My coldhearted ex demands a remarriage - Chapter 151

Chapter 151:

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With desperation lacing her voice, she screamed for help, clinging to a fading hope.

Her plea, however, was swiftly smothered by the seasoned hands of the two men. One of the men quickly subdued her protests with a swift spray to her face. The strange, acrid scent clouded her senses, rendering her weak, her limbs unresponsive, and her voice reduced to a hoarse whisper.

Dragged along helplessly, she could feel their hands roaming over her, each touch igniting a wave of disgust and fear within her.

“You really think a nice girl should be out walking alone at night?” one of the men taunted, his voice dripping with scorn as they continued to pull her along. “Seems like you’re out looking for some fun. Play your cards right, and we might even pay you handsomely.”

“Dressed to draw eyes, aren’t you? Enough with your charade,” the other mocked cruelly, a grim smile playing on his lips. “After we have our fun, you’ll come around.”

As they hurled insults, they dragged her towards a nondescript van parked in the shadow of the dilapidated buildings.

One of the men flung open the door and hurled Carrie inside with little regard for her safety.

Her drenched shirt clung tightly to her, outlining her silhouette provocatively, igniting a raw desire in the men. Despite the chilly rain that soaked through their clothes, a fiery lust blazed within them, compelling them to lick their lips in anticipation of possessing such a captivating woman at no cost.

Carrie’s head collided violently with the far door, causing a burst of stars to explode across her vision and her mind to reel in confusion.

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Fearing she might lose consciousness, she bit down hard on her tongue. The sharp pain snapped her back to reality just as one of the men, eyes gleaming with malice, advanced toward her.

In a desperate reflex, she lashed out with her foot, striking him directly in the groin.

The man screamed in agony, his hands clutching his injured crotch as he staggered backward.

The other man, momentarily sobered by his companion’s scream, seized Carrie’s ankle and yanked her toward him. He slapped her fiercely across the face, snarling, “Don’t play tough, bitch. You’re mine tonight!”

The blow knocked Carrie sideways onto the seat, her cheek burning from the impact.

As her eyes adjusted, she noticed two beer bottles hidden under the cushion.

Before the man could grab her collar and haul her up again, she pushed the burning pain in her face aside, grabbed a bottle, and swung it at his head in a frantic attempt to defend herself.

There was no triumphant moment of victory or clever escape, and even the chance to snatch a shard of glass to make a stand eluded her—because the bottle did not shatter as she had hoped.

Her efforts were too feeble to make a significant impact, and the man easily wrested it from her grasp, leaving her defenseless once more.

In such circumstances, one must either overpower the adversary with a decisive strike or display such ferocity that it frightens them away, ensuring a chance to flee.

Carrie’s weak efforts only infuriated them more.

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