Page 106 of Vicious Hearts

“Una—!”

“Besilent, boy,” my father growls, still staring right at me. “Finn, sit in that chair. And then I want you to watch, and to see what a true O’Conor is prepared to do for family.”

“Papa, please don’t—”

“SIT IN THE CHAIR!”

Finn starts to cry, but I nod reassuringly at him. “It’s okay,” I whisper. “It’s okay—”

“Turn around, Una,” Papa growls. “And lift up your shirt, so it does not tear. This is a lesson you will not soon forget.”

All through the screams, and the feel of fire ripping across my back, and the wet tears dripping hot down my face as I grit my teeth, with each blow, I realize he’s right.

I will not soon forget this.

But whatever lesson he wants me to learn, the one I will take from that day along with the marks on my back that will never fade is that I will never be him.

I will never be a monster.

Ever.

* * *

When the dooris securely locked behind us, Cillian moves across the floor of the penthouse, turning on a few lights and shrugging off his black suit jacket.

I can’t move. I just stand motionless in the front entryway, my arms limp at my sides.

My stomach is knotted, my heart frozen, and the voice of a dead monster is still snarling in my head.

Everything hurts from when Cillian tackled me to the floor. There’s bits of frosting, cake, and blast-soot still in my hair, on my face, hardened onto the dress.

“There’s not much in the fridge,” Cillian mutters from the kitchen area. “But I’ll have someone go out for—”

He turns, and his face hardens.

“Una.”

I don’t respond, staring at an invisible spot on the floor five feet in front of me. Hearing, but not. All I can really hear is that snarling, biting, vicious voice of the devil I once called father snapping at my heels.

“Una.”

Cillian’s directly in front of me, but I still can’t answer. Or even look away from whatever the hell spot I’m staring at on the floor.

“You’re safe,” he growls quietly. “Nothing is going to—Una!”

I don’t even realize I’m falling until he catches me. It’s like my legs don’t work anymore, along with my voice.

Cillian’s strong, muscled arms go around me, and suddenly he’s lifting me up and cradling me in those arms against his chest, like I’m a small child. I’d protest, if I had a voice. I’d hit him, if my arms worked.

But I can’t, so I just stay still as he marches down the hallway, into his bedroom, and then into the ensuite bathroom. He storms right into the huge, glass-walled shower, using his foot to kick on the overhead rainfall showerhead.

I gasp, jolting and shivering as cold water pours down on both of us—clothes, shoes, and all. But quickly it turns hot and steamy, melting away the chill and the tension.

Cillian lowers me to my feet, keeping a firm hold on my arms as I find my balance. I still can’t talk, and I’m still staring blankly at the wall. But I’m aware of him kneeling under the rush of the water and slipping off my heels.

Then of him standing and pulling the zipper down on the dress until it slips off my shoulders and drops to a black puddle at my feet. The hot water runs over my body, turning my bra and panties transparent and pasting them to my skin.

I’m dimly aware of Cillian undoing his shirt and tossing it aside before stepping out of his trousers.

---