Page 171 of Beautiful Scars

Chapter 14

MEISIE

When normal people get kidnapped, they end up in basements. At least, that’s been my experience to date.

But here I am, wearing pajamas that are a little too big for me, sitting in a room in some random street in Scottish suburbia. Nothing like the abandoned warehouse or run-down shack I expected to arrive at, post-kidnapping last night.

There’s a man here, and he’s no fun.

He brings me food, and he asks if I need anything, and he doesn’t answer any of my questions. I have a TV and an en suite with fluffy bath towels. No cupboards filled with sex toys—it’s all winter coats and ski equipment. Boring. No place to make a fort, not that I’m at the fort-making stage yet, but give it time.

No one to wake me from my nightmares.

I wish Kill would kidnap me back. There—I said it.

Stockholm syndrome,Trish reports dryly.

Trish? Get lost.

So maybe we started off in an unconventional way, but we’re unconventional people. If anything, the big bastard has Stockholm syndrome forme.

I need to get out of here. Find him. He’ll be worried.

Will he be worried?

Oh god, I don’t know. We weren’t exactly going steady, were we?

But he said he would kill for me. Promised it. And I chose to believe him.

Of course he’ll be worried.

I cross the room and yank at the door handle.

Bang.

Slam my fists. Then my heel.

I don’t stop.

Maybe there’s no one here but with any luck the neighbors will report a disturbance.

The door opens.

“Meisie!”

I’m so shocked, it takes me a few seconds to recognize the face staring back at me.

My mother, the one and only First Minister of Scotland, grabs my hand and gives me a squeeze. I’m caught between wanting to tear it away, and wanting to squeeze her right back.

Mom motions for me to let her in the room and then herds me back toward the bed. “My darling girl,” she murmurs, wrapping her arms around me. “I was so worried.”

I wriggle out of her clutches. “What’s going on?”

“I couldn’t leave you there,” Mom says, tucking a section of her hair behind an ear. My father always liked it long, which is one of the reasons I’m sure she keeps it short. She looks tired and older than I remember—as if I’ve been gone years.

“And you left it until my wedding night?” I grimace inwardly when Mom flinches at the bitterness in my voice.

“Let’s get you a cup of tea. You must be going crazy in here.”