Page 31 of Beautiful Scars

I’m pretty sure this is about Mother.

* * *

Cillian’s leaning against the opposite wall having a cigarette when I finally emerge from the shower. There was nothing I could have used as a weapon except a bottle of dodgy looking deodorant. Which I could have turned into a flamethrower if I’d managed to get his lighter from him… but I have a feeling I’d have ended up on fire, not him.

I have a towel over my hair and I’m tugging at the hem of the pathetic attempt at pajamas he left for me.

“Do you seriously not even have a pair of pants for me?” I ask, frowning at him when he takes his time examining my legs.

“For you? No.”

Doos!I scowl at him, and try to step back when he makes a grab for me. He straightens, lets out a long, world-weary sigh, and pins me with narrowed green eyes.

“You’re only making this harder.”

Unbidden, my eyes fly to his crotch. But I immediately look away, cursing myself. That hadn’t been a pun, idiot! Now he thinks you were looking at his junk.

Well, I had been, but—

Cillian lets out a low chuckle and grabs the back of my neck. “Let’s go,” he says as he herds me down the hallway.

After the shitty bathroom he’d taken me to, I don’t expect to walk into an enormous open-plan kitchen. But that doesn’t mean I wasn’t paying attention en-route.

I’m pretty sure I can find my way back to the dungeon unaided, which means if—when—I escape, I’ll be able to find my way out of here.

Because if this is about Mother, escape is priority number one.

It’s the only thing that makes sense. Why else would this stinking rich guy—and apparently his brother—go to all this trouble to pick up a girl? Definitely not to reside in their sex dungeon, although strangely enough that’s what they wanted me to think.

Or maybe they just found it a handy place to keep their hostage.

Because I’m definitely a hostage.

If there isn’t a video camera in my face in the next hour with a cue card where I tell Mom I’m safe, and they won’t hurt me, but only if she wires six figures into some random account in the Seychelles…well, then I’d eat my own dirty underwear.

Ew.

“Here,” Cillian says, shoving me in the direction of a kitchen stool. It puts me with my back to the massive glass windows I saw coming in, which means I can’t be circumspect about checking out my surroundings.

But when Cillian turns his back to open one of the cupboards, I risk a quick peek over my shoulder.

There’s a dining room table nearby, and a lounge past that. The big flat-screen television is on, but muted. News.

The news!

There’s a crash in front of me, and I spin around guiltily, almost slipping off my chair.

Cillian’s leaning over the granite countertop, his fist an inch from my hand, as if he was about to grab my chin. There’s a box of cereal in the other. “Eyes on me, Meisie.”

I swallow down a snide response and drop my eyes, watching him through lowered lashes for another opportunity to glance over my shoulder.

Am I on the news?

Or is Mother keeping this out of the press until she’s decided how to handle this latest PR scandal her daughter’s gotten involved in.

Is that all I’ll ever be to her? A scandal? It’s certainly how she’s made it out to be since I set foot on this godforsaken island.

Cillian puts a bowl and a bottle of milk down and then slides a spoon over the counter. “Eat.”