Wicked Ride (The Wicked Horse #4)

by Sawyer Bennett



I think this woman may be the death of me.

A dire prediction, but probably true.

Probably true because she’s not mine to have and I’d probably take her, even at the risk to my own safety.

I’m fixated on her… obsessed really. That black-as-midnight hair and huge, blue eyes the color of the Wyoming sky. Her skin pale… almost translucent. She looks otherworldly, in fact, and it’s no secret that every man in The Silo is obsessed with her as much as I am.

I have to have her, and maybe tonight will be the night. My dick is already hard and aching with the thought, and if I’m given the pleasure of her company, my cock won’t even get to touch her pussy, which I’m betting is sweeter than honey. I try to look nonchalant as her “owner” walks around The Silo, chatting up the various patrons and deciding who gets to play with her tonight. He’s passed me by on three other occasions. I expect tonight won’t be any different because he knows I don’t have the type of bank he’ll be asking for when he ultimately auctions her off. So many men slobbering to get a taste of her, but only one sweet, virginal girl to go around.

That’s right.

She’s a virgin.

Twenty years old and looks like a porcelain china doll that would break if not carefully handled. But I also know she’s stronger than she looks as I’ve watched her take a mouth fucking like a champ.

She’s a contradiction.

She’s most likely my downfall.

Like I said, she’ll probably be the death of me, but it’s a risk I’m willing to take.

Chapter 1


I’m in the viewing room again. Three rows of seats, stadium style. I’m in the front row, so I have a completely unobstructed view of what’s going on fifteen feet down below us. I’ve been here before and it’s all familiar to me, but not in a way that provides comfort.

But it’s familiar in a way that I know I have to see this nightmare through to the end, even if I’m not sure exactly where it’s going.

While the lights in the viewing room are bright and astringent to my eyes, the room below is dark and shadowy with only the center being visible because of the round surgical lamps surrounding the operating table. And I know it’s an operating table below because I can hear the soft whoosh of a respirator and the faint beeping of the EKG monitor, but mostly because several doctors and nurses clad in scrubs and face masks congregate around it. There are so many of them that they stand with their shoulders pressed against one another, forming a tight ring around the table as they do their work. The circle of medical professionals is so tightly formed that I can’t even see who is on the table.

I lean forward in my chair, getting closer to the clear glass. My eyes narrow and I lean left and right in my seat, trying to get a better look. Trying to see past the surgeons and nurses.

Trying to get just a tiny peek of who is lying on that table.

Maybe if one of them would just move a tiny bit, I could see.

It’s so frustrating, and I’m wondering if I’m the only one in this room having a hard time trying to see what’s going on down below. The seats are filled to capacity, this I know, but I’m not sure who all is here with me.

I turn my head to the right, see a row of people, but their faces are all blurred and indistinguishable.

To the left, it’s the same, but no one is leaning forward the way I am. By their body language alone, none of them appears to be distressed that they can’t see who’s on the table.

I slide my gaze back down to the surgical room below, my nerves tingling with an awareness that I just can’t quite put my finger on. The doctors and nurses work, murmuring words I can’t understand.

Then it happens… the doctor at the very end of the table at the patient’s feet shifts slightly, and then straightens until his spine is perpendicular to the floor. His head slowly turns, lifts, and his eyes come right to me. I can’t see any of his face below said eyes as it’s covered by his mask, but I don’t need to see what’s under that thin, protective covering to know that his lips are flattened in a disappointed grimace.

His eyebrows slant inward and his eyes narrow; I feel the icy disgust permeate every molecule of my being.

Then he moves again… this time turning his body to the right, which creates a slight opening at the end of the table. His gaze is so hostile now that it’s not a chore for me to tear mine away, and I cut it to the operating table.

It’s a small body on the table, covered in a white sheet, the feet not even reaching to the end. One by one, each of the doctors and nurses step away from the table, creating more space for me to observe what’s really going on.

My gaze drifts up the small body that I inherently know is female, covered all the way up to the chest. I first notice the long, dark hair spilled out from under her head, but I can’t see her face as it’s covered with a large mask attached to the respirator.

I’m so frustrated, not being able to quite recognize who it is.

Then a nurse reaches a hand outward to the patient, puts it on the mask, and slowly pulls it away.

My heart rate speeds up with anticipation… dread… near hysteria. I want to look away, but I can’t.

I won’t let myself.

Then I see who it is just as the respirator goes quiet and a long, steady beep emits from the EKG machine.

And I scream, and scream, and scream.

I shoot straight up in the bed, my abs clenched tight from the move, but then my stomach turns to liquid as I come awake. My mouth is wide open, but no sound is coming out. I’m soaked with sweat, trickles running down my temples and down the middle of my bare chest.

My lungs are rapidly expanding and deflating, yet it doesn’t feel like any oxygen is getting in. I swing my legs to the side of the small mattress, the box spring underneath squeaking, and I place my feet on the floor, slightly spreading my legs. Leaning forward, I dip my head down in between my knees as wave after wave of nausea rolls through me. I suck in deep breaths of air, mentally telling myself it’s just a nightmare.

But I’m awake and cognizant enough to know it’s not.

Images flash through my head of the little girl on the operating room table. The vague smell of antiseptic remains in my nostrils so vividly, my eyes water in response.

I swallow hard against the vomit threatening to rise up my throat and fling myself back on the bed. Shutting my eyes tight, I conjure up the most pornographic images I can think of to try to redirect my thoughts. I’ve tried deep breathing, meditation, prescription drugs, illegal drugs, and alcohol. I’ve tried it all before, but nothing wipes my mind clear of the nightmare quite like refocusing my attention to something that is almost antithetical to the pain that particular dream produces.