Page 37 of Beautiful Scars

Chapter 10

MEISIE

It feels like an eternity passes before Cillian returns. It’s been a good few hours at least.

As soon as I hear the metal door’s handle turn, I flop onto my side on the bed and close my eyes. My back’s turned to the closet, and I twist my legs just enough so that (a) it looks like a natural sleeping position and (b) my sleeping shirt is showing off the curve of my ass to the room at large.

Honestly, he’s only got himself to blame. He’s the one who didn’t provide underwear with the outfit. And judging from how he reacted the last time he was in the room, my ass is something he wouldn’t mind seeing more of.

I force my breath to become slow and deep.

Nothing to see here. Just a helpless, innocent girl fast asleep on your cum-encrusted play bed. Okay, the sheets are actually fucking pristine, but I wouldn’t run a UV light over this mattress if you paid me good money.

He thumps down the stairs and it’s weird because, with my eyes closed, it sounds ten times louder than the last time he came down here.

His shoes hit the concrete, then he stops.

Slow and deep, Meisie. You’re dreaming about kitties and rainbows. Maybe I should twitch a little. Move my eyelids. REM and all that shit.

No, just slow and deep breaths. Ball’s in his court now.

He stands at the far side of the room for a few seconds, and then thumps over to the bed like he’s about to belt out, “Fee, fi, fo, fum,” and hit me over the head with a tree trunk.

Pretty damn difficult to pretend to be sleeping through all of that, but this little girl’s all tuckered out, okay?

I feel him standing over me, looking at me, and when he stays quiet, when he just keeps looking, I start doubting myself like nobody’s fucking business.

Why doesn’t he do something? Say something?

Fabric rustles.

That same giant rams his hand through my chest and squeezes my heart.

Forget slow and deep. I can’t even breathe right now.

This wasn’t the plan. If he’s busy taking off his fucking pants or unleashing that fucking cock of his—

There’s the metallic flick of a lighter, the pop-sizzle of a cigarette being lit, then another rustle of fabric.

“Feel free to quit pretending you’re asleep anytime, princess.” There’s a clank—so loud and so close to the side of the bed that I can’t help but flinch.

I pretend that’s what woke me. I mean, what have I got to lose, right?

I flutter open my eyes and slowly roll onto my back, swiping a hand over my face as I blink up at him with a frown. “Did I fall asl—?”

But I cut off the instant I spot the source of the noise.

He’s standing behind a tripod, not even looking at me as he messes around with the camera slotted into its frame.

This can’t be good.

I scramble into a sit, tugging down my sleeping shirt. When he straightens and plucks his cigarette from his lips, the sullen set of his mouth is unmistakable. He runs cold eyes over me and then flicks his hand in my direction.

“I’m gonna need you to take off your clothes.”

The coldness in his eyes turns my stomach into a brick of ice. “W-what?” I manage breathlessly, dragging a pillow over my tummy like a useless shield. Or a silencer, I guess, if he decides to off me. I’m so fucking considerate.

“Clothes.” He makes a point of looking at my shirt. “Off.”