17 Chapter 16 (1/2)

Mariana

I fell into a broken sleep shortly after Dornan left me alone with my broken ribs and rumbling stomach. I was so worn out, so beyond thought, that I no longer cared if someone murdered me in my sleep. I just needed to pa.s.s out for a couple of hours and regroup. But nightmares of my mother's crying face taunted me, making me twist and turn, my ribs protesting with white-hot pain every time I did so.

Morning came eventually, and with it, a fragile sense of calm. The hum in my ribs was still high, but it had settled down from its original peak.

Este. I couldn't bear to think of him, the way his eyes had glazed over as his life had ebbed away, his blood dripping into the cracks of the cobblestoned street beneath him and leaving an empty void.

I sat up with a start as something banged on the other side of the door. 'Christ,' I muttered, as the sudden movement s.h.i.+fted my ribs painfully. It hurt so much, it took my breath away. Dornan stood in the doorway, a troubling look on his face. It looked somewhere between amus.e.m.e.nt and cool detachment, the smile of his mouth saying one thing but the fact that it didn't reach his eyes saying another.

'Here to check me out?' I asked sarcastically.

His smile blossomed into a wide grin. He thought I was funny?

'I'm so glad my questions entertain you,' I said, getting to my feet. 'Can I please go to the bathroom now?'

I was ready to burst. It'd been a long time between visits.

'Sure,' he said, opening the door wider and stepping to the side. I looked up, startled, and this time he did laugh at me.

'There are armed guards all the way down the hall,' he said. 'So yeah, I'm letting you take a p.i.s.s. You've got five minutes.'

I glared at him, my bladder winning the battle between running and staying put. As I sidled past him, our hands brushed together, and I recoiled at the sudden spark that seemed to ignite between our skin.

He's the enemy.

It bothered me that I even had to remind myself of that fact.

He was right. There was a guard near the bathroom, holding one of the same sub-machine guns as the ones my father and brother had had pointed at their heads. Berettas. I was going to end up with a urinary tract infection pretty soon, unless I was granted a toilet break more than once every twelve hours.

I contemplated asking to take a shower as I gazed longingly at the small, screenless cubicle beside the vanity.

'Hurry up,' Dornan called from my room, and I sighed, trudging back.

I froze when I saw what he had in his hand.

Years ago, my highly paranoid father had insisted on having all of us microchipped, in case we went missing. In case we were abducted, to be more accurate. Some schemer had spun him a story about the microchips having GPS capabilities, but he had been lying. They were the same chips people put into their pets in case they went missing, so that if someone found them, they could scan the chip, return the pet to its owner and everyone could live happily ever after.

Or, in our case, so that our bodies could be identified.

I snapped from my thoughts back to the scene in front of me — Dornan, standing in the middle of the small room in his full biker garb, holding a microchip scanner in his hand.

s.h.i.+t.

I feigned indifference, walking slowly into the room and trying to look anywhere but at what he was holding. The small scar in my unharmed wrist throbbed painfully, threatening to burst and spill all of my secrets.

Dornan watched me enter the room with amus.e.m.e.nt, licking his lips as he took me in from head to toe.

'What's this?' I asked, picking up on the vibe that something was different about today. Different from his friendly manner of yesterday, when he'd liked my blood and bandaged me up.

'Clothes off,' he said.

I choked. So this was really happening. My skin burned at the thought of being separated from my dress.

'Why?' I asked.

He waved the scanner in his hand. 'A little bird told me you've got treasure hidden somewhere. I want to go treasure hunting.'

a.s.shole.

'What are you talking about?' I stalled.

He took a step towards me, erasing the s.p.a.ce between us. I tried to back up and ended up with the backs of my calves pressed against the bed frame.

'I think you know what I'm talking about,' he said. 'If you tell me where it is, you can keep your dress on.'

I glared at him.

'Or maybe you want to take it off for me?'

'Go f.u.c.k yourself,' I muttered.

He tensed momentarily. 'Dress off it is. Hurry up. Or I'll kick your ribs until the rest of them are broken, too.'

I scowled at him, but I started to lift my dress up, praying that the chip was redundant and that his scanner wouldn't pick it up. I was terrified of him finding the chip and having a reason to cut me. I might have hurt myself sometimes and relished the pain, but it was about emotion, about the control I sought to wield over those emotions.

Just because I sometimes enjoyed cutting into my own flesh didn't make me want someone else cutting into it.

Just because I was becoming accustomed to being in pain didn't mean I enjoyed it.

My eyes watered as fresh pain spiked in my chest. I gasped and dropped the hem of my dress.

'I can't,' I said, clutching my side.

He rolled his eyes and set the scanner down on the small pine table that stood next to my bed.

I didn't fight when he reached out and slid the thin strap of my dress over my shoulder and down my arm, then repeated the action with the other side. He gave a solid tug, and I looked away as my lace-covered b.r.e.a.s.t.s emerged from the dress, popping out dramatically as the tight material slid down and over my waist. He whistled in appreciation, and my cheeks burned in response.

'You could just tell me where it is,' he said, chuckling. 'Then I wouldn't have to do this.'

I stared at the floor. Screw him. Although it killed me to be so exposed, I refused to give him the satisfaction of my complicity. If he wanted to find a microchip underneath my skin he could d.a.m.n well go searching for it.

The dress pooled at my feet and I cringed at the sudden exposure. I was well aware of how I looked in the very revealing, plunging, boosting and altogether ridiculous black lace underwear that Murphy had insisted on buying when he stocked my suitcase for our fake-cation.

Dornan took a step back and grinned. 'I didn't pick you for a lingerie model,' he said appreciatively.

I snapped my gaze up to his, furious. 'It was that a.s.shole Murphy,' I spat. 'He said if I didn't wear this —'

Oh.