Page 101 of Beautiful Scars

“Oh...big picture shit.” If she trying to sound sarcastic, it’s not working. There’s a hitch in her voice I haven’t heard before, and I don’t like it.

“Aye. Big picture.”

“First, tell me about the castle.”

“The…” Shit, I’d clean forgotten. “It’s a castle. What more is there to know?”

She’s not looking at me, which means I can’t read her. I grab the back of her neck and turn her to face me. It puts her back up—it always does—but the flicker in her eyes has nothing to do with fright or frustration.

No, for probably the first time since I kidnapped her and holed her up in Cole’s sex dungeon, she looks uneasy.

“Sarah said it was expensive.” Those silver-gray eyes search my face, but who knows what she’s looking for.

“It’s just money.” And my money, not even hers. What does she care how much the castle cost?

“Oh.” It comes out quiet, like I’ve confirmed something she’s been thinking all along.

I let go of her neck and ready myself to stand up. I came here to talk, not to play more of her games. But I guess that’s all there will ever be with her. Games, back and forth. Winner takes all.

“I don’t know what I want,” she says, again quiet, but fast, like she wants to get it over and done with. “I mean, I used to.” She lets out an irritated sigh and puts her hands over her face.

Until she met me, I’m guessing. Then everything changed. Hard to have a five-year-plan if you’re currently at the mercy of the man who kidnapped you for political leverage.

“Why did you come back to Scotland?” That, if anything, should give me a clue at least. She said she wanted to go home the other day, and from the way she said it, she hadn’t meant back to Mammy’s house. “Why did you leave South Africa?”

She shifts a little, still avoiding eye contact. I want to grab her chin and make her look at me, but that might shut her down again. So I wait, and I try to be patient, difficult as it is.

Meisie’s quiet like that for a while. Almost too long for me to bear. But then she shifts again, and this time, her hand goes under her shirt. Touches that scar. But it’s almost automatic, as if she doesn’t realize she’s doing it.

“I wanted...to know that she’s safe.”

The sprog is still alive...and it’s a girl?

I’ve had Derek trying to find information on this for the last two weeks.

“She’s in Scotland? Your daughter?”

Meisie flinches, ripping her hand away from her scar and turning wide eyes on me. “I don’t know anything,” she blurts out. “And it’s none of your business anyway.” Those same eyes narrow. “And what the hell kind of question is that? Shouldn’t you be focusing on your drugs, and your sex trafficking, and, and...”

“And?” I ask quietly.

“Whatever the fuck else you do.”

“What, now you’re all out of guesses?” I lean closer, and she leans back. “Or is that the extent of your knowledge about the intricate inner workings of my business?”

This shuts her up, and it makes me regret losing my patience with her. Of course she knows fuck-all about what I do, else we’d be having an entirely different conversation. The kind where she’s tied up and I’m torturing her—and not in a sexy way.

“You think that’s all I do? Spend my days slinging drugs and selling women?”

Her eyes slide away from me, back to the silent television. “Enlighten me.”

I sigh and run a hand through my hair. I know what she wants, and I don’t know if I’m ready to give it to her. Fucking her is easy compared to this. It’s the moment emotions and shit come into play that everything tangles like overcooked spaghetti.

Brilliant. Now I’m hungry.

“Get up.” I stand and pull my sweats down to my ankles, stepping out of them. “Put on a dress.”

She watches me suspiciously, but there’s not a trace of fear in her eyes. “Why?”