Fuck me. The old-ass geezer is taking a goddamn nap.
I can’t stay in here forever. I’m already hanging on by a thread and am contemplating busting out of the door, consequences be damned. How angry would he be if he knew we were in here?
He'll kill you, pipsqueak.
Kevin’s voice has my heart stopping in my chest. My breath shortens further, and my lungs are reduced to noodles.
If we're caught, he will either pull his gun on us or kick us out. We'll be forced to weather the elements with virtually nothing to protect us. It's possible to survive, but suddenly that bed and bucket seem so inviting.
But that's only if he chooses to act rationally.
Slowly, I turn to look at Enzo, feeling unhinged, cramped, and so angry with him. I know I followed him in here on my own, but goddammit, this is all his fucking fault.
Though dark, the air crackles when he meets my stare. I don't know what he sees, but whatever it is, it prompts him to raise his hand and put his finger to his lips. His hazel eyes cut through me with a warning, but I can’t draw in a deep enough breath to let him know I won’t say anything.
I can’t decipher the emotion that shadows his irises, but before I can figure it out, a loud snore startles me, and a quiet yelp escapes me. I slap a hand over my mouth, my heart beating out of my chest.
Trembling, I’m relieved to see that Sylvester hasn’t moved. He’s on his side, beard splayed across his tattered red blanket as he snoozes.
When I look back to Enzo, he seems frustrated. Jaw is clenched, and one of his hands runs through his short strands.
My throat is closing, and I can’t help but look around again, taking in how little space is in here.
I shake my head, trying to express something, but I’m not even sure what.
Flicking a glance to Sylvester, Enzo grabs my arm and pulls me into him. I stiffen, resisting him.
First off, I don’t want him touching me.
Secondly, he’s giving melessroom. How the fuck does he think that’s supposed to help?
But he just tugs me harder until my back is pressed against his chest. Hot breath fans across the shell of my ear a moment before his whisper penetrates the screeching in my brain.
“Quiet,bella ladra.”
Iambeing quiet. Or at least I think I am. I’m not so sure anymore, but I’m pretty confident the asshole is just mansplaining how to hide properly.
I open my mouth, ready to tell him in a very quiet but firm whisper to suck my favorite toe, but the only thing I manage is a squeak.
His hand curls around my hip, and I jump in response. My eyes dart to where he’s touching me, his palm flattening against my stomach as he glides it along the edge of my jean shorts.
I fixate on his hand as he pops open the button of my cutoffs and slowly slides down the zipper.
I don’t want this. At least that’s what I chant to myself.
So why can’t I stop him?
“What are you doing?” I whisper.
“Shh,” he hushes. “I don’t want to hear your words.”
“Then what do you want to hear?”
His tongue darts out, licking along the side of my ear and eliciting a bone-deep chill down my spine.
“I want to hear what it sounds like when you’re breaking and can’t scream.” Just as the last word falls from his tongue, his hand slips into my bottoms, and his finger presses firmly against my clit.
My knees buckle, so his other arm bands across my abdomen, keeping me still as he slowly begins to circle it.