Stray by Rachel Vincent

Author:Rachel Vincent
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Sometime later—though how much later, I couldn’t have said—I woke up enough to recognize the jostle and sounds of highway travel, and to realize that the sun had come up. I lay on my side, on the floor of a windowless commercial van. My hands were tied behind my back, but I didn’t have the strength yet to test my bonds. My right arm was completely numb and impossible to move, which I hoped was a temporary state caused by lying on it for too long. But before I could test that theory, I passed out again.

The next time I woke, the light was brighter through the front windshield, and I still lay on my side in the van. But it wasn’t moving. Two men were arguing in Spanish at the front of the vehicle. Sean and the stray.

I tried to wiggle the fingers of my right hand, concerned because it was still numb. My fingers worked, but the movement shot an unbearable wave of pinpricks up the length of my arm. And apparently that one small movement caught someone’s attention.

“Ella está despierta,” the stray said. Vinyl creaked behind my head, and the van rocked. He knelt by my side and took my chin in his hand, tilting my head up so that I had to either look at him or close my eyes. I closed my eyes.

“You will look at me eventually.” His accent was spicy, the auditory equivalent of a good, hot salsa. Under other circumstances, I might have found it pleasant, but in my current predicament, pleasure was a foreign concept.

Heart pounding, I pressed my eyes shut tighter, on the theory that passive resistance was my best shot at survival.

He slid one hand beneath my shorts and stroked my inner thigh.

I jerked my chin from his grip and scooted backward, skinning my arm on the carpet. Undeterred, his hand followed me, triggering the memory of Marc’s hand in the same place only hours earlier. Marc’s touch had made me cry out, made me writhe in anticipation as I lifted my hips to meet him.

The jungle cat’s hand sent nausea rolling through me, as much from the contrast as from terror and revulsion. My passive-resistance theory melted away like snow in July. I opened my eyes to glare at him. Fury lent me courage. “Fuck you,” I growled, but it may not have been my best choice of words.

“Soon, mi gatita,” he said, his breath hot and wet on my cheek.

I knew enough Spanish to translate that much. He’d called me his little kitty.

Tossing my hair from my face, I tried to look as threatening as I hoped I sounded. “Get your filthy hand off me before I bite it off.” My neck ached from holding my head up, but I wasn’t willing to take my eyes off the stray. At all.

Smiling, he squeezed my thigh hard enough to make my eyes water, but I refused to cry out. Laughter met my ears. I hate being laughed at.

Closing my eyes briefly, I said a silent prayer for speed and force.

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