Submitting To The Devil - The Devil's Snare - Book 2

Chapter Seventy Seven

Bianca

I can't seem to eat; my body feels like it's been put through a relentless grinder, and every inch of me aches painfully. The evening is a blur—a hazy fog of confusion lingers in my mind. I awoke in a disorienting haze, lying next to a stranger, a man who was definitely not my husband.

Him, I woke up wrapped around him.

What is happening to me?

And what on earth transpired last night?

I pace the room, which echoes the devastation of a bomb site, every surface cluttered with remnants of chaos. Clothes of varying fabrics—some crumpled, others still folded—are strewn haphazardly across the floor, creating a disordered landscape that reflects a turbulent state of mind. Among the debris, broken picture frames lie scattered, their glass missing, and I can hear the sharp crunch beneath my feet with each tentative step as I break the wood even more. I pause to wonder if those empty frames had once held cherished memories, or if they merely served as hollow ghosts in this room.

Ignoring the tray of untouched food that boy had thoughtfully placed on the nightstand, I turn my focus toward the bathroom, determined to wash away the grime of these past few days. It dawns on me with a pang of guilt that I haven't so much as brushed my teeth since, when?—a few short days that feel like an eternity. The only time I entered this room were on, what was his names, insistence, his hands gripping me with a desperation that almost suffocated me below the water on the tub.

As I finally take in the entirety of the disordered space, I observe that the bathroom is fully equipped, a new toothbrush lay on the countertop still in its wrapping, and toothpaste much the same. Fruity body wash fit for a woman stands on the shelf by the bath, which is sparkling white and completely empty. The walls seem to close in, painted in a stark shade of white that heightens my sense of entrapment. Yet, in the shadows of my thoughts, a nagging suspicion gnaws at me: is there a hidden camera watching my every move, documenting my descent into this overwhelming chaos?

I reach for the toothbrush, my fingers deftly prying open the cap without a second thought, slipping into the familiar routine of brushing my teeth. As I stand at the sink, the cool porcelain under my palms, I glimpse my reflection in the mirror. The stark overhead light cast brilliance while illuminating my features, revealing the sleepy remnants in my eyes and the tousled strands of hair that frame my face.

Bruises mark my skin, a large purple hue under my right eye, and one along my jaw. Four distinct lines circle around my throat like pearls clinging to my skin. Tipping my head to the side, I search the mirror for the reflection of the rest of my body.

What on earth has happened to me?

"Beautiful, utterly breathtaking," a deep voice reverberates from the open doorway that connects the bathroom to the bedroom. My gaze snaps upward from my exposed abdomen, where an extended cut is sewn shut. I lock eyes with a large, imposing figure, his presence both formidable and captivating.

"I'm sorry," I blink rapidly as images begin to swirl in my mind. My head is pounding as my heart speeds up. Images of the man before me. His hands were around my throat as he held me on a desk. Dinner, I recall dinner.

"Grandpa?" I ask aloud while screwing my eyes shut in an attempt to rid the assaulting images flying through my mind like a reel of film. The pounding of my heart reverberates in my ears, each thud echoing like a distant drum, leaving me feeling faint and dizzy, as if the very air around me is charged with electricity.

"Bianca?" His voice resonates with an intensity that makes my heart race, drawing nearer as he approaches. His hand firmly but gently turns me to face him, the cool surface of the counter pressing against my back. As our eyes lock, he snaps his fingers with a swift motion that cuts through the air, calling out the name "Rossi" with an authoritative tone that demands attention.

Everything comes to a halt—each fleeting memory and every familiar image slips away, leaving me in a haze of confusion. My thoughts quiet, as if the very air has thinned, and I can feel the steady rhythm of my heart beginning to decelerate. Slowly, I open my eyes, and there he is: Derek, standing before me. He wears only a pair of snug shorts, paired with a fitted white top that clings to his form, accentuating the contours of his physique. A spell of silence envelops us, holding me captive in this moment as I smell his sweat and touch his stomach in an attempt to push him away from me.

"Derek," I mumble, seeing images of him and three others hurting me.

"Fuck. Thats how it's stopped? I shouldn't have stopped you, Bambi," he growls angrily, his hand at my hip pressing down so hard he hurts me, making me cry out in pain as he pushes his weight into my bones. He looks to me with disappointment, and hatred. Definetly hatred.

"Please," I earnestly implore, despite the fact that my request, so seemingly undeniable and incontrovertible, hangs in the air like a heavy dare not to follow my command.

"I should fuck you," he tells me, sweeping the contents from the countertop before lifting me up. He plucks my toothbrush from my fingers and chucks it into the sink with a clatter. And he spreads my legs as I watch through a quiet haze, his hand pulling at the hair at my nape, my head forced back as his teeth graze my neck in an half attempt between a bite and a kiss.

"No," I tell him, pushing against his chest, which feels like a formidable muscle wall.

"Fight me, you know I like it, Bambi."

Snaking my hand around his neck, fisting his hair to pull his head back, I made him chuckle; his teeth bared as he pulled against my hold, reaching forward to bite into the flesh of my neck, hurting me more than his harsh hold on my hip. His free hand presses between my legs, ripping at the underwear that acts as the only shield between us.

"Derek," I beg at the end of a sob.

"Where were you going when I entered, Bambi, huh? What were you seeing? What was you reciting?"

"Nowhere...nothing," I panic, pulling my leg up to my chest to kick him, though my attempts are futile, and he grabs my leg, holding it to my chest, opening his access to between my legs as his eyes drink me in.

"Can you remember—," he begins to ask.

"Father, are you in here?" a voice calls out. "The jobs done; we have access."

The boy, the one I had woken to earlier—the one who filled my thoughts—stands ominously in the bathroom doorway—Benji, with his tousled hair and intense gaze. Still half-dressed and harrowing, he narrows his eyes in piercing scrutiny as they flicker over the two of us, momentarily frozen in the charged atmosphere. A shiver runs down my spine as I catch what feels like a flash of murderous intent in his expression. Still, he quickly smooths out his features into an unreadable mask just as Derek instinctively retreats, his hand and body withdrawing from my side like a defensive shield. Panic surges through me, and I scramble away, darting toward the cramped confines of the opposite side of the bathroom where the toilet stands. I can feel my heart pounding in my chest as I seek refuge in its cool, tiled enclosure, desperate to create distance between us and shield myself from the tension hanging thick in the air.

"Good, that was quick," Derek spits walking away without a second glance back to me.