Page 55 of Shameless Vows

Iknowwith such intensity that I march out of the dressing room, then the en suite, then my room, and go straight to Malachi’s study in the east wing.

His door is open, and he’s at his desk, looking perfectly aristocratic and coldly handsome in a well-tailored Oxford shirt and suit jacket, just as he always does. His appearance should be a reminder and a warning of my place in this world, but I suddenly don’t care.

“Malachi,” I announce myself, stepping into the study.

He doesn’t look up and continues to scroll with the mouse. “I thought we had established not only the fact that you are to address me asDukeandSir, but also that you are to stay in your room.”

“I need to go to New York.”

At that, he cuts his steely, pewter eyes up to me. “No, you do not.”

“Ido, Malachi.” I hold up my phone and wave it frantically at him. “I filed a police report with the NYPD, and I can’t rem—”

“Youwhat?” he snaps, shooting up from his chair and practically leaping around the desk to lunge at me. “Why thefuckare you in contact with the NYPD?” He snatches the phone out of my hand and pitches it at a far wall with such intensity that it shatters on impact, and then grabs my arm. “Of all the conniving, manipulative—”

“Malachi,please. I didn’t file it now, it was from—”

“Silence yourself, Duchess!” He’s now dragging me out of the room toward the stairs, and it’s so much like the horrifying day from more than a decade ago that my head goes light.

Papá’s furious, angry voice as he dragged me up the stairs.

Cállate… cállate… cállate… no quiero escucharlo… cállate…

My feet stumbling on steps, my shins smacking and scraping against marble stairs… both then and now.

“Silence yourself, Duchess.”

Cállate, no quiero escucharlo.

“Silence yourself.”

Cállate.

My head dizzying with desperation to simplyknow…

What did I do… what happened… I just want to know…please.

Por favor.

I’m sorry.

Lo siento.

The lightheadedness increases to exponential levels, and then…

I feel somethingsnap.

Not a big snap; more of a tinysnip.

Like a thread of fraying yarn held between two hands that give it a subtle, light tug that breaks it apart.

Malachi is now dragging me, cursing at me just like Papá did, his words a battery ofget up, get up, stand up, goddamn you,but there’s suddenly a cold wash over my face and neck; a paling sensation, and a sickly turn of my stomach, and my clammy hands shaking from where he has me suspended by my elbows.

Blackness is creeping in, my hearing buffered by static and white noise and a high-pitched hum, and the dragging ceases.

Malachi releases my arms. “Duchess?”

I can’t really hear him.

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