by Logan Fox
Yes, I’m still going to get the hell out of here.
Yes, I should probably take the big bad man’s threats seriously.
But nothing’s going to keep me from trying to get out of here. I’ve had precious little time to piece any of this together, but I’m definite this isn’t just some sexual deviant’s hideout I’ve somehow landed myself in.
If that had been the case, he’d already have shoved that cock of his into me. No threats. No rules.
There’s a piece of clothing on the toilet seat. It unfolds into a man’s dress shirt. And what, this is supposed to be my pajamas?
It smells like fabric softener, and just a hint of cologne.
I turn on the shower and reluctantly undress after scanning the entire room with a scowl. I don’t know what would be the point, but I wouldn’t put it past him to have installed a camera inside here.
I grab a bar of soap and quickly wash.
What the hell was all of that crap about his brother? That he’s the one I should be scared of?
Not that I’m scared of Cillian.
Okay, maybe I’m a little scared. Call it uneasy.
My hand stops an inch away from my inner thigh.
The blood. It’s gone.
Or maybe it wasn’t there to begin with.
Although I wet my hair thoroughly and rub a little shampoo in the ends, I don’t wash my hair. Instead, I get out of the shower, leaving the water running, and towel dry as quickly as I can.
If he thinks I’m taking a leisurely shower, then I’ll have a few minutes to poke around.
There’s no way I’m wearing my dirty underwear, so I leave it off.
No running. No escaping.
Really. Like I’m just going to sit here and calmly accept my fate?
As I start nosing around in the bathroom, my mind keeps going back to what he said.
And as much as I don’t want to come to the conclusion that seems so blatant I could laugh…
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.”
“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?
T
he 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?
I work through my memories, willing the haze surrounding last night to lift and reveal its secrets.
The club. Dancing. Bitches at the bar. Cillian saving me.
I glance across at him. He’s wearing a deep frown, his arms crossed over his chest. Was he wearing those clothes last night? Why hasn’t he changed yet? They look rumpled, like he slept in them. He made sure I was scrubbed and fed, but it looks like he could use sleep, a shower, and about three bowls of cereal. And coffee.
Damn, now I want that coffee so bad.
So that’s what he was wearing last night. But he had a suit jacket on too. Took me to that table in the corner, the private VIP section kind of thing. Talking. I sat on his lap—
Oh my God, I was practically begging someone to kidnap me.
My spoon tinkles as I drop it into the bowl. Milk splashes out and lands on my hand. Cillian happens to look over at me as I lick it off like a cat.
Something flashes in his eyes, but it’s gone in an instant.
He growls out something indecipherable, storms around the kitchen island, and drags me off the stool.
“Hey!” I yelp out as his fingers dig hard into my flesh.
“Let’s get something straight, Meisie,” he grates out in a low voice. “There’s nothing you can do that’s going to change your situation.” He pauses on the threshold of the narrow passage we took to get here and shakes me. “Do you understand?”
As soon as I tip my head back and stare up at him, my stomach drops to my toes. His green eyes are near black, his mouth set in a hard, unwavering line.
What the hell did I do? Was I taking too long with my breakfast or something? Does he realize it took me forever to find the cereal in the ocean of milk he poured for me?
But all I say is, “Yes.”
He studies me for a moment, scanning my face as if searching for a lie. Then he yanks me after him as he stalks back to the dungeon.
Oh God.
Oh fucking God.
Cillian storms down the stairs with me and up to the bed. He whirls me around. When he lets go of my arm, I go flying against the bed. My shins knock against the base, making me yelp as pain shoots through my legs.
There’s no time to turn around. No chance to defend myself.
With my hands pressed to the mattress to steady myself, ass peeking out of the dress shirt he made me put on, I brace myself for the inevitable.
“Soon, darlin’,” he growls. “Soon.”
I swing around, my heart hammering in my chest as he disappears behind the closet and up the stairs.
My legs give out. I sit on the side of the bed in my red-tinged dungeon and hug myself.
As my heartbeat slowly returns to normal, I fist my hands and thump them into the mattress beside me.
I don’t know how, but I’m getting myself out of this mess. One way or the other, by the end of the day, I’ll be free.
Now that I’ve had a chance to look around, it’s starting to dawn on me that I can’t just hit my kidnapper over the head and hope to escape. I have no idea where I am—am I even still in Edinburgh?
He mentioned a brother. Is his brother here in the house or somewhere else?
No, making a run for it and hoping for the best is not going to cut it.
I yank down the hem of my too-short pajamas as I climb reluctantly onto the bed. Thank God he doesn’t seem remotely interested in me. That would have made this whole ordeal so much worse.
I snort to myself.
And to think, last night I was silently begging him to take me back to his place and screw me.
My eyes stray to the closet. Then they move around the room again and land on that little wooden door. I’m mildly disappointed when it opens to a tiny room just big enough for the toilet and basin inside.
I walk back to the bed, my gaze sweeping over every detail before fixing on the leather cuffs attached to the bed.
Hang on.
This is all business to Cillian...but what if I can change that? What if I can get him on my side? If I can get him to drop his guard…
The vague outline of a plan begins taking shape in my mind.
Shit. It might just work.
CHAPTER NINE
CILLIAN
There is no GBX music in the club right now, and for once I’m actually disappointed. There’s nothing I would rather do right now than spend every penny I have on drugs and quit my arsehole of a job.
But I can’t do that when Cole’s already halfway there for the both of us.
He’s pacing the floor of the office like a caged lion, the smoke in the air twice as thick as usual since I fell off the wagon. The news is on the TV behind him, the volume way louder than I usually allow it.
I stub the end of my cigarette into the ashtray and swear it’ll be the last one. “You’re absolutely sure she saw all the evidence?”
He stops pacing and turns to face me. “Without a doubt. Sent it to Ford’s own private email address and got the read receipt to prove it.”
I let out a sigh and look up at the TV. Ford has got her contact lenses in tonight, probably so the big glasses she usually sports can’t hide the rattled, hollow look in her eyes as she talks to the news reporter.
“Look at her,” Cole says with a tut. “Someone needs to give her a Grammy. She fucking played us.”
She played us well. By the time I crashed Meisie’s car into the tree—hitting Derek on the way—Ford had already reported the car stolen. I guess my little captive didn’t actually have permission to take her mum’s car out for the night.
Ford is on the news right now telling the whole damn country that masked and armed robbers accosted her and her daughter in their home. Made off with the car keys, cash, and jewelry. My little Meisie is apparently in her bedroom right now, too shaken to leave the house.
We can’t use evidence of her daughter going off the rails on a drug-induced bender to threaten her, if she’s already made it crystal clear to the world that her daughter was at home and the victim of a robbery.
Clever bitch.
“So the leader of the country is smarter than a pair of street-reared reprobates. Hardly a shock, is it?”
Cole laughs and rubs his temple in his hands. “Aye, you might be right.”
I lean back in my chair. Of course I’m right. The cow outsmarted us.
This whole weekend has been for nothing.
We’re going to lose everything that makes us money. When the law goes through, and she legalizes drugs, people won’t call up their local friendly psychopaths to get their fix. No. Everything will be above board, with factories and pharmaceutical production lines and a seventy-percent tax rate. Corporate lawyers and a board of directors and shares on the motherfucking stock market.
The Hendry twins can’t compete with that level of operation.
“At least we still have the nightclub,” I tell him.
He narrows his eyes at me, and I don’t miss the clench in his fist. “You’re giving up?”
“There’s nothing to give up. It’s already over.”
Cole shakes his head and starts pacing the room again. Always a bad sign. “This is your problem. Black-and-white Kill. You know it wouldn’t hurt you to care about something for once in your life! We’re not giving up! We’ll pry this all back from her cold dead hands if we have to.”
I laugh at him. “And her replacement? And their replacement? I wonder how many life sentences I can actually serve in prison before you realize this is fucking stupid.”
“Alright, alright,” he says. “Here’s what we’re going to do.”
H
e sits down in the chair on the opposite side of the desk and presses his fingertips together in a steeple.
“You’re going to hit her up. Make an absolute mess of her. Black and blue. Hell, cut all her hair off for extra effect. Then we arrange a little FaceTime. We make her give the demands. None of this PR bullshit—that was always going to be a losing battle because that’s not what we do. No, we do this the old-fashioned way.”
He leans back, a giant smirk on his face.
“Aye, good idea,” I tell him. “Brilliant. And when she says she’s with Cillian who owns Asylum nightclub? And the police come and bust my front door in? I’m sure you’ll run the business just fine with me rotting in a jail cell.”
His face drops. “It’s the only way.”
I sigh, images of Meisie all beaten and broken running through my mind like a bad porno on the dark web. I shouldn’t care. I’ve never cared about anyone in my life before, except Cole. But for some reason, I can’t deal with the thought of her going through that.
It’s not even about the consequences. I probably should be rotting in a jail cell, Christ knows I’ve done enough shit in my life to warrant that.
No. For whatever reason this is about me not having the balls to completely fuck up this girl’s life.
But I do realize I might have to fuck it up temporarily.
“No,” I tell him. “We’ll go back to the original idea.”
“That failed spectacularly.”
I shake my head. “Not the car crash. We’ll make sure Mum knows exactly what little Meisie has gotten herself into.”
Cole stares at me, his straight face slowly turning into a smile. Then, as if he’s bored already, he gets up from the desk and stretches. “I need a drink.”
“Knock yourself out,” I tell him.
He’s already making for the office door. “I fully intend to.”
My eyes drift back to the TV. Ford is gone now, but the news reporter is still bleating on outside her house. I stare at him and try to make myself feel something. Anger. Rage. Even mild annoyance.
But I can’t.
I hate a lot of people. Ford. Sarah. Cole, sometimes. My second-year English teacher. But hate is not a feeling. Hate is just a category I put people into.