Page 184 of Ink Deep Devotion

“Don’t you dare cry yet! The performance isn’t finished yet; you stumbled; it’s okay; get back up and keep going. Stand up, that’s it.” I brush the dirt off my palms, and then I wipe the sweat off my forehead.“Now go inside and get help.”

I enter the small pub, and the scent of beer and hops makes me want to gag again. Eyes, I feel them on me.Looking me up and down. I wonder what they think? Do I look guilty or do they see a victim?

Calm down.

I reach the bar, but I tumble into it, causing the bartender, an old man with a large beer belly, to lift a gray brow suspiciously.“I need help.”Great, Mila, yell at the man! I try to speak again, but this time, I say gentler,“I need help, please.”

The rag he’s polishing a glass with stills.“We don’t give free food.” He barks gruffly.

I wipe my mouth. What is that? Something crusty and gross clings to my cheeks; it’s dried vomit. I can smell my sweat, and I’m sure it’s visible on all of my clothes. Thus, the reason he thinks I’m homeless.

“Can you call the police?” That gets his attention. He nods to the empty stool, and I sink into it as he grabs his phone. The entire time he talks, I watch the door.

I shouldn’t have left the gun inside the car. I might need it. But that would have looked too suspicious. If I were in America, carrying around a shotgun might pass, but not here.

The room starts to spin. I’m gonna be sick again. I bend over and heave, but nothing comes out. The bartender hisses and shouts. He grabs me by my arms and shoves me outside.“You can wait here for them. Don’t puke on my welcome mat, either.” He slams the door shut as I collapse to the floor.

My fingers dig into the dirt, balling it up into my fist.“I did it. I did something on my own.” I whisper in disbelief. I just hope I can live long enough to tell them how sorry I am.

???

They put me in a cell after they found the gun in my car. I gave them a number to call, and then my lips sealed shut. I haven’t spoken since; even when a lawyer showed up and tried to talk to me, I stayed silent. I’m so tired a part of me wants to die. It’s torture staying awake, but my mind refuses to allow me to sleep.

I’m trapped. Caged. Any minute, Camilla could walk through the door of the police building and kill me.

Any second.

Tick. Tock.

The door to the cell clicks causing my bones to jump out of my skin. Here it comes! It was too easy, after all. This was all a test I failed.

Heavy steps echo off the concrete floor.Those aren’t heels. Maybe Camilla sent one of the men to kill me or, worse, drag me back to her.

I never considered that.

“Here she is,” the policeman who brought me says.“You can use the back entrance to leave, Sir.”

Sir? Why does the officer sound nervous?

No response comes. Is that good or bad?

My breathing is so shallow that my vision starts to tunnel. The officer comes to my door, pushes the key into the lock, and slides open the door. A massive figure looms behind the officer, making him look like a small pebble at the foot of a mountain. Even the newcomer’s shadow is so wide that it darkens the entire hallway.

“Mila?”

That voice! It’s not the voice who belongs to the number I gave them.

Grief hits me; it claims my next heartbeat, choking the very breath from my lungs.

Did Camilla kill Dash? Am I too late?

Did he give up on me?

“It’s me, Mila. Cillian.” He speaks his name like it’s a huge lifeboat bursting through choppy waters to grab hold of me.

Cillian's steps are slow and measured, his stance wide, arms open, as if I’m a dangerous wild animal he can’t trust. He’s so muscular that his body makes the cell feel ten times smaller.“We’re leaving.” he says, eyes watching and probing me as I don’t move.

“It’s okay.” He looks me up and down like I’m a broken teacup he once loved.“I’m going to carry you out. It’s me, Cillian.”

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