Page 15 of Hidden Heir

The poison he drips over such a soft word makes me sick. My knees knock together and in a blink, tears prick the corner of my eyes.

“Please,” I gasp, unsure what I’m even asking for.

“Please?” He chuckles. “Yes, beg exactly like that. I’m going to see how many dildos I can stuff inside you until you break, see how many lashes you take until you’re declaring your love for me, how many liters you can hold until you’re?—”

“No!”

I don’t know what comes over me. Maybe it’s the sick realization that I can’t stomach this. Not for anyone. This isn’t my kind of survival. As he speaks, I grab the nearest thing on thewall which happens to be a paddle embedded with sharp, metal studs. I lash out and it slams into the side of his face. He flies backward with a scream of pain, but since I don’t release my grip on the paddle, he’s able to rip himself free from the studs.

They claw down his face, turning his cheek and chin to bloody ribbons and I dare not think what it would have done to my body in his hands. He screams and screams as blood pours like a waterfall from his face. The ground shakes as he falls to his knees.

“You bitch!” he shouts, glaring at me with one eye.

I hesitate for half a second before lifting the paddle and slamming it into his face once more. This time when it embeds, I leave it there.

Then I kick off my heels and sprint from the room.

6

BROOKE

Irun.

And I don’t stop running.

Barefoot through the streets, I leave that place of horror behind and run until my heart feels like it’s going to explode out of my chest. I didn’t recognize where I was when I charged out of that warehouse; all I focused on was running away from it like my life depended on it.

Because it probably does.

I attacked that man. I don’t know what came over me other than a survival instinct that surged up like the roar of a tiger. The Irish won’t be happy and will probably kill us, I’m sure of it.

I run until my feet are frozen from slapping against the cold ground. The dress has ridden up so far that anyone I sprint past in the night will get an eyeful but I don’t care.

I need to get home.

I run until the streets grow familiar and once I recognize where I am, I hail a cab. Thankfully the cab driver doesn’t care that I’m covered in sweat and dots of blood, and that my dress is a mess. He picks me up and greets me with a nod, stayingfocused on his music after accepting my address with barely a glance.

Time in the taxi gives me a moment to think and catch my breath. I don’t feel the pain anymore from the wounds on the soles of my feet from the stones I ran over. I don’t feel the ache in my legs or the pain in my chest. All I can think about is getting home. Each time the taxi stops at a red light, I feel like my skeleton is about to rip out of my skin because I’m so desperate to get to my place. If the Irish figured out where I live and get there first, I’m screwed.

My only hope is that Ant has enough sense to grab Tiff and run if someone turns up at the door. I chew on my lower lip and pinch my thigh as the taxi weaves through the city. By the time he pulls up at my apartment, I’m ready to puke from fear.

I thank the driver, ask him to wait for me while I get money from inside and then sprint into my apartment trying to brace myself for carnage or worse, the absence of my daughter.

“Tiff?” I yell. “Ant?” I run down the hall and crash into my bedroom, nearly breaking down in tears of relief when I see Tiff in her bed staring at me with wide, shocked eyes.

“Mommy?”

The sound of her voice brings me to my knees and I sob for a few seconds, utterly relieved yet still scared. She’s fine but I can’t waste any time. There’s no way the Irish aren’t scrambling to find me right now.

“Ant!” I yell as I climb to my feet. “Can you pay for the taxi? And then we need to get out of here!”

I gather Tiff into my arms and she immediately starts crying, clearly confused by my tears and fear. I cuddle her tightly, burying my face in her curls, breathing her in and struggling to gain control over my tears. After kissing her, I set her back down and then start dragging everything I can think of fromher drawers into a bag. Clothes, medicine, soap, lotion, pull ups, toys. I cram it all in then zip up the bag.

Suddenly, a pounding on the front door makes me freeze and my heart nearly claws right out of my throat.

“Ma’am?” calls a voice.

I breathe a sigh of relief. Not the Irish. The taxi driver.

---