Page 150 of Beautiful Scars

When I whimper out a protest, he grabs my chin and glares up at me. “That’s one, Meisie.”

So I get up.

I lie on my back.

I spread my fucking legs.

And I vow to myself never, ever, ever piss off Cillian Hendry again.

* * *

“Oh my God. Meisie.”

I turn the doorway and give Sarah a small smile. “Yeah?” I ask, brushing my hands down my wedding dress’s voluminous skirts. I would have chosen something a little slinkier, because right now I doubt I could even fit through the doorway without causing structural damage, but...

I didn’t choose the dress. I didn’t choose the date. I never said yes...because he never asked me.

“You look like a princess!” Sarah rushes into the room, turning me back to the mirror.

We’re in an exquisitely furnished fitting room in one of the more intact sections of the castle. I’d love to know how many other brides-to-be stood in this very spot, studying themselves in the generous full-length mirror moments before their ceremony. Or how many had sat on the plushly-cushioned stool while a makeup artist powdered and polished them to wedding magazine standards.

Sarah’s holding a flute of champagne. I take it from her before she can offer, downing it so the bubbles go up my nose.

“Would you like some more?” she asks sweetly. It’s just past noon, and I know she’s been up since the crack of what goes for dawn in this country, but she looks fresh as a fucking daisy. My head, on the other hand, feels like it was driven over by a truck.

“The bottle, please,” I tell her as I adjust my bustier with an impatient tug.

She laughs, and then goes straight-faced when she realizes I wasn’t kidding. “Uh...”

“It’s cool.” I stare at my reflection and blow at the curl dangling beside my face. It’s supposed to look sophisticated, but I’m seconds from snipping it off with a pair of scissors.

I woke up in Kill’s bed this morning. And for a moment I was happy. I mean truly, deeply, boy-band fucking happy.

And when I rolled over, he wasn’t there.

But still, hope clung to my mind like a barnacle. I checked the bathroom—not there. But I remained optimistic all the way down to the kitchen where I was sure he was making us a cup of coffee to combat our mutual hangover.

Nope.

Cillian Hendry had fucked off without leaving so much as a Post-it note behind. I don’t know what’s more pathetic—that I somehow expected him to be there when I woke up, or that I’d have been happy with a hasty ‘C U LATER’ stuck to the dented fridge.

The house was locked up tight—not a door or window for me to sneak through. And before I’d been able to make any headway on figuring out the alarm code so I could get out through the garage door, Sarah arrived.

I almost hit her over the head, but I knew Kill would find me again. Why bother possibly concussing my only friend in this mess for an hour or two’s worth of freedom?

Something like that isn’t worth fighting for.

I thought Cillian and I had reached some new level of understanding last night. Some kind of...compromise. But I guess I was wrong.

Then I saw him a couple of hours ago. Apparently, it’s Scottish tradition for the groom to walk into the wedding venue with the maid of honor while the bride walks behind him with the best—and I use that term loosely on Cole—man. I was expecting Kill to pull me aside. Have a chat. Maybe even tell me what the fuck is going on inside his head.

But I was wrong. Again.

My irritation at that has had two full hours to brew into furious resentment.

“The ceremony’s starting in about fifteen minutes,” Sarah says.

I catch her eyes in the mirror and then shift my feet. “Thank you.”