Page 12 of The Predator
He's there now, and something in me shifts, easing. I can breathe, except each breath hurts. How can he be so beautiful and so brutal at the same time? He's arguing with someone, but I can't see them through the hazy halo obscuring my vision.There's a bottle of alcohol in his hand, and he's waving it around. I want to call out to him. Beg him to come and get me. Save me, anything. But I can't speak. I can't move. I can barely breathe.
"You can't do this, owning people like this for your sick perversions!" Sebastian shouts, and the words echo in my head.
"Sick perversions, boy? You don't think I know what you get up to with your little school sluts? Or your own stepmother, for that matter?"
Sebastian goes rigid and takes a long drink of the alcohol. Something uneasy worms its way through my belly. There's a metallic clicking sound somewhere, maybe the man with the older deep voice. He steps closer to Sebastian, and finally his face comes into view.
White hair styled elegantly, a perfect tuxedo, collar undone at the throat.
There's not much of a resemblance to Sebastian outside of the way the man carries himself, so very restrained and rigid.
The memory fades, and I drift in and out, my world tilting on its axis even more.
Sebastian holding a gun. Sebastian kneeling by the crumpled form of his grandfather. Sebastian reeling around the room, drinking his bottle of alcohol in gasping gulps.
He killed him. Sebastian killed him. Horror shimmies its way up my spine.
Then nothing. Blessed blackness until I open my eyes and find myself back in the other nightmare.It's funny.I'd take Sebastian's nightmare over anyone else's. Even if it kills me.
Hot tears cascade down my cheeks, and it takes me a second to breathe through the sobs that seem to come unbidden. I press my hands over my mouth to stifle the sound so Yanov doesn't hear me.
The more attention I draw to myself the worse it is. My priority should be to get out of here but my body feels leaden, unable to move, to even think of a proper plan. The memory, because I know now that's what it was, keeps replaying in my mind, reminding me Sebastian is not my savior in all of this.
He’s as dark and fucked up as everyone else.
He killed his own grandfather.
Murdered him without thought or care and walked away.
I can’t seem to wrap my head around it. What kind of person are you to be capable of something like that? From what I remember, his grandfather was not a nice man, but still. We can’t play God. We just can’t.
Bile claws its way up my throat once more.
How could I have given myself to him?
He’s no better than my father, than Yanov. I squeeze my eyes shut and settle against the wall.
What’s the point? Where do I go from here?
Safety feels a million miles away. The hope of someone, anyone, saving me becomes a distant dream. I'm never going to get away from Yanov, and he's going to kill me in this nasty motel room. Worst of all, he’ll get away with it. No one will know I'm here except maybe my asshole father, and even then he's not going to do anything to stop him. To help. Nothing. There will be no justice for me.
The door swings open, and I try to pin myself to the back of the closet. It's a stupid idea since there is nowhere for me to escape. A tiny squeak of fear escapes me when Yanov reaches inside and sinks his meaty fingers into my arm with bruising force. With little effort, he tugs me across the crusty carpet like I’m a rag doll. I lash out, slapping at his hands. When my useless attempt doesn’t seem to work, I dig my nails into his skin, scratching him. He doesn’t even flinch.
In fact, he doesn’t appear to be bothered by it at all. It’s like he doesn’t even feel pain.
"Keep fighting, my little dove. It makes my cock hard as steel, because we both know that soon you will submit to me.” He smirks at me.
I tilt back to keep as much distance between us as I can. Even if I want to give up, to sit here and wait for death to find me, my brain's first instinct is to do something, to formulate a plan. I’m not a quitter. Never have been.
Then fight back. If you’re going to die, at least do it with some dignity.
He continues to drag me across the carpet, and the skin on my knees burns while I gather the strength to stand. I swallow a hiss of pain and know the only way I can fight back is if I get to my feet. My legs ache with the effort as I shove off the floor. I’m wobbly, and any semblance of balance is gone, but I don’t let it stop me.
“Please don’t…” I plead, even though begging has never worked in the past.
“Why? It’s more fun to watch you struggle.” He laughs.
For every stepforward he takes, I try to pull us backwards, at least slowing our progress. I grit my teeth against a wave of nausea clawing up my throat, the jarring movements making it worse.