Page 23 of Irrevocably

My skin prickles and a rush of heat fills me, twining around the pain, becoming one with it, and I have to catch my breath. God, how fucked up am I that the thought of his hands, his fingers, the pain he gave, is turning me on? Maybe there’s something wrong with me. Maybe that’s why Dad doesn’t know what to say to me. Not only do I look like Mom, but he can sense the wrongness in me, too.

I grit my teeth. No, I’m not that fucked up. Sure, cutting yourself isn’t exactly normal behaviour, but I promised myself I’d stop once I got into med school. I just have to get through this year.

My phone vibrates in the pocket of my skirt, and I take it out, looking down at the screen. It’s from Wolf confirming tonight.

9 p.m. ok?

It’s a little late, but I’m assuming Lucien’s two days is two whole days, so as long as it’s before twelve, it’s fine.

Yup.

See you then.

Afterwards, I clean myself up and leave the bathroom, feeling much calmer.

Outside, it’s already dark, and there’s an icy wind coming direct from the mountains. Being close to the sea means that in cooler months it doesn’t get as cold in Blackwater as it does in other places, but the wind is a warning that the approaching winter will be a chilly one.

I pull my denim jacket more firmly around me as I walk across the quad. There are still a few people around. Not many, though – it’s too cold to linger.

I hurry across the lit-up space, heading to the student parking lot where I’ve got Matilda parked. She’s my VW Beetle, and I bought her with some money Dad gave me as a twenty-first birthday present. She’s fully restored and painted a cheerful yellow, which was Mom’s favourite colour.

There aren’t many cars left in the lot – most everyone has gone home – and there’s no one around. It’s eerie walking across the concrete to Matilda, my steps echoing in the heavy silence. I’ve parked near the trees at the edge of the lot since it was the only space I could find, but it’s not where I’d usually park since it’s further away from the streetlights and much darker.

The wind blows through the pines and the boughs creak, shadows dancing on the ground. The back of my neck prickles yet again and I pick up my feet, hurrying over to the car as I fumble in my backpack for my car keys.

This is getting creepy and I don’t like it. There have been a few assaults on the campus in the past year, so the university put in more lights and cameras, and employed security, and naturally that’s where my mind goes as I approach the car.

I’m at the door, keys in my hand when someone grabs my shoulder and I’m pulled violently around. I gasp in shock, my backpack falling onto the concrete beside the car as I’m roughly shoved up against Matilda’s hard metal surface.

The light is behind the figure in front of me, so I can’t get a good look at him, but he smells overpoweringly of expensive cologne and cigarettes. He’s strong, too, his body bulky with muscle and fat, and he presses it against me as he covers my mouth with his hand.

I go stiff with fear, staring up into eyes as dark as the pits of hell.

“You Astrid Starling?” he demands, keeping me pinned against the car.

Automatically, I nod, which is so goddamned stupid. I should have shaken my head, pretended to be someone else, but I’m not thinking clearly, my brain cloudy with fear.

“Good,” he growls. “Get in the car. You’re going to take me to your father, and if you don’t, I’ll fucking kill you.”

Terror ices my blood. Why does he want Dad? What is he going to do to him? And why the fuck is this happening to me? This is the second time I’ve been gripped forcibly by a maniac, and I’m tired of it.

Anger flares up inside me, melting my terror, and I struggle. I’m sick of feeling powerless and afraid, and I’m not going down without a fight. He curses and tries to keep me pinned, my glasses falling off in the struggle. He’s still got his hand covering my mouth, so I sink my teeth into the soft flesh of his palm, hoping like hell I draw blood. He grunts, jerking his hand away. “Fucking bitch,” he says viciously, and something hard and unyielding is jammed against my stomach. “Get in the fucking car or I’ll pull the trigger.”

Oh God. He’s got a gun.

I’m facing him, so I see clearly the dark figure looming up behind him. A tall figure, so tall. I’m not completely blind without my glasses, so I see that the fingers holding the knife are tattooed, the blade shining in the dark. Then those tattooed fingers move, drawing the blade smoothly and cleanly across the man’s throat.

Blood gushes, staining the fingers, staining the blade, staining the dark clothes the man is wearing. He makes a strange choking sound, then falls as if bonelessly to the ground, like a puppet with its strings cut, revealing the figure standing behind him.

A man with bloodstained fingers, holding a bloody knife.

His face is like stone, the blue of his eyes lost in the darkness of the parking lot.

Lucien.

I’m paralysed with shock. All I can do is stare as he glances down at the man on the ground, crouches to wipe his bloody blade on the man’s clothes, before tucking the knife into his boot and straightening. He kicks the body aside then takes a step toward me, closing the distance between us.

“Time’s up, Tinkerbell,” he says.