Page 13 of Killian's Vengeance

This was hopeless. I laid there and tried my hardest to formulate a plan—something—but I felt braindead. All of the adrenaline that had been humming through my system when my tormentor had been in the room faded almost immediately and now my muscles were leaden and my head felt like a cannonball.

I was still stunned at what happened. My captor and tormentor had started using the whip on me and I had gotten turned on. To add insult to injury, he’d noticed and nearly fingered me to an orgasm while hitting my ass with a whip. What the absolute fuck?

The guy was excruciatingly hot, and he seemed to know what he was doing with all this Christian Grey bullshit. Did he pick an implement that would get me off on purpose? Had he done it to embarrass me? If so, why had he done that? Instead, he’d seemed pissed that I’d gotten aroused. That made two of us.

I still felt the residual ache of unsatisfied lust simmering just below the surface of my awareness. Why had the hottest thing that had ever happened to my sex life have to happen now? With him?

Tears of helplessness and defeat started to leak from my eyes, but I didn’t want to admit to myself that I was on the verge of utter despair. Was I going to die here? Tiny shivers were starting to wrack my body, most likely a combination of shock and the chill that was starting to come over me due to having nearly all my clothing removed.

Did Lily know this would happen to me? Did she know the people after her were so dangerous? I had to imagine she did, which is why she arranged for me to be in her apartment. I knew we’d never been particularly close, but this betrayal obliterated whatever hope I’d been holding out that we’d become true sisters and have a real relationship. When I looked back at our history together, and Lily’s obvious disdain for me, that hope had always been a bit naive, but after my parents died, I leaned into the possibility of having a real connection with her.

Hunger, cold, humiliation, pain, and now overwhelming depression were driving me into an intense state of self-pity. Tears that felt like they were welling up from the pit of my stomach, burst out of me, causing my body to shake with racking sobs that made my injuries throb. The pain just made me cry harder.

I didn’t know how long I cried. It felt like hours, but knew it couldn’t have been that long. Feeling sorry for myself wasn’t going to get me anywhere, but I did feel calmer after letting myself cry and wallow for a bit.

I was still sniffling when the door opened, heavy footsteps causing my body to tense, sending darts of pain along the sore skin of my back and butt. I was also highly aware of my exposed state, heat building in my cheeks at the view I must be providing. My mood was already starting to crater again when gentle hands quickly, but carefully, pulled my shorts back up around my waist and a soft blanket was draped over me.

Confusion ricocheted through my mind like ping pong balls. What was going on? Was this a trick? Was it even him—had someone come to rescue me?

I quickly discarded that notion. I could smell his scent as he leaned over and started unbuckling my shackled wrists and ankles. Little prickles of hope started to stir in my chest. Did he actually believe that I wasn’t Lily?

Firm hands gripped my forearms, pulling me up off the bed and into a sitting position. I sucked in a breath as the stripe on my ass hit the soft pressure of the mattress, but pulled the blanket reflexively closer around me, as if afraid this was all another game, and he was going to rip it out of my hands.

I finally raised my gaze up to him and instead of emerald eyes full of wrath and condemnation, they looked resigned and speculative. Seeing a softer expression gave me pause because I’d already thought he was uncomfortably attractive when he was acting like an asshole, but now that he wasn’t so angry, everything that made him so attractive was even more magnified. What the hell was wrong with me? Did I have Stockholm syndrome?

I cocked my head. “Do you actually believe me? That I’m not Lily?” My vocal cords had taken a beating when I’d been crying leaving my voice raspy and raw.

His jaw tightened. “Yes. I know who you are, Willa.” He looked aggravated, but I honestly couldn’t tell if it was because he had mistakenly been torturing me or he was annoyed I wasn’t Lily, and now they’d have to go back out and track her down.

I paused. “And?” I prompted.

He blew out a breath and kneeled in front of me, lightly cradling my jaw in his big, rough hand. “Willa, I’m…sorry for what happened in this room and not believing you. You have to understand, the evidence was pretty convincing that you were Lily. People always deny their identity when they’re caught.” He finished his list of justifications with a deep breath. “However, that’s no fucking excuse for the bullshit I dealt you, so I’m sorry,” he finished roughly, almost awkwardly, as though he’d never apologized in his life. Maybe he hadn’t.

“Uh, okay,” I said, not sure how to respond. As he stared into my eyes, intense and watchful, an insanely disturbing part of my brain wanted to absolve him of his behavior. Even though he was clearly uncomfortable apologizing, he did seem sincere and what Lily was accused of doing—probably did—was truly heinous. That part of me definitely had Stockholm syndrome.

Thankfully, there was a part of me that didn’t because I was still sore and pissed and traumatized, so complete forgiveness was going to wait.

He rubbed the side of my jaw briefly, sending shivers through my body as he once again stared at me speculatively. What was he thinking? Why was he petting me? Why hadn’t I run screaming out of here and straight to the police station?

“I don’t expect you to accept my apology right now.” How big of him. “I have food, clothes, and something to take care of my—the marks on your back. Take a shower and recover a bit, and everything will be here when you get out.”

The sentence was phrased as a friendly suggestion, but his expression and tone of voice made it clear he expected me to do what he said. I needed to get out of here. I couldn’t just hang out here after what happened.

I stood and started edging toward the door, though, to be honest, I didn’t really relish the idea of going outside in a blanket and a pair of shorts. Where were my shoes? “Uh, I really think I should just go?—”

My former captor stepped toward me and gripped my upper arms, stilling my movement. He probably wanted to give me some argument for why I shouldn’t run to the police and get his crazy ass locked up. My greatest fear was that he’d actually be able to convince me—my stupid Stockholm syndrome half was already there.

“Look, Willa, I know it’s a lot to ask, but if I could just talk to you for a minute after your shower?—”

The door swung open, stopping him mid-sentence. He shot the intruder, a young, very sexy brunette with light brown eyes, a murderous glare. “What?”

Her dark, perfectly shaped brows puckered as she looked at me, no doubt horrified by dreadful appearance and partial nudity. “Who’s she?” she asked, a tinge of jealous curiosity in her voice. Oh my god, this girl was jealous of me? She has definitely misread the situation.

His scowl intensified. He either didn’t like to be questioned, or he didn’t like this particular question. “None of your fucking business, Cara. What are you here for?”

She stuck out her lower lip in a bit of a pout. “Your food is ready.”

“Great. Bring it in here.” Her outfit of a black corset and an extremely short, black skirt was pretty revealing for a waitress. Where the hell was I?

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