“You fucking bitch!”
The first punch lands on my cheekbone, snapping my head to the side. Pain explodes across my face. Before I can recover, his fist sinks into my stomach, driving the air from my lungs.
I double over, gasping.
He grabs me, shoving me hard against the wall. My head cracks, and for a moment, my vision swims.
“Hold the cunt down,” the lean one says, stepping closer. “I want my turn before you wreck her face.”
Scarface grabs my wrists, pinning them above my head with one massive hand. With the other, he tears at my robe, dropping it on the floor, then shifts into claws, tearing my swimsuit off.
“GET OFF ME!” I scream, hoping someone—anyone—might still be nearby.
“Scream all you want, little mouse,” the lean one says, running his fingers through my silver hair before gripping it painfully. “Security’s in the parking lot. Nobody’s coming for you.”
My stomach drops.
“Let me get this right,” I gasp. “You have to corner a female because nobody will fuck your tiny dicks.”
Another punch lands, this time to my ribs. I hear something crack, and pain shoots through my side. My knees buckle, but Scarface holds me up, pinned against the wall.
“Let’s see what you think of our dicks when we’re fucking you,” the lean one says, his hands now at his belt buckle.
My mind detaches slightly, floating somewhere above the scene. A defense mechanism, I suppose. Part of me is cataloging the damage—split lip, bruised ribs, possible concussion.
Scarface shifts his grip, squeezing my breast.
“Look at those tits,” he says, his voice dropping lower. “Told you silver-haired bitches were worth the trouble.”
My legs are still free. I kick out, aiming for his groin, but he twists away, laughing.
“Feisty! I like that. Makes it more fun when you break.”
The lean one has his pants unzipped now. “Hold her legs, too. Don’t want her kneeing my balls before I get my dick wet.”
My stomach turns at his words. I struggle harder, ignoring the pain shooting through my ribs. “Touch me, and I swear I’ll rip your throat out.”
“You hear that, Mike? She’s threatening us.” Scarface laughs, adjusting his grip to pin my legs with his knee. “I think we need to teach her how to speak to her betters.”
“I’ve got something to shut her mouth,” the lean one—Mike—says, stepping closer.
My vision blurs with tears I refuse to let fall. Not from fear—from pure rage.
“You’ll have to kill me first.” I spit out, blood and saliva landing on Scarface’s cheek again.
He wipes it away with his free hand, then punches me in the stomach again. My body tries to fold in on itself, but his grip keeps me upright. The pain is blinding, radiating through my core.
“Not killing you, little mouse. Just gonna fuck you and make you wish you were.”
Mike pulls his dick out, stroking himself as he moves closer. “Been thinking about this since I first saw you strutting around that stage with those disgusting legs of yours.”
“Sorry to disappoint,” I gasp, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in my ribs. “But this isn’t going to be the fantasy you’ve been jacking off to.”
“No?” His eyes are entirely yellow now, wolf emerging with his arousal. “You’re the one half-naked and pinned to a wall. Looks pretty close to my fantasy.”
My mind races, desperate for a way out. Their grip is too firm to break directly. My legs are pinned, my arms immobilized. But my eyes dart around, searching for anything—
There. About three feet to my right, sitting on a decorative pedestal. A large ceramic vase, part of the Institute’s pretentious décor, was too heavy to be practical but perfect for what I needed.
