Page 59 of Twisting Beauty

Time to spring the trap.

18

LIATH

Ishut my bedroom door, turned the lock, and sagged against it. Relief poured through me like warm water, loosening the knot between my shoulders.

Rua’s bedroom was my only sanctuary. In here, the music from the party was muted to a faint throb. Finally, I didn’t have to pretend anymore. I was safe.

I slipped off my jacket and dress, tossing them onto the bed, bare skin prickling from the cool air. A low, dark, and far too familiar voice cut through the stillness.

“Looks like I arrived at the perfect moment to ruin you.”

The air rushed out of my lungs as I spun toward the sound.

Lorcan was standing there in my fucking room, dressed head to toe in black, his sleeves pushed up to reveal ink: roses, curling ivy, ravens flying free from broken cages. The air seemed to thin, my lungs straining.

He hadn’t entered through the door. And yet there he was.

“How the fuck did you get in?” I demanded, trying to cover up my body with my hands and failing.

He smirked, his gaze burning over me, making me feel like I was naked even though I still had a bra and underwear on. “Oh, mo chlunaireín, I would tear down doors, burn down walls just to get to you.”

I hadn’t reached safety; he’d fucking herded me here like sheep. And I’d fallen straight into his trap.

I lunged for my door, fingers fumbling to turn the lock. The door barely opened before he slammed it shut, his chest hitting my back, the wood rattling under the force.

The impact jolted through me, scared me, thrilled me. Heat radiated from him, sinking into me until I could feel it in my bones, his violins booming in my skull.

His breath brushed my ear. “I’m going to enjoy ripping the truth from your lying mouth.”

Fuck.

While pinning my body against him, he caught my wrists, one at a time, and pushed them into sleeves of something made of rough cotton, like a jacket on backward. What the hell? I had not expected him to dress me.

But when he crossed my arms behind me and clipped my wrists to my lower back, I realized what this was.

He’d put me in a fucking straitjacket.

A pale vintage straitjacket marked with the Magdalene crest on the left breast.

I thrashed against him, twisting, kicking, a ragged scream tearing from my throat, but my arms were bound fast. Desperation clawed up my spine. I lunged, the only weapon left to me my own mouth, and sank my teeth into the hard muscle of his shoulder. Hot, metallic blood spilled over my tongue, sharp as sin.

He let out a grunt and his fist twisted cruelly in my hair, yanking until pain spiked down my spine. The shock tore a scream from me, my teeth tearing free of him.

The psychopath only grinned, like I’d just proven him right. “I knew you couldn’t wait to taste me.”

He pulled something from his back pocket and slid it over my head.

A muzzle.

A fucking muzzle, the kind they used at the Institute.

“You bastard,” I hissed as he tightened the strap behind my head.

He laughed. “Now you look perfect, mo chlunaireín.”

He unlocked my door and dragged me out onto the mezzanine where music and laughter floated up from the party below. My stomach clenched as the thick material of the jacket settled against my skin, short enough to leave my ass almost bare.