Page 16 of Beautiful Scars

Behind me, Cillian remains utterly silent. The elevator doors gleam at me from across a room that’s suddenly the length of a fucking rugby field.

Why isn’t he saying anything? Did I really get in the last word? I smile to myself, but the expression slips off my face when my feet tangle together a second later. Christ, I shouldn’t have had so much to drink.

Except...I didn’t.

I pause for a second and squint at the elevator. Why is it so blurry? I blink a few times, but that doesn’t help.

Shit, I have to get home.

Drugs.

No. It was a joke. A stupid one, but...what if…?

I surge forward, half-stumbling half-staggering in the direction of the now very blurry elevator doors.

“Slow down, princess,” Cillian calls out after me. “You don’t want to hit your pretty little head, do you?”

Hit my head? Why would I--?

The ground slams into me, knocking the air from my lungs. It should have hurt, but for some reason I only realize I’m horizontal when I reach out and grab carpet instead of air.

Something clamps around my ankles. My dress hikes up my legs as Cillian drags me over the carpet. I see my purse pass to one side, and reach for it.

I manage to snag the wrist strap, but only with monumental effort.

My body’s growing heavy and clumsy.

Thoughts bob and weave through my fogging brain like veggies in a thick stew.

Cillian stops dragging me. I yank at my purse strap and grip it with nerveless fingers.

Hands grab my waist.

He hoists me through the air like I weigh nothing, which is impossible because I must weigh ten tons.

When he drops me, I bounce.

Bed.

I’m on the fucking bed.

No, no, no, no, no, no!

I’m going to break you apart. Again and again.

My consciousness is slipping away. I try to hold on, but it’s like trapping steam.

“Please,” I hear someone say. When he laughs, I realize it was me begging.

“Don’t bother.” Cillian appears in my view, and the mattress sinks down on either side of me as he climbs onto the bed and straddles me.

There’s sudden friction down my arms. A numbing cold spreads over my breasts.

He’s pulled my dress down to my belly button, baring my chest to the cool air. He studies me, but how a hunter studies a malfunctioning rifle that just cost him a kill shot.

I’m dimly aware that my fingers are fumbling around in my purse.

Cell phone.