Page 144 of Beautiful Scars

“Cole always makes sure he gets his money’s worth.”

I hesitate at that, the tip of the knife dipping a quarter inch. But then I straighten my arm again and start feeling behind me for the door handle. “Whatever. Have a nice life, Don Cillianos.”

He takes a slow step toward me, hands raised.

Where the fuck is this handle? I don’t dare look around to find it, because I know he’ll pounce.

“Don’t go, Meisie.”

I guess the appearance of the knife sobered him up a bit, because he’s not slurring anymore. Doesn’t matter—I don’t trust him any more than I did five minutes ago.

I’m leaving. Going home. Rebuilding my life. Never thinking of Kill or Grace or the Hendry twins ever again.

“Sorry, Daddy,” I tell him, my voice dripping sarcasm. “Your little girl’s done listening to you.”

Finally I touch the handle. But when I turn it, nothing happens.

Locked.

My fingers brush an empty keyhole.

Cillian glances away, studying the wall beside him like he’s suddenly developed an appreciation for luxurious wallpaper. Then he pulls something out of his pocket.

The key.

The fucker had it the whole time. And now I’m trapped in a dead end.

I flourish the knife. “Toss it here.”

He laughs. “Why would I do that?”

“So this can be over. Admit it, Kill, you’re sick of me. Sick of this.” I wave my free hand, indicating the space between us. “I am.” The words sound hollow coming out, but luckily Kill doesn’t pick up on that because his face hardens.

I guess it’s going to take a while and a fuck load of therapy sessions with Trish to sort out the shit show Kill turned my heart into. Because even now, when I’m holding a knife on him and doing my best to escape the prison I’ve been trapped in for weeks, something’s pulling at me. Like a magnet. It wants me to stay. Wants the answer to all the questions that have been piling up in my head the past few days.

Do you, Cillian? Do you love me?

Do I loveyou?

But I don’t know if I’ll ever get those answers. Not now, not ever.

What I do know, is that a broken heart can heal. It must, because I’ve healed from worse things than this. Thanhim.

He’s a beast, but I’ve had to deal with monsters before I met him.

Cillian steps forward. My back crowds against the door the closer he comes. I shift my grip on the knife, lowering it, the handle near my stomach.

But Cillian ignores the knife entirely, like I’m holding a marshmallow on a stick.

“Stop,” I murmur.

He just keeps walking, eyes locked on mine.

“I’m warning you.”

Kill tilts his head a little as he slowly reaches down and lifts up the edge of his shirt. It takes everything I have not to look. “Here,” he says, pointing at something on his stomach. “Switchblade. Missed my gut by an inch.” His finger moves. “Hunting knife. Ten stitches and two units of blood.” He’s so close, his scent is tickling my nose. “Another switchblade.”

He steps forward the last foot, and my eyes squeeze shut as the knife handle pushes into my stomach. “So go ahead, princess. Slice me open. But you’d better make it count, because this is the last chance you’ll get.”