Chapter One

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Author's Note: Thanks for reading the sequel to "When I Fall For My Kidnapper"! I'm really excited for this book and I have many plans, so thanks for being patient and keeping with it. For now, the story is called "The Leverage", but this is MORE THAN LIKELY a temporary name. Suggestions for a sequel name would be really great if I decide I want something different! So just letting you know that. And thank you to everyone who had such nice things to tell me about the first book! I really appreciate it, and it keeps me really motivated, so keep with it. ;) So thanks again and I hope you enjoy this story and keep with it as well. :)

Enjoy ~

I curl up in the smallest ball I can muster in the corner of the cement cell. The rough ground scrapes into the sides of my bare skin, though the pain is hardly registering since every part of my being is too cold to process anything besides the numb fear building within my aching heart. I feel rough, callused hands attaching themselves to my bony hips, dragging me over the freezing, dusty surface of the dirty cement floor beneath me. The hands dig into my thin layer of cracked and bleeding skin until I feel what's left of my body being lifted against my client.

I stopped fighting back against the people who "used" me long ago. I learned the hard way, multiple times, that whenever I fight, they fight back. Only harder, and their punches actually hurt. It's not that I don't want to fight, because I do. I would do anything to lay one single punch into the man touching me right now, but I couldn't. I don't have the strenght to even walk anymore, let alone inflict a fraction of the amount of pain on the person causing harm to me.

The man tosses my bones back against the wall I had attempted to seek help from, the impact of my bruised shoulder smacking against the stiff wall finally sending a wave of pain so great, I can actually feel it this time. The family wince of my weak muscles attempting to send a message to my dying brain that I'm in pain again, and that it would be good to do something about it. But even my subconscious knows there's nothing I can do. So I just bite back a useless whimper as the man starts touching me again.

The man's hands push into my flat stomach that barely hides my visible ribs, and a soft scream escapes my dry and scraping throat that lusts for water. My stomach is especially sore. The life that my stomach had been building had been beaten to death, and my insides were still paying the consequences. My baby is gone. I couldn't save it. All of my fighting had been for nothing. I hadn't been strong enough.

Naturally, my mind floats to the fading image of Trevor when I think of our lost child. Despite the current situation I'm in, the faint trace of a smile breaks on my cracked lips at the picture of Trevor's smirking face in my head. I force my mind to remind myself of the feel of Trevor's delicate, gentle hands around my wrists instead of the current man practically breaking them from above me to pin me down. Instead of comprehending the feel of my client's mouth angrily and painfully forcing its harsh kiss to me, I imagine the savoring feeling of Trevor's delicious, assuring lips moving slowly with me, teasing me like he always did.

My heart swells with the misery of missing Trevor, missing the way he held me our last night together. I would give anything to go back to the time when we were together, but I would give even more to fast forward to the part when we are together again.

I can even imagine Trevor's dark, deep, familiar voice whispering ghosts of promises in my ear, telling me that it will be alright. That he'll save me soon. That he loves me.

I shiver, but not from the cold, as I continue to miss Trevor. Apologizing repeatedly to him in my head about the fact that I lost our child, I block out the fact that an entirely different man is touching me in ways no one else has. And in a bad, painful way. A way that no one else should ever encounter.

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