Page 3 of Deviant

My arms are pinned under me by my own weight, my legs feel like they’re refusing to cooperate.

In my head, all I can hear is the same word screaming over and over, ‘run’ but it’s not like I can.

And then I realise that he’s here, watching me from the still open door.

“I wonder how long you’ll last.” Magnus murmurs.

He’s ditched the mask now, and as we stare at one another I can see all the ruthless, arrogant, perfect features that makeup his face. He’s neatly shaven, enough to show stubble but like everything else, it’s organised, precise. His eyebrows are thick, shaping his sculpted face, and highlighting those deadly eyes that are so black you wonder if you really are staring into the abyss.

I don’t reply to his jibe. I just glare back. If he thinks I’ll break down and start crying, if he thinks I’ll beg for my life, he’s got another thing coming. He may be able to bully this entire world, but he won’t bully me, he won’t.

He grabs my hair, wrenches my neck so that I’m forced to face him full on, while he drops his gaze to take in my naked, exposed body. From the angle he’s at, I don’t doubt he’s got a perfect view of everything I have.

I shift, shutting my legs as best I can, and he tuts with annoyance.

With one hand, he leans down and pinches my nipple and I whimper with the sharp hit of pain.

“Not bad.” he says, like he’s sizing up a cut of meat.

“Get your fucking hands off me.” I hiss.

Only that just makes him smirk and I realise that this is a joke to him, isn’t it? He’s so fucking used to doing whatever he wants that even now, even my kidnapping and potential murder is just another day at the office. But then, what can you expect from a man who apparently murdered his own wife on their wedding night?

“Do you know how long I’ve waited for this?” he asks, finally taking his disgusting hands away.

I frown in confusion. What the fuck is he talking about? I know the Brethren has only just found out about me, there’s no way they would have let me continue, no way they would have risked it.

“I’m going to break you…” he says so calmly, it makes the words coming out of his mouth even worse. “I’m going to carve away every little piece of what makes you, you, I’ll destroy every tiny bit of hope you have, and only when I decide you’ve suffered enough, will I grant you your death...”

Alcohol burns my throat as I knock back what must be the tenth shot of the night and then that hit of sweetness makes my mouth feel almost clammy. God, what I wouldn’t give for a nice, sharp, bitter whiskey.

But then, whiskey is sadly not the drink of choice for an evening like this, and seeing as I’ve not managed to get past the heaving bodies to where the bar is, I should really be grateful for anything I’m offered.

“I can’t believe she did it.” Mia whispers in my ear, her voice barely audible above the heavy bass.

I give her a warning look, but Frankie plonks himself the other side and says way too loudly, “More foolher.”

“We’re meant to be celebrating.” I remind them. True, this is technically a work night out, but that doesn’t change the basic facts.

“Right, just like we’ll be celebrating their divorce come Christmas.” Mia retorts.

It’s hard not to roll my eyes. Hard not to agree with them either. I glance at the newlyweds in question, Rosie is, as usual, dolled up to the nines, with perfectly dyed blonde hair falling in big waves over her bronzed shoulders. In one hand, she’s clutching a glass of champagne and the other is busy flashing the massive vintage diamond ring for everyone to admire, like we haven’t been ogling it all evening.

“Even if they do divorce, she’ll be set for life.” I state, and the cynic in me says that’s got to be the main reason she married a man like Lou Rogers, because let’s face it, his personality is not his strongest asset.

Frankie snorts, gulping down more of his drink.

“I just don’t get it.” Mia mutters, tossing her long-braided hair over her shoulder. “They barely know each other. It’s been, what, six months?”

“Maybe that was enough?” I reply. Though I have no idea why I’m defending the couple. It’s not like me and Rosie are friends, hell, I’d go so far as to say the only thing we have in common is our place of work, and even then, she barely acknowledges me most days, not that I particularly mind it. I can’t deal with people like her, people who live off drama.

“Seven,” Frankie grins. “It’s been seven months.” He tilts his head, studying the woman further. “Maybe she’s preggers.”

Before I can reply, someone shouts out for another toast and a new shot glass is shoved in front of everyone.

The happy couple stand before us and everyone ‘awws’ as they start shoving their tongues down each other’s throat.

Frankie pulls a face, Mia sniggers, and after knocking back another disgustingly sweet drink, I decide that I’ve had enough and head to the bar, pushing through the crowd of people.

---