Page 85 of Cruel Shame

Tight ropes cut into my skin from where my abductor secured me around my shoulders, beneath my breasts, around my waist and thighs and ankles. I tried straightening my legs, but the rope around my shoulders pulled.

Despair washed through my veins like acid. I was wholly and utterly trapped.

A scream tore from my throat but caught the gag, escaping my noise in a muffled sound quieter than the wind. The lump in my throat pulsed in sync with my pulse, and a sour taste spread across my mouth. Heat built up behind my eyes but I squeezed them shut and forced myself to think. If I gave into helplessness, I may as well hand them the gun and order them to shoot.

I shunted around over the floorboards, taking in the rest of my surroundings. The was about the size of the academy’s dining room, and at the far end stood dozens of old-fashioned leather cases, some looking like miniature steam trunks.

It was too small to be the academy or the Liddell’s home on the grounds. I doubted we were in the hotel because someone would have noticed a strange man carrying an unconscious girl. Judging from the time of day, I was still in Scotland.

My mind raced ahead with an answer, screaming that the Liddells had discovered that I knew the terrible secret they’d been hiding all these years, the secret so damaging they were willing to make the world think that Mr. Burgh was my father. I forced my eyes closed and thought through my options.

Elizabeth was as strong as a gorilla and powered by insanity, but we were the same height. After all the shit she pulled recently, I doubted that she could convince a man to abduct me, even if she stripped me naked herself.

Cameron Liddell? I hadn’t seen him since he’d threatened me in the hospital, but if anyone capable of authorizing a bogus police raid was capable of anything.

A door creaked open, and panic sliced through my speculations like a blade in the heart.

Footfalls creaked against the old wood, and echoes built up with every step. I shuffled on my side and jerked away from the source of the sound, knowing the effort would be futile. Splinters pierced my skin, but what did it matter if I was about to die?

“Look at you,” said a male voice. “Writhing around from behind.”

Rough hands threaded into my hair, rolled me onto my back, and raised my head to meet the manic eyes of Father Neapolitan.

He crouched in front of me, clad in a Matrix-style overcoat that splayed out at the crotch. The fabric draped behind his bare legs exposing an erection the size of my thumb hanging loose from a hairless crotch. Revulsion seized my insides. Of course the perverted rapist would have an erection. Look at how he’d stripped me and trussed my body like something out of a snuff movie.

“Slut,” he hissed. “A whore just like your mother.”

I tried shaking my head, but the grip he had on my hair was too tight.

“I’m going to prove to you right now that you’re not my daughter.”

My heart skipped and I made a muffled sound from my nose.

“What?” he hissed.

I drew my brows together, flicked my eyes down to the gag, hoping he wasn’t too far gone in his insanity to notice I couldn’t speak.

Father Neapolitan released my hair, letting my head flop down to the blank. He stood over my shoulders and unbuckled the straps securing the gag around my head. As soon as the rubber fell loose, I retched onto the planks.

With a yelp, he skittered back. “Filthy beast.”

My stomach spasmed, and a groan reverberated from deep in my throat. I prayed to every deity I knew to keep me making those sounds. The sour contents of my stomach spilled from my lips, and acid burned the back of my throat.

“What did you want to say?” he snapped.

“You’re not…” I said between retching. “My father.”

“Of course, I’m not.”

Father Neapolitan stood against the wall for several moments, peering at me as though I was an interesting slug.

“Why would you say I’m not your father?” His voice was tight with suspicion.

“There was a DNA test,” I rasped. “You’re just an uncle.”

“What are you talking about?”

I didn’t dare mention my phone. The recording I made the night before was in its memory, backed up on the cloud, and sent to a bunch of emails in case someone decided to hack into my handset and delete it. Instead, I told him about how the archbishop drugged and raped her when she turned to him for help.