Malia
Thefireiswarmagainst my shoulders as I sit, my bare back pressed against Liam’s firm chest, his large arms wrapped around me. Pulling me even closer to him, he rests his chin on my shoulder and his hands on my chest, tugging the soft flannel sheet tighter around us.
I watch the fire he built for me as we just sit in the peace we’ve created in this old hunting cabin I love so much. He kisses my shoulder, stealing my attention from the flames. My head twists and I’m met with those blue eyes. There’s a somber edge to their usual luminosity.
I turn my body to face him better, my sudden movement making Liam drop the sheet from around us. I reach out to brush away the worry creasing his handsome face, but he surprises me by grabbing the nape of my neck and pulling our foreheads together.
Liam’s eyes close and I already miss the intensity of his stare. My hand rests on his cheek, coaxing him to look at me and, when he does, I’m taken aback by what I see in his eye—something I’ve seen before, even directed at me once upon a time. When I look into his beautiful blue eyes, they hold murder.
I know it lives in my own eyes - it’s in my nature, after all - but I’m unused to seeing that intense brutality storming in his.
“Li,” I breathe. “What happened?”
Something is tugging at the recesses of my mind and I realize this isn’t real. Something’s wrong. This is only a dream.
“I need you to hold on,” he says in desperation.
I don’t understand any of this. My mind is beginning to fog and pull me out of his arms.
My breath shudders and I hold onto him, not wanting to be torn from this peace.
From him.
“Don’t forget who you are, Little Warrior.”
He pulls back to press his lips against my cheek in a kiss I don’t feel.
“Do whatever you have to do to survive. I’ll find you. Whatever it takes, Malia, fucking fight.”
“I believe you,” I whisper back, my voice fading along with the rest of me.
I groan in protest as pain pulses through my head. My muscles coiled tight, I try to fight through the fog as I realize my arms are bound. A slightly hysterical giggle escapes me, turning into another groan when it reverberates through my abused head.
The drug-induced dream didn’t make sense, but the scenario seems familiar. I drugged Liam and he woke up handcuffed to the bed. Could he be trying to settle a score?
I struggle to open my eyes, only to snap them closed again when light stabs into my aching head. Tugging on the restraints binding my hands, I try to slog my way through the muck that seems to have replaced my brain to assess my body, and I realize my hands are bound by a rope, not handcuffs. Based on my time with Liam, handcuffs are his restraint of choice. That thought is enough to send alarm bells ringing through the fog. I let my body go slack and focus on what I can learn from my surroundings.
A pungent smell permeates the air, one that reminds me of the holding cells in the mansion’s basement. It’s musty, old, and almost wet with humidity. It’s a stark contrast to the smell of the cabin’s old wood and smoke from the fireplace. I’m lying on something soft but lumpy and, when I shift my body, I can feel springs in what must be an old worn mattress.
When the bed I’m lying on dips, my legs jerk in response—it seems the drugs dulled my usual ability to sense someone else in the room—and I realize my legs are also tied.
“So, you’re finally awake,” a woman purrs.
Fuck. I know that voice. It’s the only voice guaranteed to spike through my drugged haze, replacing it with burning fury. My eyes snap open despite the painful light. I narrow my gaze on my mother and, though I didn’t think it was possible, the smug look on her face makes me hate her even more. She reaches out to tuck a strand of loose hair behind my ear and I fight the automatic need to recoil from her touch.
My tongue feels too heavy in my mouth and I bite back the poisonous words sitting just behind my teeth. I refuse to give her the satisfaction she’ll get from the weak croak I know will come from my dry throat.
Tawny’s eyebrows pinch together and her smugness morphs into something people would confuse with worry. I lie still, jaw clenched, wishing I could muster up enough saliva to spit in her eye.
“Moye prekrasnoye proklyatiye,“ she whispers, slowly pulling her hand back and placing it delicately in her lap.
My beautiful curse.
I bite back the snort that bubbles up.
Tawny Olin is the only curse that’s plagued my family; the leech that sucked the life out of my father every day he woke up with her at his side. The rot that continuously eats away at my sense and reason.
I think about all the terror I’ve endured at her hands, all the times I spared her life in the hope that, maybe, something would change. She’s always been mine to kill and, as I lie here, unable to move on this dilapidated mattress in an unknown basement, I berate myself for every chance I had and didn’t take. But, then, I’ve never done the taking; it’s always been her taking from me.