by Shandi Boyes
Since the road is in the process of being redone, the sides are high and full of loose dirt. I’m bogged in an instant and seconds from burying Rory in a shallow grave instead of feeding him to the pigs as per Nero’s suggestion.
After numerous failed attempts to free my back tires from the slop, I stray my eyes to the pigsty on the horizon. It’s drizzling, but Rory is as weightless as he was pathetic, so I’ll have no trouble carrying him to his final resting place before asking Jim to tow me out of the slosh.
“You can wait here, K. I’ll only be a few minutes…” My words trail off when she cranks open her door and slips out of the passenger seat at the same time I notch up the trunk’s latch to release its lock.
Like a psychopath with a fondness for blood and gore, my cock hardens to the point its painful when the removal of Rory’s naked-ass from my trunk is quickly chased by K’s foot landing in his stomach.
I can’t understand a word she snarls at him when she lays her boot into him for a second and third time, but I’m as confident as fuck she deserves the title of Duchess.
As Nikolai said all those years ago, not all princes wear crowns.
The same can be said for princesses.
“You good?” I ask her when the lack of nutrients in her stomach has her grappling for air four kicks later. “He’s already dead, but I’ve got no issues with you tendering him up for the pigs. They’ll chew straight through his bones either way. Kinda like someone tried to do to his cock.” In my earlier rage, I failed to notice Rory’s dick is all chewed up. It looks like someone tried to bite it off. Serves the fucker right. If you don’t want your dick gnawed off by an angry woman, don’t force it between her lips. “Pity they didn’t bite straight through. Might have taught him some manners.”
K’s eyes flash my way. They’re brimming with the strength I saw in them when our eyes locked and held. The resurrection of her will to live has me holding back on my plan to toss Rory over my shoulder. If K wants to help send the man who attempted to assault her to hell, I’m more than happy to allow her to do that.
Redemption comes in many forms.
“Just a little bit further,” I assure K when her pants grow rampant. I transferred a majority of Rory’s weight onto my half of our duo before commencing our sloshy trek across a muddy field, but K’s help is still noticeable, especially since she has a cut-up hand. She’s holding Rory’s legs, which are at an odd angle since I had to bend him up to fit him in my trunk. “I can take it from here if you want to head back.”
The sprinkling of rain does little to cool the heat that roars through my body when K grunts out her disapproval. She’s come this far, and nothing is going to stop her from reaching her goal.
“Alright. Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Duchess. I was just checking.” My smirk grows when her eyes shoot to mine during the middle of my reply. It isn’t her nickname gaining me her attention, it’s the way my voiced dipped when I said knickers. It was as British as it could be, and it doubles the tension teeming between us. I doubt any of the men who tortured her under Vladimir’s watch called her panties knickers. That’s the reason I used it. To remind her she’s no longer under Vladimir’s watch.
She is sheltered by mine.
“Ready?” I ask K after ripping Rory’s body through a gate too narrow for his wide shoulders.
When K nods, we toss Rory into the pigsty like kids throw their mates into a swimming pool. Mud kicks up when he hits the sloshy ground with a thump. It dots my clothes with smelly pig shit and God knows what since Nikolai’s crew has dumped multiple bodies here the past two years.
K is nowhere near as lucky. She gets it in her eyes and her face, and it has her stomach protesting to the smell with violent churns.
“Shit, come here.” I drag her until she’s standing under the drain spout running across the pigsty’s roof, wordlessly warning her body it better not bring up a smidge of bread rolls in her stomach. I’ll be pissed as fuck if Rory causes her more harm.
The flood of water teeming down her face clears away the mess in an instant. It also drenches her shirt to a point I can’t ignore. She’s not wearing a bra, and her rosy pink nipples are budded and staring up at me, begging to be touched.
I’m not a good man. I’ve told you this before, and it’s proven without a doubt when I track the back of my fingers down one of K’s hardened peaks without seeking permission. When her rosy bud stiffens more from my meekest touch, my cock knocks at the zipper in my jeans. We’re standing next to a pigpen, the smell is fucking atrocious, yet I’m two seconds from whipping out my cock and plunging it into K’s fragrant-smelling cunt no amount of manure and blood can take away from.
I wouldn’t hesitate if K’s head wasn’t angled to the side, and her eyes were blank and unblinking. She’s still here, with me, but only just.
“Look at me, K.” When she fails to jump to my command, I get snappy. “Look at me, Duchess!”
I don’t know whether it’s my clipped tone that awards me the attention of her eyes or the grip I have on her face. Whatever it is, her stare is my undoing.
I want her now more than ever.
“I want to fuck you, Duchess. I want to fuck you so bad it hurts.” I step closer to her until she can feel how thick I am beneath my jeans. Even with my cock’s length being held back by an industrial-tough zipper, there’s no denying my girth. “But since I won’t touch you again until you say so, I’m not going to fuck you.” You have no idea how hard it is to articulate my next sentence when my fucked-up head has me believing the flare darting through her eyes is disappointment. “Instead, I’m going to kiss you. Alright, Duchess? Just a kiss. I’ll stop at that. I swear to you, I will.”
She shouldn’t believe me. Hell, I don’t even believe me, but for some ludicrous reason, she does. With her eyes locked on mine and her nostrils flaring, she faintly bobs her chin, permitting me to kiss her.
“I can’t be gentle, K. I don’t know how to be gentle.” Even though I’m trying to talk her out of it, my fingers weave through her hair that’s in bad need of a brush before I steer my mouth toward hers. “But I can try and be gentle for you. I’ll treat you like a real motherfucking princess if that’s what you want.” I brush my lips against her, uncaring if her teeth haven’t been brushed for as long as her hair. That’s how fucking bad I want her. “Open up for me, Duchess. Show me you want this, too.”
Any worries about unhygienic conditions fly out the window when she pops open her mouth at my request. She consumed almost two bread rolls on her way here, however, nothing but minty freshness awakens my senses when I suck in her hearty exhales, hoping the coolness of her breaths will lower my unhealthy body temperature. The seductive scent of her mouth has me so eager to join our lips, I drag my tongue along the roof of her mouth long before I taste the sweetness of her lips.
“Fuck me, Duchess. From the moment I saw you, I knew you’d destroy me.”
She doesn’t get the chance to respond. I’m on her in an instant. With one hand in her hair, and other on her waist, I pin her to the side wall of the pigsty with my crotch before kissing the living hell out of her.
For how shy she is, I figured her lips would remain as still as her mouth when she refuses to talk. I’m pleased as fuck to announce that isn’t close to the truth. Not only does she kiss me back, she leads our embrace like only one woman in my life has previously. She’s bruised, cut up, and marks cover almost every inch of her, but she kisses like she can’t see the chaos surrounding her. Like she’s perfectly stable. Beautiful and without scars.
The knowledge of her strength has me fighting for the top spot. I bite her lip harder than necessary, needing her whimpers to cool the fire roaring in my gut. If I don’t simper the temptation burning me alive, I’ll fuck her where she stands, heartless to the fact she’s already been used and abused multiple times in her pathetically short life. Then I’ll fuck her again just to ensure she knows she’ll never be touched by another man who isn’t me.
> After dragging my beard-covered chin across her cheek, I press my lips to her ear. “Do you know what this means, Duchess? Do you have any clue what you’ve just given me?” I relish the pounding of her pulse in her ears for several long seconds before growling out, “This makes you mine.”
When her heart thumps faster during my confession, the darkness inside me roars. My hand is under the shirt she’s wearing as a dress in an instant, her scent causing my undoing. Her cunt smells delicious, and it has me completely forgetting my earlier pledge that I won’t touch her until she asks me. I need the wetness of her arousal coating my fingers more urgently than my lungs require their next breath.
An urge to piss on Vladimir’s ashes overwhelms me when I notch half an index finger inside of K. Her body isn’t the only thing messed up. Her insides are just as messy. Vladimir and his men fucked her over so good, no amount of tenderness will reverse their damage.
The thought of what the sick fucks put her through should have me immediately backing away. It’s a pity for K I’ve always had a fascination for the broken ones. They’re the fighters. The battlers. The women worthy of a crown. They trudged through the ashes of hell for their non-jeweled crown, so they deserve to wear it without the slightest slant.
She just needs someone stronger than them, rougher and unhinged. She needs someone tough enough to ensure her she’ll never be hurt again.
And that someone is me.
“Open up for me, Duchess. Let me in, and I promise I’ll make you feel good.” The violence roaring through me shifts to nurturing when the tight clench of her vaginal walls around my finger loosen at my request. I don’t deserve her trust, but I sure as fuck am pleased to have it.
K’s head bows forward to rest on my chest when my thumb finds her clit. It’s not marked like the rest of her. It’s perfectly soft and responsive to touch. None of the men she was forced to endure would have touched her here as their exchanges were never about K’s pleasure. It was always about them.
For how young she looks and the extent of her bruises and scars, I don’t feel comfortable saying she wasn’t a virgin when she became a captive. She could have very well never experienced pleasure. The thought has me paying extra attention to her clit and clenching cunt.
The weakest moan fans my chest like a feather dusting my skin when I circle the tiny nub protruding as much as the sharp cut of K’s hips. It causes precum to drip into the crotch of my jeans and allows me to notch the second half of my index finger inside of her.
When K clamps around my finger, uneased by the unexpected arrival of a shuddering moan vibrating through her chest, I drop my eyes to her face buried between my pecs. The rain sizzling on my red-hot skin makes my shirt appear to be painted on, leaving no place for K to hide—thank fuck. I need to know she’s with me, not in the darkness she generally hides in during sexual escapades.
“Stay with me, Duchess,” I demand, lifting her head to mine with my spare hand. Her eyes are glazed over and brimming with tears, but they’re not black and lifeless. “You’re not allowed to pass out until you’ve seen the fireworks.”
Her innocence is undeniable when she raises her eyes to the cloud-filled sky, unaware my comment was figurative. They beat her, raped her, and fucked with her head, but there’s one thing they never took away from her, and that was her purity. Anything you’re forced to do against your will doesn’t count.
I learned that three years ago.
K will learn it today.
After clearing my throat of a pride I haven’t felt in years, I say, “Are you ready to be swept away, Duchess? Are you ready to be free?”
Although I’m asking her questions, I don’t wait for her to answer me. I simply swipe at her clit firm enough to buckle her knees out from underneath her and for the barrier keeping her tears at bay to break.
As she silently shudders through a climax sparking her eyes with life, tears topple down her cheeks. Every salty drop that falls down her face has me wanting to go on a rampage. The only reason I don’t is because they also shed away the pained expression I thought her face would never quit wearing.
She is no longer a captive.
She is now just a broken woman.
Broken can be fixed. More times than not, the jagged pieces end up even more beautiful. A kaleidoscope is a cylinder full of broken pieces, yet everyone still stares at it in awe.
Who’s to say the same can’t be said for women?
Fourteen
Trey
“Let them be,” Jim chokes out in a rough, grunted tone. “They’re women, so let them be women.”
Even with Jim giving K permission to leave the kitchen after helping Arabella clear away the dishes of our shared meal, her eyes still stray to mine to seek consent.
As quickly as K shattered around me, the heavens opened up. We were drenched in an instant, meaning there was nothing but my wide frame to hide K’s flushed face when Jim arrived out of nowhere to check on his pigs.
He’s practically blind, but that didn’t lessen my urge to maintain K’s dignity. I don’t want anyone to see her in a vulnerable state, and no, my annoyance had nothing to do with the fact my hand was still inside her panties when Jim interrupted us.
K shattered an hour ago—in more ways than one. The way she opened up to me made her even more beautiful. She’s fragile but so fucking strong. Her strength ensures it isn’t just her looks I’m attracted to. I also admire her grit. She has been beaten and exploited, yet her shoulders don’t hold the weight of her abuse. Her heart does.
She thinks she deserved what happened to her.
I’m determined to prove otherwise.
My first thought when Jim interrupted us was to gather K in my arms and trek straight back to the safety of my car, but something altered the direction of my course. K needed a few minutes to catch her breath as much as I needed time to work out my next move. Jim’s ramshackle ranch wasn’t the best place for that to occur, but with my car bogged and Jim’s truck slipping and sliding on the graveled portion of his road, I didn’t have much choice.
The past hour has been good for K. After I sampled a small portion of the pork cutlets, mashed potatoes, gravy, and beans Arabella served her for lunch, she gobbled down her food like it wasn’t the blandest meal I’d ever tasted.
Arabella’s cooking skills have improved somewhat the past two years, but it still has a lot left to be desired. The potatoes were lumpy, the beans were undercooked, and the pork tasted more of the fat she cooked them in than their homegrown freshness.
K didn’t seem to mind, though. She ate and ate and ate until the tiniest curve propped out of the shirt clinging to her body since I refuse for her to get changed. With how timid she’s been since climaxing, I can’t let her out of my sight for even a second, which is why I shake my head, refusing Arabella’s request to take K to get changed.
I’m not being an asshole. I’m reading the silent pleas in K’s eyes. She likes Arabella and appreciates the meal she supplied her with, but she doesn’t want to be alone with her. She feels safe with me. Regretfully.
I can’t control myself around her. My instincts go to shit the instant our eyes lock, overcome with a sudden urge to make her mine. I want to protect and shelter a woman who’s already been hurt, even knowing my possessiveness could damage her even more than she already is.
You can’t incinerate brokenness without first setting it ablaze. It isn’t possible. But can I do that to K? Can I break her with the hope of piecing her back together? Or should I leave her alone to live in the bleakness she thinks is life?
My fingers tighten around the napkin in my lap when the truth smacks into me.
I don’t want to break K.
I want K to break me because as my dad always said, two broken people trying to heal each other is what love is all about.
The chaos stirring in my gut doubles when Arabella spots my head shake. After splaying her hands across her meaty hips, she squawks out my name in an ear-piercing tone. “T
rey—”
“No, Arabella,” I cut her off, growling, pissed at both her disobedience and the inane thoughts in my head. I’ve barely known K for thirty hours, so why the fuck am I acting as if I can’t live without her? “If you’re so desperate for K to get changed, you can bring the clothes to her.”
I realize Jim has Arabella on a leash far too long when she huffs out, “Fine.”
She makes a beeline for a bedroom attached to the eat-in kitchen. With how messy her room is, I’m shocked by how quickly she returns. She didn’t just gather up a dress either. She has an assortment of accessories, including shoes, which K appears excited about. Her expression scarcely altered, but I saw a flare of excitement dart through her eyes before she could shut it down.
It was the same gleam her eyes got before she came.
My eyes rocket to Jim when Arabella snappily requests for K to remove her damp shirt. The heat of my gaze must be hot because he pivots on his heels not even a second later.
“I’ll be in the den if anyone needs me.”
He’s barely burst through the swinging wooden door when Arabella yanks K out of her seat with enough aggression for my jaw to tick. She may be accustomed to my brothers’ rough handling her, but that doesn’t give her the right to treat K like a whore. Anything she was forced to do under Vladimir’s watch wasn’t her choice, so I won’t have her treated as if it was.
“Move.” When Arabella attempts to ignore my directive for the second time, my hand instinctively rises into the air. The only reason it stays suspended mid-swing is because of the width of K’s pupils. The thought of me striking Arabella for being disobedient angers her more than the idea of her being hit.
She’s once again placing herself last.
That pisses me the fuck off and has my objectives changing in an instant.
After lowering my hand back to my side, I say more respectfully, “Please move.”
I work my jaw side to side when Arabella’s lips slant downward. She’s one of the whores who likes being smacked around, so she would have happily accepted my wrath, even if it hurt K in the process.
