Page 103 of Godless Saints

Wait… is this Stockholm syndrome?

My gaze dropped to the ring on my finger. Cillian’s ring.

Do you ever want to get married, Hyun?

I let myself imagine it for exactly two seconds. Then I slammed the door on it. Stop. This wasn’t happening.

The washing machine kept humming. Rain tapped against the windows.

Then I heard it. Tires on gravel. My head snapped toward the sound. Not Cillian. Those were car engines.

I went still, listening. At least two vehicles. Maybe three.

Moving without lights, I slipped to the window and peered through the gap in the curtains.

Two black SUVs. Acid surged hot up my throat. I grabbed my phone, fingers shaking.

Someone’s here. Two SUVs.

I snatched the knife from the counter and bolted for the back door. Cillian’s sweater caught on the handle. My body screamed. Socks slid across the freezing floor. I stumbled.

I made it three steps into the cold winter air.

Rough hands seized me from behind.

I twisted hard, swinging the knife wildly. A brutal grip caught my wrist and slammed it against the cabin wall. The knife clattered to the wet ground.

I tried to shout. A hand crushed over my mouth. Another wrenched my arms behind my back. Zip ties bit viciously into my wrists. A boot kicked the back of my knee. I dropped hard onto the cold, wet grass.

They dragged me back inside just as the front door splintered open with a violent kick. Three more men stepped in. Rain dripped from their dark coats. Guns already drawn. They moved like they’d done this before.

The one in front had cold blue eyes and silver threading through dark hair. Broad-shouldered. Built like someone who ended things permanently. Ronan Carrick.

He didn’t need to introduce himself. The resemblance to Declan was there, but harder, older, and meaner.

“Well,” Ronan said softly, “if it isn’t the pretty little Aster whore who’s got Cillian Ashbourne acting like a lovesick dog.”

I couldn’t move. My pulse hammered so hard it throbbed in my teeth. One of the men shoved a heavy hand between my shoulder blades while another kicked the back of my knee. My leg buckled. I dropped hard onto the wooden floor, shoved down until I was kneeling in the center of the room like a fucking prize.

Ronan crouched in front of me, studying my face. “Cillian’s been a very naughty boy,” he murmured, Irish accent thick. “Making Declan look weak. Making the entire Carrick family look like fools. And all for what? A rival court boy he’s been parading around like he owns him.”

He reached out and tugged at the collar of the sweater I was wearing. Cillian’s sweater. “Wearing his clothes now?” His smile was cruel. “How fucking domestic.”

One of the men laughed behind me.

Ronan’s fingers tightened on the collar, twisting the fabric. “Strip him.”

They ripped Cillian’s sweater off me first. Then my boxers. Cold air hit every inch of bare skin. I was left completely naked except for the black socks still clinging to my feet.

Every bruise. Every bite mark. Every fingerprint Cillian had left on my hips, thighs, neck and ass was exposed.

Ronan’s eyes dragged slowly over my body, taking in every mark. “Look at that,” he said softly, almost amused. “The boy really did a number on you.”

Humiliation burned through me so violently everything in me tightened. Don’t give them anything. But my body was already shaking as I knelt in the middle of the room. I lifted my chin anyway. “If you’re going to kill me, do it. I don’t have time for cheap theater.”

What if the message never sent. What if he never saw it. What if he wasn’t coming.

Ronan laughed. “Kill you?” He shook his head, cold smile spreading. “No, pretty boy. We’re going to wait for Cillian to come home. Then we’re going to show him exactly what happens when you forget who you answer to.”