Fuck. No.
Cream walls and abstract art scream at me as we make our way down an endless hall. My heartbeat pounds in my ears, and every step feels slightly delayed. I tell my legs to stop. They don’t. The air smells faintly of cologne and polished wood and perhaps sweetness from the fruit and champagne that still coats the back of my throat.
A door opens.
The bedroom is expansive, with a perfectly made bed in the center. Soft amber light from a lamp pours over the room.
No.
No, no, fucking no.
Henrik steers me inside. The door closes behind us with a quiet click that feels louder than if he had slammed it. I try to wrench my arm free, but my muscles answer as if they’re moving in a nightmare. Just fucking useless.
He carefully eases me down onto the edge of the bed, my body refusing to fight back, even if my mind is screaming.
“I didn’t agree to this,” I manage, the words barely sounding coherent.
Henrik lowers himself so we’re eye level. His blue eyes are almost luminous up close, studying my face. “You don’t need to,” he says.
My pulse spikes, hard enough that I feel it in my throat. I push upward, intent on standing, but the room tilts more violently this time. The floor slides sideways. My balance disappears entirely, and I fall back onto the cool sheets of the mattress. The ceiling swims, lights stretching into blurred halos.
Fuck. I can’t…
Henrik’s hand moves to my shoulder, pressing me down. “Shh.”
And then it hits.
Not darkness or oblivion, but somethingworse.
My body goes heavy, as if gravity has doubled. My fingers won’t curl properly. My legs won’t respond. Panic surges through my mind, but it’s trapped behind flesh that refuses to obey.
I can feel everything.
That’s the horror of it.
Henrik stands, unbuttoning his jacket, draping it neatly over a chair as though this is nothing but a casual experience for him. My breathing turns shallow. From beyond the door, through the wall, I hear the TV.
“Does he fight?” Henrik calls, not raising his voice.
There’s a brief pause. I can picture Alexei considering. “Not with what we gave him,” he answers smoothly. “It’s what I give my women.”
My soul withers.
He settles his weight on top of me, his blonde hair falling across sharp cheekbones. His blue eyes are dark now, and he's not smiling anymore. “Look at you. Can’t even stand up.” Hisvoice is a Scandinavian rasp that cuts through the fog in my head.
“I didn’t—” I gasp as his knee pushes between my thighs, forcing my legs apart. The denim of his jeans is rough against my inner leg. “Get off. Get the—the fuck off me.”
He ignores me, one hand leaving my wrist to fumble with my belt. My body freezes in absolute terror.
“No, stop.” My voice is slurred, thick with drugs and panic. I try to lift my arm. It trembles violently, then falls uselessly against the mattress. A strong hand pins my wrists above my head, fingers digging into the tendons.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs, brushing his fingers along my jaw, tilting my face from side to side as if assessing symmetry. Before I can try to protest again, his mouth crashes down on mine. His lips are hard and demanding. His tongue forces its way past my teeth, chasing the lingering taste of champagne. A low, helpless moan vibrates in my chest. I turn my head to the side, breaking the contact. “Stop,” I gasp, the words muffled against his cheek. “I’ll fucking kill you.”
He catches my jaw in another firm grip, turning my face back to his. His eyes lock onto mine. “You don’t tell me what to do.” He ignores my muffled protest, kissing me until I’m breathless. His hand explores, and I let it happen. I let it fucking happen.
Another person taking from me.
My heart slams against my ribs, but my body lies still beneath him. Fragments splinter into disjointed flashes. The scent of his cologne, and my own voice, trying to form protest that dissolves into breath. At some point, I realize I’m crying. The tears slip sideways into my hair, disappearing into the pillow without sound.