Chapter 32

Tori Townsend

My head pounds when I come back to consciousness. It thuds at the same beat as my heart, right in the center of my temples. Being drugged twice in less than twenty-four hours will do that, and it definitely can't be good for my health.

A bright light shines against my closed eyelids, and my eyes begin to water because of it, enough so that the tears are seeping through. The salty droplets slide down my cheekbones and gather in the hollow of my ears because whatever I'm lying on has me on my back.

I move to wipe the next tear away, only to find that my hand – both of them – are tied down. My eyes fly open, and I immediately move to sit up, but my middle is strapped to a slightly padded exam table.

My breathing picks up a pace, and I peer down the old dress I'm wearing – a dress similar to the woman I hit – and down further to my bare legs that are strapped far apart from one another in stirrups.

Breath captures in my lungs when I come to the realization that he dressed me. While I was out, he stripped me bare and dressed me…

I start to hyperventilate, exposed and vulnerable to this cold room. The chill wraps around my bare sex left open for view to whoever walks into the room.

The room is definitely part of the basement as it has the same walls and the same musty smell. To the left is a metal, rusted cabinet that you'd see in a medical clinic, and to the right is a metal tray on wheels. From the angle I'm at, I can't see what's on the tray, but whatever is there has fear creeping down my spine in cold and thin tendrils.

There are no windows here, nothing to tell how much time has passed since I was knocked out. It could have been a full day for all I know, and somehow, that leaves me with a guttural pit in the bottom of my stomach. If I was going to be saved, I would have been by now. It's not like those who'd save me would have far to go, and if they're not here, it's not going to happen.

They have no idea where I am.

The only thing lighting the space is the large circular lamp that's shining over my body, making my exposed skin glow. A slight ache draws me to my wrist, and I clench and unclench my fingers to relieve the burning ache, but it only makes it worse.

The ache is right where the brand was on the woman, so I can only imagine that Josiah made good on his promise to brand me as his with a lily tattoo of my own. Even if I ever get out of this, even if I'm rescued, it will always be a reminder of what I'm about to endure because the only reason that I'm strapped to a table, left exposed to the room, is because he found out that I'm in my prime time to be impregnated.

I start to gag at that thought. Gag for fear. Gag for revolution. Gag because the spike of anxiety is so great that my body repells it the only way it knows how.

I tip my head to the side, and vomit spurts from my mouth and splats on the concrete ground. I heave until what little was in my stomach is gone, and then I heave some more until little specks of black flood my vision. When it finally subsides, I scream and fight against my restraints, but it's no use. I'm not going anywhere. Completely helpless is exactly what I am.

As an answer to my scream, I hear heavy footsteps outside my room's door. The urge to gag comes again when it's opened and Josiah's head pops through the opened crack. The first thing he does is glance at me, and then he slides his gaze to my exposed pussy. A hunger lights his eyes, and tears prick my own because I know, no matter what, I'm going to be fucked against my will.

He steps inside and shuts the door softly behind him as if my cries of frustration don't still echo around the room. "No need to get upset, Tori," he says calmly.

"Fuck you," I whimper.

The clucking of his tongue, as he travels over to my knees, makes my hair stand on end. I'm keenly aware of his nearness, and I tip my head to the side so that I don't have to see whatever he plans to do down there.

Something touches my pussy – a finger, I realize – and it slides from the mound all the way down and circles my entrance. I try to slide away, but the straps around my middle keep me exactly where he wants me.

"You're ovulating, you know," he whispers with so much heat and intention that I close my eyes tightly shut .

"Please don't touch me," I beg in a whimper. "Just let me go."

"I can't do that," he answers back in a clear, hurtful tone. He inserts a finger inside me, and I clench my teeth together so tight that my jaw aches. I try desperately to think of something else, anything else, besides what he's doing. "So ready for a baby, aren't you? For my baby. You're mine now, Tori. And soon, you'll realize that."

"Stop," I beg. "Please stop."

"You may not be ready for me yet," he begins, taking his finger out of me. "But you will be. Soon, maybe after we've had our first child together, you'll beg for another."

I snap my gaze to him, and even through my watery eyes, I narrow them dangerously at him. "I will never beg for anything from you, you sick and twisted fuck."

A smile grows on his face. "So much spirit." He pats my knee. "That'll fade with time."

"I'll never be okay with you screwing me, Josiah," I say angrily. "I'll never be okay with carrying your child. I'll never be okay even in your presence."

The smile starts to fade from his face. "Perhaps we will do as my father suggests this time."

"What?" I ask.

He travels to the cabinet, and I follow him with my eyes. I have no idea what's in there, and I am not sure I want to find out. Not that I could see what's inside. The lamp over my body is pretty blinding to the rest of the things around me.

"My father was an OBGYN," he begins as he opens it. The hinges squeal, and he starts digging around inside, picking up things and examining them as if they have answers to some sort of question in his head. "There are other methods to get you pregnant that we could try. That he suggested, anyway. "

"What? Does he not like you raping anyone?"

He glances back at me, but there are too many shadows to make out his expression. "Honestly," he mutters, and the way he says it makes him sound as youthful as he's supposed to be. "I don't think he likes any of this. But he loves me, and since my mother died and I'm the only one left – me and my children – he'd do anything for us. Keeping the secret of who I am. Of what I do. Of what I need. My desires and wishes. He gives me the world so that I can have it all."

"You're fucking sick."

"I'm just doing God's work," he claims as he turns back to the cabinet.

"So? What? You're not going to rape me?"

"Rape is such a harsh word," he says as he grabs something, and then he unzips his jeans. The sound of his zipper is daunting, and for a second, my mind forces me to envision what his huffing and puffing over me, pushing in and out of me, will feel like, both physically and mentally.

"It's the correct word." My voice cracked several times throughout that sentence.

With his pants hanging slightly off him, he heads back to me. He has a small, clear cup in his hand, and he pulls the table over to my hips and sets it on top of it.

"What are you doing?" I demand, my expression wild as he pushes down his pants and underwear to the middle of his thighs. His cock springs free, and I start to cry. An ugly cry, a fearful cry, a cry of such emotional pain that it threatens to drown me.

He shushes me in a loving manner. "I won't take you today. I'll do as my father suggested, and he'll implant you with my seed. If that doesn't work, however . . ."

Hope fills me, and for a second, I hiccup my next sobs. I don't want to be pregnant, but I'd rather be pregnant by insemination than actual, physical rape.

I witness him grab his cock and start to pump as he watches my pussy, and then I look away. I can't. The noises he begins to make are enough to make me want to gouge sharpened pencils into my eardrums. And when he touches me again, I squeeze my eyes shut.

I can hear his hand pumping up and down his cock, feel his finger probe my sex, and fresh flowing tears spill down my cheeks in endless ribbons. Time seems to go by slowly as he grunts and groans and slides his finger up and down over my sex to get himself off.

I don't know how it's come to this and how my life has become this. I don't know what I did to end up in this situation, what sort of god I pissed off to get me here. But I do know one thing: I don't deserve this. No one does.

His moan is long and low, and by the sound of his slowing, pumping hand, I know he's getting ready to cum. And with it, with that climax, my fate is sealed.