Page 30 of Beautiful Scars

Chapter 8

MEISIE

My sex dungeon is located in the basement of a mansion. As Cillian leads me through the house to my first stop—the bathroom—I catch a glimpse of a massive lawn ending at a thick cluster of trees. It could be a forest, for all I know.

I’m in the middle of nowhere.

He keeps a hand on my elbow, steering me where he wants me to go. We’re on the ground floor of the mansion, near the back of the house. I’m guessing these are the servants’ corridors, because there is no art on the walls, no fancy furnishings.

He opens a door and shoves me inside, slamming it closed behind me without a word.

I’m in a small bathroom. There’s barely enough space to move around between the sink, toilet, and shower cubicle.

No windows here—just a vent emitting a loud hum as if there’s an air-conditioner built in behind it.

Too small for me to climb through.

Yes, I’m still going to get the hell out of here.

Yes, I should probably take the big bad man’s threats seriously.

But nothing’s going to keep me from trying to get out of here. I’ve had precious little time to piece any of this together, but I’m definite this isn’t just some sexual deviant’s hideout I’ve somehow landed myself in.

If that had been the case, he’d already have shoved that cock of his into me. No threats. No rules.

There’s a piece of clothing on the toilet seat. It unfolds into a man’s dress shirt. And what, this is supposed to be my pajamas?

It smells like fabric softener, and just a hint of cologne.

I turn on the shower and reluctantly undress after scanning the entire room with a scowl. I don’t know what would be the point, but I wouldn’t put it past him to have installed a camera inside here.

I grab a bar of soap and quickly wash.

What the hell was all of that crap about his brother? That he’s the one I should be scared of?

Not that I’m scared of Cillian.

Okay, maybe I’m a little scared. Call it uneasy.

My hand stops an inch away from my inner thigh.

The blood. It’s gone.

Or maybe it wasn’t there to begin with.

Although I wet my hair thoroughly and rub a little shampoo in the ends, I don’t wash my hair. Instead, I get out of the shower, leaving the water running, and towel dry as quickly as I can.

If he thinks I’m taking a leisurely shower, then I’ll have a few minutes to poke around.

There’s no way I’m wearing my dirty underwear, so I leave it off.

No running. No escaping.

Really. Like I’m just going to sit here and calmly accept my fate?

As I start nosing around in the bathroom, my mind keeps going back to what he said.

And as much as I don’t want to come to the conclusion that seems so blatant I could laugh…