Page 67 of Fearless

Then it all becomes clear as my eyes move down her body. Her perfect little tits. Dark pink nipples. Flat, smooth stomach… but only until just below her belly button.

At the lowest part of her belly sits a long, horizontal scar. It’s not raw. It’s not angry looking, like someone attempted to disembowel her last month. I know how scars age all too well. It’s been there a while.

Is she? Was she?

I blink a few times. Come on, Kill, it doesn’t take a surgeon to work out what that is.

There are a thousand thoughts running through my mind in that second. All of them questions, none of them answers. How? When? Fuckinghow?

Where?

Is there a child in her house wondering where the fuck their mum is? My throat tightens at the thought. At the familiarity. At how much that hurts. Did I cause that?

That feeling returns. The one that feels like I have a grenade in my arms and someone just pulled out the pin.

Except this time, the person who pulled the pin out is quite clearly me.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

MEISIE

Ifeel my buttons pop off. I feel the fabric slide away from my skin. I feel the cold air caressing my exposed skin.

But it’s only when Cillian’s gaze touches me—so hot compared to the cool, air-conditioned room-—that I’m dragged kicking and screaming back to reality.

Somehow, in my mind, he’d stopped when I yelled peaches.

Like he always did.

But a glance down at myself confirms the reason for the panic suddenly coursing through me.

I writhe under him. “No!”

Too heavy.

Too strong.

Aren’t they always?

“No!” I shriek.

“Tell me,” is all he says. Commands, really. Like he’s not just satisfied with owning my body, but he feels he has some kind of stake in my soul too.

“You fuck!” I yell. I buck and squirm, using every ounce of my strength to try and get out from under him.

“Meisie, it’s done. Hear me? It’s fuckingdone.” His hand lands on my breastbone and he uses it to push me into the mattress. Then he sinks down on top of me again, driving the air out of my lungs and stilling my limbs with the sheer weight of his body. “It’s done, darlin’. I can’t take it back.”

His hand slides down between us.

Silent tears squeeze out of my closed eyes and dampen the hair at my temples.

No.

He was supposed to stop.

But why did I think he would be different? Why the fuck was I tripping on this fucked up theory that instead of him controlling me, I could control him?

Because you’re a fucking basket case, that’s why, Trish says. And yes, that’s myprofessionalopinion.

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