His Dirty Massage Secret - Chapter 6: Chapter 6
You are reading His Dirty Massage Secret, Chapter 6: Chapter 6. Read more chapters of His Dirty Massage Secret.
Vincent Lowell's gaze burned into me as Gwendolyn Ashcroft shielded my body, my scissors pressed against her throat.
"Pathetic bluff," he sneered, voice thick with contempt. "If you had the spine to kill, she'd already be bleeding out. Drop the act." His hand extended toward me. "Here's how this ends—hand over those scissors, get on your knees, and beg for my mercy."
My lips curled. With one sharp motion, the blades bit into Gwendolyn's neck.
The dazed woman jerked awake with a shriek, wild eyes finding Vincent. "Cousin! Help me!"
He froze mid-step, his face turning stormy.
I ripped the key free and hurled it at his polished shoes. "Bring me my daughter. If she's harmed, none of you leave this house breathing."
Minutes crawled by before Vincent returned, cradling my motionless baby. No cries. No whimpers. They'd never taken her to a hospital.
"Put. Her. Down."
My grip on the scissors stayed firm, but sweat slicked my palm.
Vincent's mouth twisted into something ugly. His fist smashed into my baby's face. A thin, broken whimper escaped her before she gagged, tiny body convulsing.
"Now why isn't she crying?" he mused, tilting his head.
White-hot rage seared my vision. "STOP!"
In my panic, the scissors grazed Gwendolyn's throat.
"'Stop?'" Vincent mocked, wagging a finger like scolding a child. "Now that's not playing fair."
My voice cracked. "What the hell isn't fair?"
"You brutalized my cousin's wife, yet stand here without a scratch. That's not fair."
Another punch landed. My baby's face distorted with pain.
Each blow felt like a red-hot poker twisting in my chest, stealing my breath.
They could torture me for hours, but scream foul play the second I fought back.
Fairness only existed when it served them. Their rules, their justice.
Through clenched teeth, I bargained: "Give her to me, and Gwendolyn walks free!"
Vincent advanced, dropping my child to the floor—then kicked her tiny body like a discarded toy.
The scream that tore from my throat could've shattered glass.
"Too late for deals." His voice could've frozen hell. "Let's see how far street trash like you can run."
I shoved Gwendolyn aside and lunged for my baby.
Vincent's boot came down on her fragile ribs.
"Here's your choice," he said calmly. "Stab yourself a few times with those scissors. Then maybe I let you both crawl out of here."
The agony she must be feeling—it broke something inside me. I wanted to fold her against my chest and vanish.
But I knew his promises were worthless. All of theirs were.
I wouldn't die like some slaughtered animal. I'd fight until the cops came or hell froze over.
Head bowed in false surrender, I angled the scissors toward my own heart—then hurled them at Vincent's smirking face.
The second he flinched, I scooped up my baby.
Her face was a swollen nightmare of purples and blues. No movement. No sound.
When I felt the ghost of breath against my cheek, the dam broke. Hot tears spilled over.
No time to fall apart. I bolted for the stairs with Vincent's roar echoing behind me.
I didn't dare look back. One hesitation would be our death sentence.
First floor. The exit was right there—
Then the door swung open.
Damian Royston stood framed in daylight, surprise flashing across his face before it twisted into something monstrous.
"Out already? Perfect. We have unfinished business."
Trapped between him and Vincent's approaching footsteps, I realized with cold clarity: There was nowhere left to run.
"Pathetic bluff," he sneered, voice thick with contempt. "If you had the spine to kill, she'd already be bleeding out. Drop the act." His hand extended toward me. "Here's how this ends—hand over those scissors, get on your knees, and beg for my mercy."
My lips curled. With one sharp motion, the blades bit into Gwendolyn's neck.
The dazed woman jerked awake with a shriek, wild eyes finding Vincent. "Cousin! Help me!"
He froze mid-step, his face turning stormy.
I ripped the key free and hurled it at his polished shoes. "Bring me my daughter. If she's harmed, none of you leave this house breathing."
Minutes crawled by before Vincent returned, cradling my motionless baby. No cries. No whimpers. They'd never taken her to a hospital.
"Put. Her. Down."
My grip on the scissors stayed firm, but sweat slicked my palm.
Vincent's mouth twisted into something ugly. His fist smashed into my baby's face. A thin, broken whimper escaped her before she gagged, tiny body convulsing.
"Now why isn't she crying?" he mused, tilting his head.
White-hot rage seared my vision. "STOP!"
In my panic, the scissors grazed Gwendolyn's throat.
"'Stop?'" Vincent mocked, wagging a finger like scolding a child. "Now that's not playing fair."
My voice cracked. "What the hell isn't fair?"
"You brutalized my cousin's wife, yet stand here without a scratch. That's not fair."
Another punch landed. My baby's face distorted with pain.
Each blow felt like a red-hot poker twisting in my chest, stealing my breath.
They could torture me for hours, but scream foul play the second I fought back.
Fairness only existed when it served them. Their rules, their justice.
Through clenched teeth, I bargained: "Give her to me, and Gwendolyn walks free!"
Vincent advanced, dropping my child to the floor—then kicked her tiny body like a discarded toy.
The scream that tore from my throat could've shattered glass.
"Too late for deals." His voice could've frozen hell. "Let's see how far street trash like you can run."
I shoved Gwendolyn aside and lunged for my baby.
Vincent's boot came down on her fragile ribs.
"Here's your choice," he said calmly. "Stab yourself a few times with those scissors. Then maybe I let you both crawl out of here."
The agony she must be feeling—it broke something inside me. I wanted to fold her against my chest and vanish.
But I knew his promises were worthless. All of theirs were.
I wouldn't die like some slaughtered animal. I'd fight until the cops came or hell froze over.
Head bowed in false surrender, I angled the scissors toward my own heart—then hurled them at Vincent's smirking face.
The second he flinched, I scooped up my baby.
Her face was a swollen nightmare of purples and blues. No movement. No sound.
When I felt the ghost of breath against my cheek, the dam broke. Hot tears spilled over.
No time to fall apart. I bolted for the stairs with Vincent's roar echoing behind me.
I didn't dare look back. One hesitation would be our death sentence.
First floor. The exit was right there—
Then the door swung open.
Damian Royston stood framed in daylight, surprise flashing across his face before it twisted into something monstrous.
"Out already? Perfect. We have unfinished business."
Trapped between him and Vincent's approaching footsteps, I realized with cold clarity: There was nowhere left to run.
End of His Dirty Massage Secret Chapter 6. Continue reading Chapter 7 or return to His Dirty Massage Secret book page.