

Martin cries out. “You bitch!”

“You’re damn right I’m a bitch! I’m fucking pregnant, you asshole!”

I swing again. And again. Every blow lands.

“I’m pregnant! And you’re right—I loved spreading my legs for Demyen, because you know what? He’s a real man!”