Chapter 116 - ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTEEN

Chapter 116: Chapter ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTEEN

ANGEL

Celine left and the men came in without warning. Three of them. Big and ugly, they approached my bed while I struggled against the ropes, alarms flaring through me. They worked and I felt the binds around my wrists loosened. For half a heartbeat, hope surged — hot and stupid but it was immediately crushed when six hands grabbed me at once.

"Don’t touch me!" The scream ripped from my mouth, raw and furious. I thrashed. Kicked. My legs flailing against nothing because they had me lifted off the ground. They were three grown men carrying one girl through a doorway while she screamed herself hoarse.

"Where are you taking me?!"

"Oh, you’ll see, dear daughter," Jillian laughed from behind us. I twisted in their grip, unwilling to give up. Somehow, I managed to wrench one arm loose. My nails raked across a face — I felt skin tear under my fingers, heard the satisfying hiss of pain — and for one wild second I was half-free, scrambling for anything.

CLICK

"Stop moving, bitch! I’ll blow your fucking brains!" The click of a gun stopped my blood.

The scarred man pressed the nozzle against my lips. Cold. "You went quiet real quick," He chuckled, his breath making my stomach roil. It smelled like stale cigarettes and something rotting.

I couldn’t speak with the metal pushing against my mouth like a sick parody of a kiss. I could taste it. Iron and gun oil and the promise of death.

I liked it when Daddy put his gun in my mouth—it made my core throb and my skin flush. But this? This made me want to vomit straight onto his boots.

My eyes snapped over to Jillian.

She just stood there, watching my indignity with those unhinged, dead eyes.

"Just because I plan to torture you slow doesn’t mean I can’t change my mind and let them put a bullet in your head right now," Jillian smiled maliciously. "And I’ll happily let them fuck your corpse afterward. I’m sure you won’t be able to talk back to me then. Be a good little girl, Angel. These men work at a morgue—I can assure you they actually prefer corpses."

The two goons let out sickening chuckles. My stomach retched again, hot bile burning the back of my throat, but I forced myself to swallow it down.

"Oh, we definitely want her alive, but hey, either way works for us," the scarred one grunted.

Without warning, his dirty hand slid beneath my top, grabbing my bare breast and squeezing. The bastard was handling me like he was testing fruit at a street market—digging his thick, calloused fingers into my skin.

I compressed my lips tight to suppress a shriek of pain. One wrong move and I’d end up the corpse they were joking about.

"Such a sweet, plump pair of titties," he growled, his mouth pressing so close to my ear I could feel the wet heat of his breath. "I bet they’ll look even better cold, clamped around my dick."

I felt another hand. Another man. Both of them pawing at me through my clothes, their fingers rough and probing, squeezing and pulling like I was something they’d bought and were inspecting for quality.

I was not going to cry. I was not going to break. Not for Jillian. She wanted my tears. She could fucking starve.

A hand cracked against my ass. Hard enough that the sound echoed.

"Stop it!" I gritted through my teeth.

"Aw," Jillian cooed, thoroughly enjoying my abuse "Are you about to cry? I haven’t even started with you." Her face hardened. "Bring her!" she barked at the men.

They dragged me and I realized how huge the house was. It was a fucking mansion. Hallways branching into more hallways. Doors that led to more doors.

The room they threw me into was dim. It looked like a stage with the open floor, high ceilings, and darkness pooling in every corner. I was hurled into the center of it, my knees hitting the ground roughly.

I could barely focus on the pain when a spotlight blazed to life directly above me. It formed a perfect circle around my body. White. Harsh. Exposing every inch of me while the rest of the room drowned in black.

Why did that bitch build a stage? What performance was she planning? My expression was defiant, but dread clawed my chest, my breath coming in harsh pants.

I could see the three men at the dark portion of the stage, their guns pointed at me, still on my knees in the center of the stage. Their posture was all stern now, only murder remained in their eyes. The grins were gone and I knew without a doubt that one word from Jillian and my body would be decorated with bullets.

"Ensure to be on high alert. Nothing can go wrong!" Jillian instructed.

"Are you sure you need to bring them here?" Dr. Moreau’s voice. I whirled around to see her standing next to Jillian, a pinch of worry on her brows. "With your ex-husband here, what if something goes wrong?"

Jillian smirked, "Oh, trust me. I’m certain. That bastard is the only one about to get hurt. I’ll break him just like he did me."

"But what if it fails?" Dr. Moreau was pushing now, her voice tighter. "We have enough men with weapons, but still..."

"Don’t worry, love. I need to do this. For me. I can’t survive it if that bastard walks around freely after what he did to me."

I watched in a mix of apprehension and disgust as Jillian leaned to kiss Dr. Moreau tenderly on her lips.

"Fine then, I’ll be watching upstairs. In case you need backup. Be careful, love." Dr. Moreau’s heels clicked across the floor and a door opened and closed.

Jillian turned back toward me. I couldn’t see her face clearly past the spotlight, but I could feel her smile.

"Let the horror begin."

I heard it.

A sound that reached me, another door opened. Then, I heard footsteps. Two sets.