Maybe it’s not his first time doing this, I think bitterly. Maybe I’m not the first woman to be locked in the Irish don’s wardrobe. Sick fucking bastard.
I shake my head, trying to dislodge the strange feeling that my dream has left on me. In it, Kian felt more like savior than villain. The dream is familiar—I’ve had it thousands of times in my life—but that part of it certainly isn’t. That part is new.
“Fuck me,” I say out loud. The words echo between the dark walls of my makeshift cell.
I don’t know what’s more frustrating: the fact that I’m trapped in here with a man who’s clearly dangerous… or the fact that a part of me is drawn to him despite that.
I’ve never been so fucking confused in my entire life. Even when I was lunging at him with a weapon in hand, intent on ending his life, I couldn’t help but marvel at his naked body. Even when I was struggling to breathe as he pinned me against a wall, I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of hot excitement.
Which leads me to only one logical conclusion: I’m sick.
I’m a fucking sick person. What kind of woman is attracted to the man who’s trying to kill her? A scarred woman. A broken woman.
I’m inclined to blame Drago. My brother did a good job desensitizing me to violence. It’s a language I understand better than I should. But I can’t blame him for this. He spent his entire life drilling only one thing into me: the Clan is the enemy. Kian O’Sullivan is the devil incarnate. And only with his death can we be free.
But I tried to kill him, and look where it got me?
Maybe Drago was wrong about some things.
I adjust my position and rest my head against the back of the wardrobe. I have to keep my legs pulled up towards my chest. There’s no other option but to ignore the ache in my limbs. At this point, even if I’m released from this wardrobe, I have no idea if I’ll even be able to walk.
I sit there for a long time. An hour feels like five in the confining darkness. But then, finally, I hear sound.
Someone’s walking into the room.
I stay as silent as possible and wait. I know instinctively that it’s not Kian. His footsteps are heavier, more authoritative. Whoever’s in here is submissive. Quiet. Eager not to disrupt anything.
I can hear things being moved around a little. The whoosh of a duster and the whirr of a vacuum. A maid, perhaps?
Hope fills me up and suddenly, I don’t care about the stale air. I just need to wait—and hope that she decides to open the wardrobe door.
It takes longer than I expect for her to reach this side of the room. I can see her shadow swallow up the light every time she passes by.
If she knows I’m in here, she’s not likely to let me out. But if I make a noise, she’ll probably open up the doors to check. So I start to make a gentle rapping noise with my nails, hoping it sounds just innocent enough to coax her to open the wardrobe out of curiosity.
The vacuum stops. Footsteps shuffle closer. The light between the floor and the door of the wardrobe snuffs out completely.
Then, like a fucking miracle, the doors rattle. The bolt cranks open.
I act instantly.
The moment I see light—real light—I shove the door open. It cracks the maid in the face and she stumbles backwards with a stunned shriek. Tripping over the edge of the rug, she hits the ground hard with one hand clapped over her bleeding nose.
I feel a twinge of guilt. The terror on her face is obvious. But being kind doesn’t get you very far in life. That’s another lesson my brother taught me.
My legs feel like jelly, but I can’t afford to show weakness. And I’m not done using this woman yet. I need something more. I force myself forward until I’m standing right on top of her.
I must look like an unholy monster, because she’s clutching her heart and staring up at me in fright.
“How did you get in here?” I hiss.
She’s a kindly-looking woman. Probably in her mid-fifties. Her hair’s graying at the edges and she’s got laugh lines at the corners of her eyes. She looks like the kind of woman who has grandkids she spoils and a lazy husband at home who never contributes nearly as much as he should.
I start yelling at myself internally. Stop it. Stop creating a story for her.You need to create a story for yourself.Preferably one where you’re still alive by the end.
“How the fuck did you get in?” I glower at her.
She recoils away from me and smacks her head on the floor by accident. When she speaks, her voice is a broken tremor. “I… I’m just the… the maid...”