Read Online Dirty (JUST BREATHE Ephemera Book 3) by Kendall Grey - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kendall Grey
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his heavy muscles and the insanity that seemed to have claimed his mind. Terror, anger, and panic swirled together, mugged her brain. Her frail heart continued hammering. She prayed for an adrenaline rush that might give her the energy to lift a car, but it never came.
Now she cried in earnest. Sobs choked her words, chopping them into small, unidentifiable pieces. “Don’t do it. Please don’t do it! I’m a virgin. I don’t want to die …”
Her pleas went unheeded as the man she almost loved took her body against her will. Though she was physically inferior and no match for his strength, her unwavering resolve to stop him never floundered. She kicked and hit and scratched and bit with all her might. Even as cold acceptance of her fate settled in her bones, she rallied against it amid revolting grunts, jabs, and threats until he finished.
When he pulled out, chest heaving and irises glowing red like a demon’s, he curled his lip and backhanded her across the face. Her jaw popped and fell loose. Broken. She denied the pain access to her mind—swallowed it, buried it deep in her gut with sheer willpower.
She couldn’t see through her left eye, which had swollen closed after he’d elbowed her a few minutes before. What she could only assume was blood pooled between her legs.
“Bastard,” she said, but without the use of her jaw muscles, the word came out as formless garble.
“You make me sick. You pathetic, weak piece of shit.” Tyson spit in her face. The saliva sizzled like fiery worms burrowing into her skin. What the hell ?
No. This is a bad dream. Or a hallucination. It’s not real. It’s not happening.
Oh, yes, it was. And she had two choices. She could go down like a victim—a frail, pitiful damsel in distress who accepted her death—or go down like an unwavering soldier, guns blazing, determined to make her death mean something.
A strange calm descended over her—the same feeling she got when she worked with the animals she loved. A cold, detached sense of purpose. A total lack of emotion that allowed her to do her job with great efficiency.
Despite the agony shrilling from nearly every nerve in her body, Jetta wouldn’t give Tyson the pleasure of her tears.
Weak.
If she lived to see the sunrise, no one would ever call her weak again.
Her resolve hardened into rock as he gripped her throat. She met his stare head-on. No fear, intense focus.
The light of uncertainty flashed in his demonic face for a split second.
Pressure on her larynx increased. Airflow ceased. Her eyeballs bulged from their sockets. Blood flow to her head stopped.
Victim.
No. Never again. Jetta held onto his gaze with the strength of a thousand elephants.
“Die, you fucking bitch.” Lips trembling, he put more muscle into the murder.
With nothing left but sheer determination, she clung to the last thread of life, refusing to let it go.
Moments later, when the lights went out, her dead eyes remained locked on his.
You will pay, Tyson.
----
J une 23
L ight . Pain. Confusion.
Rage, shame, humiliation.
A woman’s face. Vivid green eyes. Tawny skin.
Thirsty.
Jetta’s head tilted up. Water trickled into her mouth. She shut her lids.
Cold.
Sleep.
----
J une 24
S oft blades of vegetation . Scent of fresh grass. Cool breeze.
Jetta ground her jaw back and forth, raking bottom teeth across top ones. Better.
What had happened? Where was she?
A woman’s face. Neither old nor young. Native American. Vivid green eyes. Tawny skin. A smile. Long, brown hair tied into a braid and curled around her shoulder like a cat’s tail.
Squatting, she took Jetta’s elbow and helped her to a sitting position. “Drink this.” She held out a carved wooden cup.
Jetta brushed a hand across her forehead and accepted the offering. Reddish-brown liquid sloshed inside. “What is it?”
“Hawthorn. Treats chronic heart failure.” The woman nodded to her chest. “And gives you strength.”
How did she know about the
Now she cried in earnest. Sobs choked her words, chopping them into small, unidentifiable pieces. “Don’t do it. Please don’t do it! I’m a virgin. I don’t want to die …”
Her pleas went unheeded as the man she almost loved took her body against her will. Though she was physically inferior and no match for his strength, her unwavering resolve to stop him never floundered. She kicked and hit and scratched and bit with all her might. Even as cold acceptance of her fate settled in her bones, she rallied against it amid revolting grunts, jabs, and threats until he finished.
When he pulled out, chest heaving and irises glowing red like a demon’s, he curled his lip and backhanded her across the face. Her jaw popped and fell loose. Broken. She denied the pain access to her mind—swallowed it, buried it deep in her gut with sheer willpower.
She couldn’t see through her left eye, which had swollen closed after he’d elbowed her a few minutes before. What she could only assume was blood pooled between her legs.
“Bastard,” she said, but without the use of her jaw muscles, the word came out as formless garble.
“You make me sick. You pathetic, weak piece of shit.” Tyson spit in her face. The saliva sizzled like fiery worms burrowing into her skin. What the hell ?
No. This is a bad dream. Or a hallucination. It’s not real. It’s not happening.
Oh, yes, it was. And she had two choices. She could go down like a victim—a frail, pitiful damsel in distress who accepted her death—or go down like an unwavering soldier, guns blazing, determined to make her death mean something.
A strange calm descended over her—the same feeling she got when she worked with the animals she loved. A cold, detached sense of purpose. A total lack of emotion that allowed her to do her job with great efficiency.
Despite the agony shrilling from nearly every nerve in her body, Jetta wouldn’t give Tyson the pleasure of her tears.
Weak.
If she lived to see the sunrise, no one would ever call her weak again.
Her resolve hardened into rock as he gripped her throat. She met his stare head-on. No fear, intense focus.
The light of uncertainty flashed in his demonic face for a split second.
Pressure on her larynx increased. Airflow ceased. Her eyeballs bulged from their sockets. Blood flow to her head stopped.
Victim.
No. Never again. Jetta held onto his gaze with the strength of a thousand elephants.
“Die, you fucking bitch.” Lips trembling, he put more muscle into the murder.
With nothing left but sheer determination, she clung to the last thread of life, refusing to let it go.
Moments later, when the lights went out, her dead eyes remained locked on his.
You will pay, Tyson.
----
J une 23
L ight . Pain. Confusion.
Rage, shame, humiliation.
A woman’s face. Vivid green eyes. Tawny skin.
Thirsty.
Jetta’s head tilted up. Water trickled into her mouth. She shut her lids.
Cold.
Sleep.
----
J une 24
S oft blades of vegetation . Scent of fresh grass. Cool breeze.
Jetta ground her jaw back and forth, raking bottom teeth across top ones. Better.
What had happened? Where was she?
A woman’s face. Neither old nor young. Native American. Vivid green eyes. Tawny skin. A smile. Long, brown hair tied into a braid and curled around her shoulder like a cat’s tail.
Squatting, she took Jetta’s elbow and helped her to a sitting position. “Drink this.” She held out a carved wooden cup.
Jetta brushed a hand across her forehead and accepted the offering. Reddish-brown liquid sloshed inside. “What is it?”
“Hawthorn. Treats chronic heart failure.” The woman nodded to her chest. “And gives you strength.”
How did she know about the
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