Page 35 of Fearless

“I promise I’m not putting you on the internet for hundreds of sick fucks to wank off to,” he says, using his grip on my ankle to drag me over the bed to him.

I quickly grab the hem of my shirt to keep it down as it threatens to hike up and expose everything anyway, rendering my whole struggle moot.

“And I appreciate that,” I manage weakly, stalling while my brain works overtime to think up something usable.

You could just tell him, Meisie. Would it be the worst thing in the world?

Blood drains from my face at the thought and the world takes a long, slow spin around me.

Fuck no. Not another panic attack.

Something must show on my face—perhaps my blood vessels literally draining themselves?—because Cillian stops pulling me and instead studies me with narrowed eyes. There’s a long pause where we just stare at each other, but then finally his face seems to soften just a fraction.

“Alright,” he says, nodding as if he’s still convincing himself. “Alright. You can keep your clothes on.”

Surprise battles shock for a moment. But before I can even thank him, he releases me and turns away. “But not these ones. I’ll need to be a fuck load more creative if you’re giving me nothing to work with.”

* * *

“There’s no way in hell I’m—”

“When exactly did this turn into a negotiation?” Cillian asks, his voice right above my head.

I’m in the small bathroom again. He’d dragged me up here, saying he’d left my “outfit” inside.

There’s only a small vanity mirror to cast back my reflection, but even that’s too big.

I’m wearing a short, candy-pink satin dress with a lace bodice. It’s the kind of thing a flower girl would wear. The stockings are too much, even without the pink bow sown to the lacy tops.

The hair ribbons are where I’m drawing the line.

Cillian holds them up high on my head as he stares at my reflection.

“Right there, and not a ball-hair lower,” he says.

Is he… smiling?

I snatch them from his hand and hurriedly divide my hair into two ponytails on either side of my head. I ram the hair ribbons into place and twirl around to face him.

“Happy, Daddy?”

“Now your outfit matches your attitude, brat.” He reaches behind me and jerks down the dress’s zipper. I barely catch the bodice before it falls down my chest.

“Okay, okay!” I fumble with the fabric, bundling it against my breast and turning around. “I’m sorry. Please… just zip me up.”

I don’t like the calculating look he gets in his eyes when I plead with him, like he’s trying to work out why I’m so averse to being naked in front of him. I guess it’s a bit much for him to believe that I’m self-conscious.

He zips me up and then grabs the back of my neck and steers me out of the bathroom.

Why is it that the weirdest part of my day is that I’ve just realized I don’t mind his hand there, guiding me. Well, shoving me pretty much. But he’s not hurting me. Not choking me.

Yet.

Downstairs, he makes me pose on the bed. Thankfully, this outrageous outfit includes a pair of white lace panties, so even when he tells me to hike up my knees and spread my legs, there’s nothing but underwear for him to see.

“Who are you sending this to?” I ask, when he tells me to get on my hands and knees, look at him over my shoulder, and pout.

“I said pout, not frown,” he says. “You’re ruining my shot.”

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