My shouts are easily drowned out, only drawing a glance from Bowen in the rearview mirror. His grin widens until he bares his teeth and waggles his tongue at me. I can only glare back at him in disbelief as his head starts bobbing to the beat.
The truck picks up speed, jostling me with every rock, root, and tree branch the tires hit. After a few minutes, I begin to wonder where I am. During the daytime, I never really think about how vast these woods are or how far the paths stretch through the thick brush. I’ve never been this far into the woods. After a few minutes, the truck lurches to a stop and Bowen kills the engine, but leaves the headlights on. The door slams and he emerges from the cab, still shirtless and his swath of black hair hanging over his brow.
Bowen comes to a stop in front of me and rests his elbows on the edge of the bed, leering at me over his arms, “This is a beautiful picture, right here,” he drawls with a salacious grin.
“I bet,” I reply, hopelessly twisting and tugging at the nylon straps.
After a few moments, he turns and slowly continues to the tailgate, letting it drop with a thud. Gnashing his spearmint gum in his jaw, he jumps up into the bed. His boots land with a bang and he straightens up, eyeing me from the end of the truck, contemplating. Even in the dark, I can see something working behind his eyes. He looks so tall he might as well be a tree sprouting out the end of his truck, his black tattoos like vines and moss growing on his skin.
I sit motionless on the rough lining, my eyes locked with his as he ambles toward me, the suspension creaking with each step he takes. His dusty boots come to a halt a couple feet from my knees and I watch in silence as he reaches behind his back and lifts his Glock from the holster in his waistband. My chest feels like it’s about to cave in on itself as his arm swings back into view and the familiar cold sensation I’ve grown to hate washes over my body.
Bowen cocks the gun and aims into the trees, peering down the length of his arm through the crosshairs. When he shifts his stance, the moonlight catches him through a break in the trees and casts a blue tone across his arm muscles. I crane my neck over my shoulder, following his gaze as he takes aim at a fallen log about 30 feet away with nubs of broken limbs jutting out from its bark.
“It’s illegal to hunt bigger game like deer right now,” he concentrates on his target, “but not you.”
He pulls the trigger and detonates the broken limb, the concussion echoing through the forest. I flinch at the ear-splitting shot and let out a yelp as the wood splinters into the air.
Bowen lowers his gun and turns to me, giving me a once-over. No matter what I do, no matter how many times I’ve seen him shoot, the muscles in my back and shoulders still tremble uncontrollably. Even though my face is fixed in a disinterested glare, he knows what it’s doing to me.
His mouth shifts into a grin, “Are you still scared of it?”
I take a deep breath to steady my voice, “I’m not scared of you,” I retort with irritation, knowing full well that’s not entirely true.
He cocks his head and bites his bottom lip, “I’ll give you a head start.”
I take a deep breath and gather my wits before lifting my head and looking right back at him, “What happens if you don’t find me?”
He tucks his Glock back into the waist of his jeans and kneels down, “Impossible,” he pinches my chin between his thumb and forefinger, glaring at me, “I’ll always find you.”
“Good,” I shoot him a sardonic smile, refusing to succumb to the fear responses riddling my body, “because I’ll never run from you.”
Bowen pops his gum in his teeth, eyeing me for another moment before releasing my chin. When he stands up, he’s so close that his boots nearly touch my knees.
He glances at his waist and then back at me, “I’d tell you to take my belt off, but I can see your hands are otherwise occupied,” he winks as he unbuckles his belt and slides it out of the loops in one slow, fluid motion. Then he kneels down again and starts feeding the end of his belt through the buckle, “Tell me,” Bowen brings the looped belt to my chest and slides it up my throat to my chin, “who do you belong to, baby girl?” he asks as he lifts the belt over my head.
I feel a warm rush deep in my belly and a dangerous apoplexy of adrenaline and dopamine start to build the longer I stare into Bowen’s black eyes.
“You,” I exhale, goosebumps skittering down my back as he cinches the leather strap around my neck.
He rolls his head to the opposite shoulder, his muscles popping, “You wouldn’t be lying to me, would you?” he asks as he tightens the belt, pressing his fist into the base of my skull.
My pulse pounds in my ears as I press my lips together with a quick shake of my head.
Bowen’s eyes have the same darkness they did in the kitchen earlier today, “Because I don’t like it when someone thinks they can come take what belongs to me.” My heart hammers the longer he stares at me with the same scrutinizing look. “And you seem like you need me to remind you who runs your shit.”
He lets the belt go slack and trails his index finger down my sternum, hooking it over my tank top into my cleavage. He just sits there for a few moments, chewing the inside of his cheek like he’s sizing me up. Suddenly, I feel a tug at my shirt as he reaches up and rips the front clean open in one motion. I flinch with a gasp, feeling the night air rush over my bare skin. He flashes a condescending smile as he pops the straps from their seams and pulls my shirt, reduced to a mere rag, through my arms and tosses it aside. I’m sure he’ll just use it to clean his guns later.
Bowen rises and starts unbuttoning his jeans, “Who’s always going to take care of you?” he asks, sliding his jeans down low on his hips, low enough to reveal his tattoo of Cerberus guarding Hades.
“You,” I murmur as he reaches into his pants.
When he takes out his cock, it’s already stiff, formidable, and dripping with anticipation. But by the way he’s looking at me, I’m not sure whether to be excited or afraid. Maybe he is Hades and he’s about to unleash hell upon me, after all. Bowen fists it in one hand and then places his palm upright, next to my chin.
“Spit,” he commands.
Glancing up at him, I start sucking my cheeks in and out, moving my tongue to gather the saliva in my mouth. After a few moments, I lean over and spit the mouthful into his palm. He takes it and starts lubing his cock with it right next to my head. And when he’s done, he reaches over and drags his palm across my face, from one cheek to the other, like he’s wiping mud off his hand.
When I recoil, Bowen grabs my chin in the crook of his thumb and gives my head a shake, “What’s the matter, baby girl—you don’t like getting dirty?” he jeers, “But isn’t that what you are—a dirty fucking whore?”
He tosses my face to the side with abject disdain, and I don’t even care because I deserve whatever he has planned for me, regardless of what exactly he knows or how he knows it.
Bowen reaches around my head and grabs the belt with one hand, fisting his cock with the other. He strokes it slowly, from top to bottom, so close to my face that his knuckles graze my temple as he moves.
His tone has a warning edge, “Are you sorry?”
I nod, his belt pinching the back of my neck the harder he squeezes. Because I am.
Suddenly, I feel a smack and let out a gasp when I realize Bowen just smacked me across the cheek with his cock.
He bends down, “Are. You. Sorry?” he repeats, his voice more sinister now.
“Yes,” I croak.
“What are you sorry for?”
I hesitate too long and feel another sharp smack against my cheek, “What—” before I can cough out the words, there’s another.
And another.
