The van doors slammed open with a sound like a gunshot, and Bess's world became pain—white-hot, blinding, rooted at the crown of her skull. A gloved fist twisted deep in her honey-blond hair, yanking her forward so hard her neck cracked and her knees left the floor of the van entirely. She had one confused, upside-down glimpse of Nancy's furious blue eyes and George's brown ones, both wide above the strips of duct tape across their mouths, both straining against the ropes that bound them to the metal bench.
Then she was out, falling, the air of the warehouse hitting her face like something solid. Cold and damp and smelling of rust and old oil.
Her knees hit concrete.
The impact shot up her shins and into her hips, and she felt the thin fabric of her stockings tear, felt the grit bite into the soft skin beneath. The fist in her hair held her there, bent forward, the back of her neck exposed, her cheek hovering inches above the stained floor. Dust swirled in the harsh white light of a single fluorescent strip overhead, buzzing like an angry insect, flickering just enough to make the shadows jump and dance across the concrete.
"Please," she heard herself gasp, the word torn out of her before she could think. "Please, don't—"
The fist twisted. Her head wrenched back, and the rest of the sentence died in her throat.
Behind her, the van shook with a muffled, furious pounding. Nancy's scream came through the metal doors as a strangled, furious sound, and Bess heard the thump of George's shoulder or boot against the paneling, over and over, a steady drumbeat of useless rage.
She couldn't see them. She couldn't see anything but the floor, the rust, the flickering light, and the polished black shoes of the man who had stepped out of the driver's seat and was now walking slowly around the front of the van.
The shoes stopped. Turned. Started circling.
Bess's breath came in short, sharp gasps as she watched them move, the leather creaking with each deliberate step. The man—Damien Cross, she knew his name, everyone knew his name, the name that made Nancy's blue eyes go hard and flat—made a full circuit around her, his boots scraping against the concrete with a sound like sandpaper on bone.
"Look at you," he said, his voice low and silky, almost gentle. "Down on your knees already. I didn't even have to ask nicely."
The fist in her hair yanked her head up higher, and she felt the strain in her neck, the burn in her scalp, the tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. She blinked them back. She wouldn't cry. Not yet. That was what he wanted, wasn't it? To see her fall apart before he'd even started.
He completed his circle and stopped in front of her, blocking out the fluorescent light. His shadow fell across her, long and dark, and she had to crane her neck to see his face.
Gray eyes. Cold, flat, appraising. He looked at her the way she'd seen men look at used cars, calculating value and weakness. His black hair was slicked back from his forehead, and the thin scar running from his left temple to his jaw caught the light, pale against his skin.
His tailored black suit was immaculate. Not a wrinkle. Not a speck of dust. He'd had three women kidnapped, bound, and driven to a warehouse, and he looked like he was about to attend a board meeting.
"The pretty one," he said, almost to himself. "Nancy Drew, the famous detective. George Fayne, the athlete." His gaze slid down Bess's body, slow and deliberate, taking in the torn stockings, the pink sundress, the trembling hands pressed flat against the concrete. "And Bess Marvin. The soft one. The heart."
He said "heart" like it was a weakness. Like it was something to be cut out.
Behind her, the van thumped again. A muffled scream that might have been her name.
Damien's lips curved into a smile that didn't touch his eyes. "They're worried about you," he said. "That's sweet. That's very sweet. Do you know why I chose you first, Bess?"
She shook her head, a tiny, jerky motion. The fist in her hair tightened, and she whimpered before she could stop herself.
"Because you're the soft one," he said, crouching down in front of her. His knees didn't crack. He moved like a cat, all fluid grace and coiled power. "The gentle one. The one who cries at sad movies and takes in stray dogs. You've never been hit in your life, have you? Never had anyone lay a hand on you in anger."
He reached out, and Bess flinched, squeezing her eyes shut. But the touch that came was almost gentle—a gloved thumb tracing the line of her jaw, tilting her face up.
"Open your eyes," he said. "Look at me."
She didn't want to. Every instinct screamed at her to keep them closed, to hide, to make herself small. But the thumb on her jaw pressed harder, digging into the soft flesh, and her eyes flew open on their own.
He was closer now. Close enough that she could see the flecks of silver in his gray eyes, the faint lines at the corners, the way his pupils were slightly dilated. He was enjoying this. She could see it in the slow, satisfied way he looked at her, like a man savoring the first bite of a meal he'd been anticipating for a long time.
"There she is," he murmured. "There's the girl who thought she could walk into my operation with her little friends and take everything I've built."
"We didn't—" Bess started, her voice cracking. "We were just—Nancy said—"
"Nancy said." He repeated the words like they were a joke. "Nancy said. And you followed, because that's what you do, isn't it? You follow. You're not the leader, Bess. You're not the fighter. You're the one who holds the flashlight and keeps the first aid kit ready."
His thumb pressed against her lower lip, and her mouth opened automatically, a reflex, a gasp of surprise.
He looked at her open mouth, at the tongue visible behind her teeth, and something shifted in his eyes. The amusement was still there, but it was darker now. Hungrier.
"You're first," he said, and his voice had dropped, the silk gone, replaced by something rougher. "Not because you're the weakest. Because you're the one they love the most. And I want them to hear you break."
Bess's heart hammered against her ribs. She could feel it in her throat, in her temples, in the tips of her fingers pressed against the cold concrete. The fluorescent light buzzed. The shadows jumped. Behind her, Nancy and George pounded against the van doors, their screams muffled but unmistakable.
Damien's other hand came up, and she saw the glint of the belt buckle before she heard the sound—the sharp, metallic hiss of leather sliding free from its loops. He did it slowly, deliberately, drawing the belt through the fabric of his suit pants with a sound like a snake moving through grass.
Bess's breath caught. Her eyes fixed on the belt, on the dark leather, on the heavy brass buckle swinging from his gloved hand.
"Please," she whispered, and the word was barely audible, a puff of air against his thumb. "Please, I'll do anything. I'll—I'll tell you everything. About Nancy's plan, about the evidence we found, about—"
"I already know everything," he said, cutting her off. The belt hung loose in his hand, the leather creaking as he shifted his grip. "I know what you found. I know what you planned to do with it. I know every move the three of you made from the moment you set foot in my city."
He leaned closer, and she could smell him now—expensive cologne, and beneath it, something else. Something metallic. Something like blood.
"You were never a threat, Bess," he said softly. "You were a diversion. A pretty little distraction while I got my house in order. And now that I have, I get to decide what happens to the three of you."
The belt moved in his hand, and she watched it, mesmerized, unable to look away. He was so close now that she could see the pulse beating in his throat, steady and slow. He wasn't afraid. He wasn't even excited, not really. He was calm. He was in control. He was exactly where he wanted to be, doing exactly what he'd planned.
And she was on her knees on a cold, dirty warehouse floor, her stockings torn, her hair in a fist, her friends screaming uselessly behind her.
The fluorescent light flickered. The shadows jumped. The belt creaked in his gloved hand.
And Damien Cross took a single step closer.
His shadow engulfed her. The step brought him close enough that the toes of his polished shoes were inches from her torn stockings, close enough that she could see the careful stitching of his cuffs, the way the leather of his belt hung loose and heavy in his gloved fist. The brass buckle caught the fluorescent light, winking at her like a cold eye.
Bess's hands, still pressed flat against the concrete, began to shake. She could feel the grit biting into her palms, the damp seeping through the thin fabric of her dress where it had ridden up over her thighs. The oil stains beneath her were old and dark, nearly black, spreading across the floor in patterns that looked like cracked earth. She stared at them because she couldn't look at him, couldn't look at the belt, couldn't look at anything but the ground and the dust motes swirling in the harsh white light.
"You're shaking," Damien observed, and his voice was almost kind, almost gentle, like a doctor noting a symptom. "That's good. That means you understand."
Behind her, the van shuddered again. A thump, then another, then a third, each one followed by a muffled scream that cut off mid-syllable. Bess pictured Nancy's blue eyes, furious and desperate, pictured George throwing her shoulder against the metal doors until it would bruise, and the picture made something in her chest twist so hard she thought she might be sick.
"They can't get out," she whispered, and it wasn't a question. It was a fact she was trying to make herself believe, trying to make herself accept, because if she accepted it then maybe she could stop hoping, and if she stopped hoping then maybe the fear would be easier to bear.
"No," Damien agreed. "They can't. The locks are reinforced. The doors are welded shut from the inside. They'll bruise themselves bloody before they make so much as a dent." He paused, tilting his head, listening to the next thump with the mild interest of a man checking his watch. "George will keep trying for another hour, I think. She's stubborn. She'll keep going until her shoulder gives out. Nancy will stop her before that. Nancy's smarter."
The belt creaked as he shifted his grip. The sound was small, almost delicate, but it cut through the buzzing fluorescent light like a blade through silk. Bess's breath caught in her throat, and she felt her whole body go still, every muscle locking, every nerve screaming at her to run even though her legs wouldn't move, couldn't move, pinned as they were by the weight of her own terror.
"You're wondering what I'm going to do with this," Damien said, and the belt swayed slightly in his hand, the buckle catching the light again. "You're wondering if I'm going to hit you with it. You're wondering how much it's going to hurt."
She didn't answer. She couldn't. Her throat had closed up, and all she could do was stare at the oil stains on the concrete and try to remember how to breathe.
"I'm not going to hit you," he said, and the words were so unexpected that her eyes snapped up to his face of their own accord. He was smiling again, that same cold smile that didn't reach his eyes, and he looked at her the way a cat looks at a bird it has already caught, already broken, already decided to eat. "Not yet. Not unless you make me. And you won't make me, will you, Bess? You're the soft one. The gentle one. You're going to be good for me."
The belt swayed. The fluorescent light buzzed. Behind her, the van went suddenly, terribly quiet, and Bess realized she could hear her own heartbeat, fast and frantic, like a bird trapped in a cage of ribs.
The belt swayed once more, and then it moved. Not toward her—away. Damien folded it in half with a precise, almost ceremonial motion and set it on a stack of rusted steel crates beside him. The buckle clinked against the metal, a small, final sound, and Bess felt her lungs release a breath she hadn't known she was holding.
"There," he said, straightening. "Now you can stop thinking about that."
He reached down and took her chin between his thumb and forefinger, lifting her face to his. The leather of his glove was smooth and cool against her skin, and she could smell it now, the oil and the tanning chemicals, mixed with the expensive cologne and the faint metallic undertone she'd noticed before.
"You're going to look at me while I take you," he said. "Do you understand?"
Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. She nodded, a tiny, jerky motion that made his fingers tighten on her chin.
"Say it."
"I—" Her voice cracked. She swallowed, tried again. "I understand."
"Good girl."
The praise hit her like a slap. Her face flushed, hot and prickly, and she hated herself for the way her body responded to it, the way her spine straightened slightly, the way something in her chest loosened. She was a prisoner. She was on her knees on a dirty warehouse floor. She should not want his approval. She should not feel anything but fear.
But his thumb was still on her chin, and his gray eyes were still on hers, and when he stepped closer, she didn't flinch.
"You're going to be good for me," he said, and it wasn't a question. "You're going to do exactly what I tell you. And when you do, I'll be gentle." His thumb traced her lower lip, pressing just enough to part them. "Do you want that? Do you want me to be gentle?"
She didn't trust her voice. She nodded again.
"Then open your mouth."
She did. Slowly, trembling, her lips parted around his thumb, and he pushed it inside, pressing down on her tongue. The taste of leather and salt flooded her mouth, and she heard herself make a small, choked sound.
He watched her. That was the worst part. He watched her the whole time, his gray eyes fixed on her face, cataloging every flicker of fear, every tremor of her lips, every tear that finally spilled over and ran down her cheek.
"That's it," he murmured. "Let it out. Don't fight it."
He pulled his thumb free, and she tasted the leather still, the faint bitterness of it coating her tongue. He reached down with both hands and undid his belt, the buckle clinking again, the leather sliding through the loops with that same hissing sound. Then the button. Then the zipper.
Bess's heart was pounding so hard she could feel it in her throat. She tried to look away, but his hand was in her hair again, gentler now, almost stroking, and he tilted her head up.
"Eyes on me," he said.
She watched him free himself from his trousers. He was already hard—she could see that, the dark flush of him, the way he curved slightly toward his stomach. He was big. She'd known he would be, somehow, had known it from the way he moved, the coiled power in his frame. But seeing it, close enough to smell the musk of him, made something in her stomach drop.
"You're going to take me in your mouth," he said, and his voice was low now, rough, the silk gone. "All of it. You're going to open that pretty throat and take all of it, and you're going to look at me while you do it."
She shook her head before she could stop herself. "I can't—I've never—"
"You can." He stepped closer, and the head of his cock brushed against her lips, warm and smooth. "And you will. Because if you don't, I'll put Nancy on her knees next to you and make her watch you fail. Do you want that?"
The image hit her like a physical blow. Nancy, her fierce blue eyes, her stubborn chin, forced to kneel and watch Bess choke and sputter. No. God, no.
She opened her mouth.
"That's my girl."
He pushed inside, and Bess's eyes watered immediately. He was thick, so much thicker than she'd imagined, and the taste of him—salt and skin and something darker, muskier—filled her mouth and flooded her senses. She tried to breathe through her nose, but the pressure was too much, the stretch of her lips, the weight of him on her tongue.
"Relax your throat," he said, and his voice was almost gentle again, coaxing. "Just breathe. Let me do the work."
She tried. She really did. But when he started to move, slow and shallow at first, then deeper, her gag reflex kicked in and she made a strangled sound. He pulled back just enough to let her breathe, then pushed forward again, and this time he didn't stop.
His hand was in her hair, not yanking now, but guiding, holding her steady as he worked himself deeper. She felt him hit the back of her throat, felt the pressure build, the panic rising, her hands coming up to push at his thighs. He caught one of her wrists, wrapped his gloved hand around it, and held it still.
"Breathe through your nose," he said. "You can do this."
She tried. The tears were streaming down her face now, but she breathed, a shaky, desperate inhale through her nose, and the pressure eased slightly. He pushed deeper. She felt her throat open, felt the stretch, the impossible fullness, and then he was in, the whole length of him buried in her mouth, his pelvis pressed against her lips.
She gagged. He held her there, his hand firm on the back of her head, and she felt his cock pulse against her tongue.
"That's it," he breathed, and his voice was wrecked now, rough and hungry. "That's exactly it. Look at you. Look at how well you're doing."
She looked up at him, her eyes wet, her throat full, and he smiled. Not the cold smile. Something else. Something almost warm.
He pulled back, slow, letting her feel every inch of him sliding over her tongue, and then pushed forward again. Deeper. She felt her throat stretch, felt the burn, and then he was filling her again, his rhythm steady, unhurried, like he had all the time in the world.
"You're going to make me come like this," he said, and his voice was a low growl now. "Down your throat. Swallow every drop. Do you understand?"
She couldn't answer. She could only nod, the motion pressing her nose against his stomach, and he made a sound low in his chest, something like approval.
He sped up. Not rough, not punishing, just faster, deeper, his hips rocking against her face with a rhythm that was almost hypnotic. She felt herself relaxing, her throat opening, her hands dropping to her sides. The tears were still falling, but they felt distant now, like they belonged to someone else.
"That's it," he murmured. "Take it. Take all of it."
She felt him swell, felt the pulse in his cock, and she knew what was coming. She braced herself, her eyes still on his, and when he came, she felt it flood her throat, hot and thick, and she swallowed. Once. Twice. Three times, until there was nothing left, and he pulled out of her mouth with a wet, obscene sound.
She gasped, air rushing into her lungs, and she tasted him still, salty and bitter on her tongue. He was still hard, she saw. Still thick and flushed and leaking.
"Good girl," he said, and his voice was softer now, almost tender. He reached down and wiped a tear from her cheek with his thumb. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"
She shook her head, a tiny motion, and he smiled.
"No," he said. "It wasn't. And now you're going to find out what it feels like to have me inside you."
He reached down and pulled her to her feet. Her legs were shaking, barely holding her, and she stumbled against him. He caught her, his hands on her hips, and she felt his cock press against her stomach through the thin fabric of her sundress.
"Lift up your dress," he said. "And take off your stockings. I want to see you."
Her fingers were trembling as she reached down and gathered the hem of her dress, pulling it up over her hips. The stockings were already torn, the ladders running up her thighs, and she hooked her thumbs into the waistband and pushed them down. They pooled around her ankles, and she stepped out of them, leaving them on the concrete.
He looked at her. His gray eyes traveled down her body, taking in the pale skin of her thighs, the damp patch on the front of her panties, the way her hands were shaking as she held the dress up.
"Take them off," he said, nodding at the panties. "I want to feel you."
She hooked her thumbs into the waistband and pushed them down. They joined the stockings on the floor, and she stood there, naked from the waist down, the cold air of the warehouse raising goosebumps on her thighs.
He stepped closer and ran a gloved hand up her inner thigh, slow, deliberate. She shivered, and he smiled.
"You're wet," he said. "Already. Do you know what that means?"
She shook her head.
"It means your body knows what it needs, even if your head doesn't want to admit it."
He pressed his hand against her, palm flat, and she felt the heat of him through the leather. She bit her lip to keep from moaning.
"Lie down," he said. "On the floor."
She looked at the concrete, the oil stains, the grit. She looked at him.
"I won't ask again," he said.
She lowered herself to the ground. The concrete was cold against her back, the grit biting into her bare skin, and she felt the damp of the floor soak through her dress. He knelt between her legs, and she felt his hands on her thighs, spreading her open.
"This is going to hurt," he said, and there was no apology in his voice. Just fact. "But you're going to take it. And when I'm done, you're going to thank me."
He pushed inside her.
Bess cried out—a sharp, pained sound that she couldn't hold back. He was too big, too thick, and she felt herself stretching around him, felt the burn, the pressure, the impossible fullness. He didn't stop. He pushed deeper, and deeper still, until he was buried inside her to the hilt, and she felt him against her cervix, felt the ache of it radiating through her pelvis.
"Look at me," he said.
She opened her eyes. She hadn't realized she'd closed them.
"You're taking all of me," he said. "Every inch. Do you feel that?"
She nodded, a jerky motion, and he began to move.
Slow at first. Long, dragging strokes that made her feel every inch of him, the ridge of his cock catching on her walls, the weight of him pressing down on her. She heard herself making sounds she didn't recognize—little whimpers, broken gasps—and she couldn't stop them.
"That's it," he murmured. "Let me hear you."
He picked up the pace, his hips slapping against hers with a wet, obscene sound, and she felt herself starting to respond despite everything, her body betraying her, her hips lifting to meet his thrusts. The pain was fading, replaced by something else, something hot and building low in her belly.
"You feel that?" he said, and his voice was rough now, strained. "You're close. I can feel you clenching around me."
She shook her head, but she knew it was true. She could feel it, the coil tightening, the heat spreading.
"Don't fight it," he said. "Let it happen. I want to feel you come on my cock."
She couldn't hold it back. The wave crashed over her, and she cried out, her back arching off the concrete, her inner walls clenching around him. He groaned, a deep, guttural sound, and she felt him swell inside her, felt the hot pulse of him as he came, filling her, flooding her.
He stayed inside her for a long moment, his weight pressing her into the floor. Then he pulled out, and she felt his cum leaking out of her, warm and wet against her thighs.
He stood up. He tucked himself back into his trousers, did up his belt, and looked down at her. She was still lying on the cold concrete, her dress rucked up around her waist, her thighs slick with him.
"Stay there," he said. "I'm not done with you yet."
He walked to the van, and Bess watched him through the haze of her own breathing. He opened the back doors, and she heard George's muffled shout, saw her dark bob and furious brown eyes as he reached in and hauled her out.
George landed on the concrete beside her, her wrists still bound behind her back, the duct tape still over her mouth. She was struggling, twisting, trying to get her feet under her, but Damien was already there, his hand in her short hair, yanking her head back.
"Your turn," he said, and his voice was calm again, almost pleasant. "Let's see how long the athlete lasts."
George's body went rigid when Damien's hand twisted in her hair, her brown eyes blazing above the gray strip of tape. She made a sound low in her throat—not a whimper, not a plea. A growl. Even with her wrists bound behind her back and her knees grinding into the concrete, she was still trying to fight.
Bess watched from the floor, her thighs still slick, her dress still rucked up around her waist. She should look away. She should close her eyes. But she couldn't, any more than she could stop her own heart from hammering against her ribs.
Damien crouched behind George, his knee pressing into the small of her back, forcing her chest down toward the concrete. She fought him—twisting, bucking, her bound wrists straining against the zip ties—but he was too heavy, too strong. She was lean and quick, but he had a hundred pounds on her and every ounce of it was pressing her flat.
"I like this one," Damien said, almost conversationally. "She's got fight in her. That's going to make this so much better."
George's answer was muffled by the tape, but Bess could hear the shape of it. A curse. A threat. Something that would have made her proud if she wasn't so terrified.
Damien laughed—a low, pleasant sound that made Bess's stomach turn. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a knife, the blade catching the fluorescent light. George went still. Bess saw the fear flicker across her face, there and gone in a heartbeat, before the defiance snapped back into place.
"I'm going to take the tape off," Damien said, "because I want to hear you. And I'm going to cut the zip ties, because I want you to be able to move. Not because I'm giving you a chance." He pressed the flat of the blade against her cheek. "Because I want you to know—when you try to fight me, and you will try—that it won't matter. Do you understand?"
George stared at him. Then she nodded, once, a sharp motion.
The blade slid under the tape and cut it away. George gasped, air rushing into her lungs, and Bess saw the red marks on her cheeks where the adhesive had pulled at her skin.
"You son of a bitch," George snarled, her voice raw. "You're going to—"
His hand closed around her throat. Not hard enough to hurt—just hard enough to stop. George's words died in her mouth, her eyes going wide.
"I told you," Damien said softly. "I want you to try. But I also want you to understand something first." He leaned in close, his mouth nearly touching her ear. "Your friend Bess here? She was a good girl. She did exactly what I told her, and I was gentle with her. I gave her pleasure. I made her come on my cock."
Bess felt heat flood her cheeks. She wanted to deny it. She wanted to scream that she hadn't wanted it, that he'd taken it from her. But her body remembered the way it had betrayed her, the way she'd arched into him, the way she'd cried out when she came.
"If you fight me," Damien continued, "I'll hurt you. And then I'll make you come anyway. And you'll hate yourself for it." His thumb traced the line of her jaw. "So go ahead. Try."
George's eyes were blazing. Her jaw was set. And Bess saw her hands, still bound behind her back, clench into fists.
Then George lunged.
It was fast—faster than Bess expected. George threw her weight sideways, trying to roll out from under him, her bound hands scrabbling for purchase on the concrete. For one heartbeat, she almost made it. Her shoulder came up, her hip twisted, and she was nearly free.
Then Damien's hand closed on her ankle, and he pulled. George hit the concrete hard, the breath leaving her body in a whoosh. Before she could move, he was on her, his weight pressing her flat, his hand back in her hair, yanking her head up.
"That was a good try," he said, and he sounded almost admiring. "Most people don't get that far."
George spat at him. The spittle landed on his cheek, and he didn't wipe it off. He just looked at her, and Bess saw something shift in his gray eyes—something cold and patient.
"I'm going to remember that," he said. And then he pulled her up by the hair and dragged her across the concrete to the steel rack against the wall.
Bess pushed herself up on her elbows, watching. She should stop him. She should do something. But her legs wouldn't hold her, and her voice was a splinter in her throat.
Damien shoved George against the rack, her back to the cold steel. He reached down and cut the zip ties with one quick motion, and George's arms came free. She didn't swing. She was too smart for that. Instead, she stood there, rubbing her wrists, her eyes darting around the warehouse, looking for an escape that Bess already knew wasn't there.
"Run," Damien said. "I'll give you a head start."
George stared at him. "What?"
"You heard me. Run. I'll count to ten. If you find somewhere to hide, I'll give you an hour before I come looking." He smiled, and it was the worst thing Bess had ever seen. "I always find them, though. And the ones who run get less mercy than the ones who stay."
George didn't move. Bess could see her calculating, weighing the odds. The warehouse was a single open room, the walls lined with racks and crates, the only door the one they'd come through—and it was locked from the outside. There was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.
"I thought so," Damien said. "You're smarter than you look."
He stepped closer, and George's hands came up, ready to fight. She was faster than him—Bess had seen her spar, had seen her take down men twice her size. But Damien wasn't a man. He was something else. Something that moved with a predator's patience, that never took a step he didn't mean.
George swung first. A wild, desperate punch that Damien caught on his forearm. She followed with her other hand, and he caught that too, his fingers closing around her wrist. She tried to kick, and he stepped into her, his body pressing her back against the steel rack, his weight trapping her.
"That's enough," he said, and there was no more amusement in his voice. Just command. "You've had your fun."
George struggled, her lean muscles straining, but she couldn't break his grip. He held her wrists in one hand, pressing them against the rack above her head, and with the other he reached down and undid his belt. Bess heard the clink of the buckle, the slide of the zipper, and she couldn't look away.
"Since you want to fight," Damien said, "I'll give you something to fight against."
He shoved her down. Not gently, the way he'd handled Bess. He shoved her to her knees, his hand in her hair, forcing her head back. She tried to twist away, but he held her fast, his other hand working his cock free of his trousers.
It was already hard. Already thick. Bess saw George's eyes drop to it, saw the fear finally break through her defiance.
"Open your mouth," Damien said.
George set her jaw. "No."
He backhanded her. Not hard enough to knock her out, but hard enough to send her head snapping to the side, hard enough to bring blood to her lip. She gasped, and he used the moment to grab her jaw, his fingers digging into her cheeks, forcing her mouth open.
"I said," he murmured, "open your mouth."
And then he pushed inside.
George made a sound—a gagging, strangled sound that Bess felt in her own throat. He held her jaw, forcing her to take him, and she clawed at his wrists, her nails raking his skin, but he didn't even flinch. He just pushed deeper, until his cock was buried in her mouth, and her eyes were streaming tears, and her throat was working around him.
"That's it," he said, his voice rough. "Take it. All of it."
He began to move. Slow, deliberate thrusts that made George gag with every one, her hands still scrabbling at his wrists, her legs kicking against the concrete. Bess wanted to look away. She wanted to cover her ears, to block out the wet, obscene sounds of him fucking George's mouth. But she couldn't. She was frozen, watching, her own body remembering what it felt like to have him inside her.
Damien kept going. He didn't stop when George's tears spilled over her cheeks. He didn't stop when she stopped fighting, her hands dropping limp to her sides. He just kept thrusting, deeper and deeper, until his hips were flush with her face and her nose was pressed into the dark hair at the base of his cock.
"Swallow it," he said. "All of it."
George couldn't answer. She just made a sound, a choked whimper, and he pulled out of her mouth with a wet sound, leaving her gasping, drooling, her lips swollen and red.
"Not yet," he said. "I'm not done with you."
He grabbed her by the shoulders and threw her onto the concrete. She landed hard, her head cracking against the floor, and for a moment she lay still, stunned. He was on her before she could move, his knee between her legs, his hands tearing at her polo shirt. The buttons scattered across the concrete, and he pulled the fabric aside, exposing her sports bra, the lean planes of her stomach, the olive skin of her chest.
"No," she said, and her voice was cracked, broken. "Please—"
He ripped the bra down. Her breasts were small, firm, the nipples dark against her skin. He took one in his mouth, and George cried out, her back arching off the concrete. He sucked hard, his teeth grazing, and she gasped, her hands coming up to push at his head.
He caught her wrists again, pinning them above her head. "You're going to come," he said, his mouth against her ear. "And you're going to hate it."
He worked his way down her body, his mouth leaving a trail of wet heat across her stomach, his free hand working at the button of her jeans. She bucked beneath him, trying to throw him off, but he was too heavy, too relentless. He got her jeans open, shoved them down her hips, and she was left in nothing but a pair of black boyshorts, already damp.
He looked at her. "You're wet," he said, and there was something like satisfaction in his voice. "Your body knows what it wants, even if your head doesn't."
"Fuck you," George spat.
He smiled. "That's the plan."
He pulled her boyshorts down. She was bare beneath, already slick, and Bess saw the flush spread across George's cheeks as he looked at her. He spread her legs with his knees, and she tried to close them, but he was between them, too strong, too insistent.
"Look at me," he said.
George shook her head, her eyes squeezed shut.
"Look at me," he repeated, and there was steel in his voice now. "Or I'll make this hurt."
She opened her eyes. They were red-rimmed, furious, and they met his with a hatred that made Bess's breath catch.
"That's it," he said. "I want you to see who's doing this to you."
And he pushed inside her.
George screamed. It was a raw, animal sound, torn from her throat, and Bess felt her own body clench in sympathy. He was too big for her—Bess could see it in the way George's face contorted, the way her fingers clawed at the concrete. He didn't stop. He pushed deeper, until he was buried inside her, and then he began to move.
It was different than it had been with Bess. Faster. Harder. He didn't give George time to adjust, didn't give her body a chance to soften around him. He just fucked her, his hips slamming against hers, the sound of it echoing off the concrete walls.
George made sounds she couldn't control—broken gasps, strangled moans, her teeth clenched against the pleasure she didn't want to feel. Bess could see it happening, the same betrayal she'd felt herself. George's hips starting to move, her body rising to meet his thrusts, the flush spreading down her chest.
"No," George whispered. "No, no, no—"
"Yes," Damien said, his voice rough. "Yes. You're so close. I can feel you clenching around me."
"Stop—"
"I won't." He drove deeper, harder, and George cried out, her back arching off the concrete. "I'm going to make you come, and then I'm going to fill you up, and then I'm going to do it again. And you're going to take it. Every. Single. Drop."
George's orgasm tore through her. Bess saw it in the way her body convulsed, the way her inner walls clenched around him, the way her mouth opened in a soundless scream. He kept thrusting through it, and then he groaned, a deep, guttural sound, and Bess felt the heat of him as he came, filling George, flooding her.
He stayed inside her, his weight pressing her into the concrete, until his breathing slowed. Then he pulled out, and his cum leaked out of her, mixing with her own wetness on her thighs. George lay there, limp, her chest heaving, her eyes staring at nothing.
Damien stood up. He tucked himself away, did up his trousers, and looked down at her. "Stay," he said. "I'm not done with you either."
He turned toward the van. Bess heard George's ragged breathing, heard her own heart pounding in her ears, and she knew what was coming next.
The van doors opened. And Nancy Drew looked out at them, her strawberry-blond hair disheveled, her blue eyes sharp and furious above the tape over her mouth.
Nancy's eyes moved past Bess—past George's crumpled form, past the cum cooling on their thighs—and fixed on Damien with a hatred so pure Bess felt it like a temperature drop. Her shoulders strained against the ropes binding her wrists, and the gag muffled something that was clearly not a plea.
Damien walked to the van with unhurried steps, his shoes clicking on concrete. He reached in and hauled Nancy out by the arm, and she came fighting—legs kicking, body twisting, the ropes creaking as she tried to wrench free. He let her struggle for a moment, watching her with those flat gray eyes, and then he simply lifted her off the ground and carried her to the center of the warehouse floor.
"You're the one I've been saving," he said, setting her down on her knees. "The famous Nancy Drew. The girl who's always three steps ahead." He crouched in front of her, and his voice dropped to something almost intimate. "Except tonight. Tonight you're exactly where I wanted you."
Nancy's eyes didn't waver. They held his, sharp and blue and promising something she couldn't deliver with her hands tied behind her back.
He reached for the tape at her mouth, and Bess saw Nancy's jaw tighten, saw her brace. He pulled it off in one quick motion, and Nancy gasped, her lips red and raw, but she didn't cry out. She just stared at him, breathing hard.
"I'm going to enjoy this," Damien said. "You've been a thorn in my side for years. Do you know how many operations you've ruined? How much money you've cost me?"
Nancy's voice came out hoarse but steady. "Not enough."
He laughed, a low sound that made Bess's skin crawl. "There she is. The defiance. I was hoping you'd keep that." He stood, looking down at her. "You're going to watch what I do to your friends, and then you're going to know it's your fault. Because you brought them here. You thought you could take me down, and you brought them right into my hands."
Nancy's composure cracked, just for a second. Her eyes flicked to Bess, to George, and something passed across her face—guilt, maybe, or grief. Then it was gone, replaced by that same cold fury.
"They're alive," she said. "That's more than you'll be when I get out of these ropes."
Damien smiled, and it was the worst thing Bess had seen all night. "You're not getting out of those ropes, Nancy. You're going to stay right there and watch, and then I'm going to take you apart the same way I took them apart. And when I'm done, you're going to understand that you were never the one in control. You never were."
He turned to Bess, and her stomach dropped. He walked toward her, and she scrambled backward on the concrete, her palms scraping, her dress catching under her knees. He didn't hurry. He just followed, unhurried, until she hit the wall of stacked steel racks and couldn't go any further.
"Please," she whispered. "Please, I did what you asked. I—"
"You did," he said, crouching in front of her. "You were very good. But I told you I wasn't done with you." He reached out and traced a finger down her cheek, and she flinched. "You're going to watch this one. And you're going to remember that you could have stopped it. You could have told her to run, back when you had the chance."
Bess's eyes filled with tears. She had thought about that. She'd thought about it every second since he'd thrown her in the van. If she'd screamed, if she'd fought harder—
"Don't," Nancy said, her voice sharp. "Don't you dare blame her. She didn't do anything wrong."
Damien turned, his attention sliding back to Nancy like a snake's. "No," he agreed. "You did. You're the one who thought you could outsmart me. You're the one who walked into my trap and brought them with you." He stood and walked back to her, and Bess watched the color drain from Nancy's face as he reached for the buttons of her blouse. "So you're going to pay for it. And they're going to watch."
He unbuttoned her blouse slowly, one button at a time, and Nancy's breath came faster, her chest rising and falling beneath the thin fabric. She didn't look away. She stared at his face, at the scar running down his temple, and Bess saw her lips moving—counting, maybe, or reciting something to keep herself together.
He pushed the blouse open, exposing a plain white bra, and Bess saw Nancy's hands clench behind her back. He reached around and unhooked it, and the bra fell away, and Nancy's breasts were bare, small and firm with nipples that hardened in the cold air despite everything.
"You're beautiful," Damien said, and there was something almost reverent in his voice. "I've thought about this. About what it would be like to have you like this. To see the great Nancy Drew brought down to nothing but a body."
Nancy's voice shook, but it didn't break. "You'll never have me. Not really."
He smiled. "I don't need to have you, Nancy. I just need to take you."
He lowered his head and took her nipple in his mouth, and Nancy's whole body jerked. She made a sound—a sharp, bitten-off gasp—and her hands strained at the ropes. He sucked hard, his tongue working against her, and Bess watched Nancy's eyes squeeze shut, watched her jaw clench against the sensation.
"Look at me," Damien said, pulling back. "Open your eyes and look at me."
Nancy didn't. She kept them shut, her face twisted with effort, and he grabbed her chin and forced her head up.
"I said look at me."
She opened her eyes, and they were bright with unshed tears, and Bess's heart broke. She had never seen Nancy like this—vulnerable, terrified, her famous composure stripped away to nothing but raw nerve.
"That's better," Damien said. He moved to her other breast, taking it in his mouth, and Nancy's breath hitched. He sucked until her nipple was swollen and red, until she was trembling, and then he pulled back and looked at her.
"Your friends are going to watch me fuck you," he said. "And then I'm going to come on your tits, and then I'm going to make you swallow every drop of me. And when I'm done, you're going to know exactly what it feels like to lose."
Nancy's eyes blazed. "Fuck you."
He laughed. "You keep saying that. You keep hoping it'll do something." He reached down and undid his trousers, and his cock sprang free, already hard, already thick. Bess saw Nancy's eyes drop to it, saw the fear flicker across her face before she hid it.
"Open your mouth," Damien said.
Nancy's jaw tightened. "No."
He grabbed her jaw, his fingers digging into her cheeks, forcing her mouth open. "I wasn't asking."
He pushed his cock against her lips, and Nancy made a sound of protest, her hands straining at the ropes. He didn't stop. He pushed forward, and her mouth was forced open around him, and Bess watched Nancy's eyes water as he slid deeper.
"That's it," Damien said, his voice rough. "Take it. All of it."
He pushed deeper, and Nancy gagged, her throat working around him, her fingers clawing at the concrete. He held her jaw, forcing her to take him, and Bess could see the tears spilling over Nancy's cheeks, could see the fury and the humiliation warring in her eyes.
He began to move, slow, deliberate thrusts that made Nancy gag with every one. Her hands scrabbled at his wrists, her legs kicked against the concrete, but he didn't even flinch. He just kept pushing deeper, until his hips were flush with her face and her nose was pressed into the dark hair at the base of his cock.
Bess watched, frozen, her own throat aching in sympathy. She could hear the wet, obscene sounds of him fucking Nancy's mouth, could see the way Nancy's throat worked around him, and she wanted to look away. She wanted to cover her ears. But she couldn't. She was rooted to the spot, watching her friend be taken apart.
"Swallow it," Damien said. "All of it."
Nancy couldn't answer. She just made a choked sound, and he pulled out of her mouth with a wet pop, leaving her gasping, drooling, her lips swollen and red. She coughed, her chest heaving, and Damien grabbed her by the hair and pulled her head back.
"Not yet," he said. "I'm not done with you."
He pushed her down onto the concrete, and she landed hard, her head cracking against the floor. He was on her before she could move, his knee between her legs, his hands working at the button of her jeans. She bucked beneath him, trying to throw him off, but he was too heavy, too relentless.
"Get off me," she gasped. "Get off—"
He got her jeans open, shoved them down her hips, and she was left in nothing but a pair of white panties, already damp. He looked at her, and there was satisfaction in his eyes.
"Wet," he said. "Your body knows what it wants, even if your head doesn't."
Nancy's face flushed. "Go to hell."
He smiled. "I'll get there. But first, I'm going to take you."
He pulled her panties down, and Bess saw Nancy's bare cunt, slick and glistening. He spread her legs with his knees, and Nancy tried to close them, but he was between them, too strong. He positioned himself at her entrance, and Nancy's eyes went wide.
"Look at me," he said.
Nancy shook her head.
"Look at me," he repeated, his voice hard. "Or I'll make this hurt."
She opened her eyes, and they were red-rimmed, furious, and they met his with a hatred that made Bess's breath catch.
And he pushed inside her.
Nancy screamed. It was a raw, animal sound, torn from her throat, and Bess felt her own body clench in sympathy. He was too big for her—Bess could see it in the way Nancy's face contorted, the way her fingers clawed at the concrete. He didn't stop. He pushed deeper, until he was buried inside her, and then he began to move.
It was different than it had been with Bess or George. Slower. More deliberate. He watched Nancy's face as he fucked her, watched her composure crumble, watched her fight the pleasure she didn't want to feel. And Bess could see it happening—the same betrayal she'd felt herself. Nancy's hips starting to move, her body rising to meet his thrusts, the flush spreading down her chest.
"No," Nancy whispered. "No, no, no—"
"Stop—"
"I won't." He drove deeper, harder, and Nancy cried out, her back arching off the concrete. "I'm going to make you come, and then I'm going to fill you up, and then I'm going to do it again. And you're going to take it. Every. Single. Drop."
Nancy's orgasm tore through her. Bess saw it in the way her body convulsed, the way her inner walls clenched around him, the way her mouth opened in a soundless scream. He kept thrusting through it, and then he groaned, a deep, guttural sound, and Bess felt the heat of him as he came, filling Nancy, flooding her.
He stayed inside her, his weight pressing her into the concrete, until his breathing slowed. Then he pulled out, and his cum leaked out of her, mixing with her own wetness on her thighs. Nancy lay there, limp, her chest heaving, her eyes staring at nothing.
Damien stood up. He tucked himself away, did up his trousers, and looked down at her. "Not bad," he said. "You're more resilient than I expected. But you're still just a woman. Still just a body."
He turned and walked to the van, and Bess heard the engine start. She watched him drive away, the taillights disappearing into the night, and then she was alone with George and Nancy, the three of them broken and bleeding on the cold concrete floor.
Bess crawled to Nancy first. She reached out and touched her shoulder, and Nancy flinched, her eyes finally focusing on Bess's face.
"He's gone," Bess whispered. "He's gone."
Nancy didn't answer. She just lay there, staring at the ceiling, her body trembling. And Bess knew, with a cold certainty that settled into her bones, that nothing would ever be the same again. They had been taken, all at once, and they would never be whole again.