Page 140 of Beautiful Scars

Chapter 10

MEISIE

When the key turns in my door, I know it’s Cillian locking me in for the night. And I’m almost grateful, because else I’d have to have gone through with my escape plan, and I’m not sure if I am quite ready for that.

Despite having planned it for weeks now.

Despite finally being fired up enough to get the hell out of here at any cost.

It’s obvious whatever I thought was going on between us was just a figment of my imagination.

When I was first held captive down there in the dungeon, I’d wondered what would happen to me if a fire broke out in the main house. Would someone come rescue me, or would they just find my semi-cremated remains? Now I’m starting to wonder if I would survive a jump from this second-floor window.

Fire or no fire.

Instead of turning on a mindless television show or rewatching some Academy Award-nominated movie from the nineties, I start pacing my gilded cage.

I want to be awake when Kill gets home—back.

This isn’t my home. I was an idiot to think it could be.

I lost sight of why I came to Scotland, and then Kill reminded me. But soon as I knew Grace was safe, I tried to forget about her. That had been the plan, after all. She was safe. She was happy. And I hadn’t even had to go through the emotional turmoil of seeing her.

He’d done me a favor, even if he’d crossed a line to do so. Who knows what I might have done if I’d found that care home and gone to see Grace?

Of course I’m glad about what he said. I was fucking ecstatic.

But I don’t deserve happiness any more than I deserve to be a mother to Grace. She’s in a better place, even without a mother. Maybe I’ll even tell her that one day. That she was lucky not to have me. Seems Ford mothers don’t have a maternal bone in their fucking bodies.

The key turns in my bedroom door, and my whole body goes cold. Why did he turn around? My stomach does a pathetic somersault at the thought that he decided to stay...and then fucks up the landing when Sarah steps into my room wearing a sheepish look.

“Not bugging you, am I?” she asks.

I throw my hands up. “Mid-fucking-pace, yeah.”

She grimaces faintly and slips into my room, leaning back against the door to close it behind her. “Are you okay?”

“Peachy.” I hate the fact that the word now holds a different meaning altogether. I hate Kill for that, even though I’m the only one to blame. “So what, you’re not going with the bachelors?”

Sarah shakes her head. “Lads only.”

I roll my eyes. “Of course,” I mutter, half to myself. “I wonder how many strippers they got?”

“Just the one, I think.”

When I round on her, she has the audacity to blush. I’m about to ask her why I’m always the last to know, but then I laugh instead and start pacing again. Of course I’m the last to know—I’m a fucking hostage. I should be glad Cillian didn’t just buy a dress off the rack, throw me over his shoulder, and carry me down the aisle like a bag of fucking potatoes.

Which begs the question...why is he going to all this trouble? Is it just so the wedding will seem more authentic?

“Hey...do you...I was thinking maybe...”

I stop pacing and turn to her.

Reluctantly, she shows me the bottle of champagne she had hidden behind her back. “I know it’s not, you know, like, a real wedding but—”

“About as real as it gets around here, I’m guessing.” I study the bottle, then her face. “What are you still doing here, Sarah?” I wave at my room. “You’re not locked in like me. You could just pack up and leave. So why are you doing this to yourself?”

Instead of answering, she stares down at the champagne and starts fiddling with the little wire cage around its cork.