Page 32 of Beautiful Scars

“I’m not hung—”

He grabs the cereal box and thumps it down. “For fuck’s sake woman, does everything need to be an argument?”

So I pour some cereal into the bowl and splash it with milk. He watches me with hooded eyes, and I’m pretty pleased with myself when I manage several bites without a tremble.

He doesn’t seem impressed. Then again, I think it would take a lot to impress him.

“Is there coffee?” I ask.

I want coffee about as much as I wanted this cereal, but that’s not why I ask. The coffee machine is on the other side of the kitchen, and he’ll have his back turned while he—

“Thirsty?” he asks, almost kindly. But there’s a gleam in his eyes that would have been mischievous if he was just a guy and I was just a girl.

But he’s my kidnapper and I’m his ransomee.

“Yeah?” I hazard. “Please?”

“Sure thing, princess.”

He grabs the bottle of milk and promptly drowns my cereal. I watch grimly as the last survivors float on the top for a second or two before succumbing to a milky death.

“Asshole,” I mutter, but under my breath.

He laughs, and taps the side of the bowl. “Finish your breakfast.”

I scoop out cereal from the bottom, draining it against the side with a tilted spoon. Making sure to keep my head down, I don’t look in Cillian’s direction for a good few minutes.

Finally—finally—he looks away toward the television.

I take my time eating, watching him more than I’m watching my bowl.

Once you get past his handsomely rugged features—a strong nose, and that angular jaw dusted with dark stubble—what do you see?

I take in his clothes. I’m not a fashionista or anything, but they look well-made. Even the shirt he gave me is a Tom Ford and feels like silk.

Judging from the little of the house I’ve seen, this guy doesn’t need the money. At least, not the kind of money my mother has.

And it’s always money or power, isn’t it?

Power.

But what power?

Screw this.

“Why am I here?”

He doesn’t even look at me. “Eat your food, or you’re going back.”

Ugh. To the sex dungeon? I drop my head again.

So I won’t be getting any intel from him. Back to figuring this out myself. Now I’m suddenly wishing he had given me coffee, because my brain feels like a bowl of mashed potatoes.

What can I remember?

The club. I’d gone there with a purpose, one I’d thought Cillian could fulfill. My cheeks warm-up at the thought. I try and push it away, but it comes back again.

You’re a fucking idiot, Meisie. Do you honestly think your shrink meant you should throw yourself on the first guy you see and have him take you home and fuck you? How on God’s green earth was that going to fix the level of fucked up in your head?