They had me by my arms and dragged me through the hallway as if I was already a corpse.
Futility echoed the sound of my feet against the chilled marble beneath, each dull thud igniting pain in my legs. Crimson streaked behind me in erratic lines, glittering in the soft gold hue of crystal chandeliers sparkling above me like taunting stars. I hung between them, arms linked over their shoulders, my body dragging at muscles that bellowed and protested.
I couldn't scream anymore.
I could only gasp—deep, shallow intakes tearing in and out of my lung. Every step reverberated, a metronome pounding the distance of the hall, each sound marked the last seconds of my life.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
They said nothing.
Neither did I.
The silence hurt less than their hands.
We made an aggressive right, a large door ahead. It opened with a creak, and they unceremoniously pushed me through the door. Gravity took immediate effect, my knees giving out under me as my palms met the cold stone.
Pain exploded.
The glass had torn through my hands earlier, leaving me with raw, searing flesh that throbbed in time with the rest of my injuries. My feet were in excruciating pain, gaping wounds continued to bleed profusely. The white of the coat was ruined, soaked through as I was, smeared in filth and blood. My scrubs were shredded, hanging from my body in wet, ugly strips.
I eased myself upright onto my elbows, struggling to breathe.
My hair was loose around me; long, dark ringlets wet and knotted, falling on my face like a curtain I couldn't lift. My body quaked in fear so the only it knew—with aching pain and the unmistakable fact that it was over.
The door shut behind us with a click.
Footsteps followed.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Kaida stepped into the room.
She slammed the door shut and locked by jerking a sharp twist. Cudsworth, then she came to where I was standing and walked across the room toward me. She crouched down in front of me and yanked my chin forward, making me look up.
Her eyes were cold.
Satisfied.
"You have essentially wished a death sentence for yourself," she said bitterly.
Before I could answer, another came into being in the room.
"Enough, Kaida
Annie.
Stepped inside holding an emergency medical kit, her movements calm, almost gentle in contrast to the violence that surrounded us. She placed the kit beside me and lowered herself to the floor, her knees brushing the stone.
She smiled at me warmly. "I don't think she'll do that again," She reached for my hand.
Instinct took over.
I shoved her away.
She didn't look offended. Instead, she looked at me with something akin to compassion in her blue-gray eyes.
"She's scared," Annie said softly.
Kaida scoffed and stood. "She should be."
The door opened again.
And suddenly, the air changed.
Kieran stepped inside.
He'd changed clothes.
The long-sleeved, rain-drenched poolside shirt was gone. Now he looked at me, body turned only slightly in my direction. He was wearing a tight black T-shirt that fit him as well as if it had been crafted for him and only him. The fabric clung to broad shoulders, solid chest, narrow waist. He was bare-armed, muscles loose and threatening, veins barely visible under his skin.
His hair was still wet.
6 Dark tendrils were sticking to his forehead and slowly slipped down to the side of his face where they caught the light, sliding over chiseled cheekbones and a sharp jawline. His face was calm. Too calm.
Gods!
I gulped hard.
Why does it have to be like this?
Why must the man who was about to kill me look like something torn straight from a turning dream-that beautiful in a way which hurts to look at as it is distracting (like the kind of beauty people talk round with just words)--?
Thus dying isn't so bad either.
Although the very black t-shirt and damp hair told me that he was likely a messenger from Satan himself, the proof was still insufficient.
"Leave us," Kieran ordered.
Annie got up immediately. She glanced down at me once more and smiled faintly. "Try not to provoke him, will you?" she said cheerfully.
Kaida got to her feet, taking the opportunity to roll her shoulders. "Let's get it over with," she muttered. "She's starting to really grate."'
The door closed.
The lock turned.
We were alone.
Kieran's eyes never left me.
Not even once.
He walked toward me slowly, every step purposeful, controlled, like he knew I had nowhere to go. I tried to back away, my hands skidding on blood-wet stone until I was pressed up against the wall.
Cold.
"There's no one else to go," he said, calmly. "Just give up, Mrs. Hurt."
Something inside me snapped.
I spat at him.
The movement was immediate.
His hand went clamping around my throat, hoisting me with ease off the floor. My back was pressed against the wall and my feet dangled uselessly, toes just barely grazing the floor.
The air vanished.
Stars exploded behind my eyes.
I smiled.
Even as my lungs burned.
Even as the darkness began to crowd my field of vision.
"You're a psychopath," I croaked out the words shattered and thin.
His grip tightened slightly.
His lips twisted—not a smile, but something more sinister.
"Is that fear I hear," he whispered, in a low, intimate voice, "or is it the thrill? Either way, it sings to me."
I laughed weakly.
"What are you waiting for?" I whispered. "Just kill me."
Something shifted in his eyes.
"Your wish," he murmured, "then."
He let go of my throat for no more than an instant and reached behind his back to draw a pistol. Black. Sleek. Final. He held the barrel against my forehead.
Cold metal kissed my skin.
My heart was thundering in my ears.
He leaned down.
His lips brushed mine.
Not a kiss.
A warning.
I bit his lip hard.
Blood bloomed instantly, warm and metallic against my mouth.
"Go to hell," I whispered.
He smiled wickedly, blood staining his mouth, eyes gleaming with something feral.
"Darling," he said quietly, "I live there."
The gun cocked.
I closed my eyes.
A loud gunshot ripped through the room.