Killian

“Please don’t hurt him.”

That strikes me. Please don’t hurt him. Not please don’t hurt us.

“Should I let him walk out of here scot-free?”

She swallows, exhales a breath. She knows I won’t do that.

“Just…” She’s shaking her head. The blindfold is wet from her tears. “I’m sorry.”

Her apologizing makes me hate Jones even more. “Help her stand.”

Hugo takes her arm and raises her to her feet. She stands on the foot with the shoe, then shifts to the one without it. I step toward her and even though she can’t see me, I know she feels the shift because she backs up and stiffens, her face turning upward, searching for me.

“Priscilla Hawking,” I say, trying out her name. I want her to know that I know exactly who she is.

She visibly shudders.

I move closer, then to her side, slowly behind her, eyeing the ropes that have cut into the skin of her wrists. I lean in and inhale a subtle scent of perfume beneath the acrid one of fear.

“Are you scared?”

She goes rigid. I know she can feel my breath on her neck.

“Answer my question.”

“Yes.” It’s a squeak.

I walk around her, resume my position facing her. “At least one of you is honest. But what kind of message would I be sending if I let Jones walk out of here? If I don’t punish him?”

She drops her head, wipes her nose on her shoulder.

“It wouldn’t be good for business,” I say.

“What are you going to do, then?” she asks, her jaw set when she turns her face up.

“Break a leg. Maybe two.” I shrug my shoulder as Jones starts blabbering some nonsense. I realize he’s probably stoned.

“I can pay you.” Her voice breaks and she can’t hide the fact that she’s crying now.

I step to her, reach out to touch a tear with my thumb. She gasps.

“This isn’t about money, sweetheart.”

“Please don’t—”

“Shh, Priscilla.” I turn to Jones. “Get up.”

She obviously thinks I’m going to break his legs right here, right now, because she throws herself forward, crashing into my chest. I catch her when she bounces backward to stop her from falling.

“I’ll do anything!”

I’m still holding her by the arms and she’s trembling. Silence hangs in the air between us. 

“Anything?” I ask. 

She pulls back and turns her face up and suddenly, I want to see her eyes. But then, she nods. Three quick, nervous little nods.

I touch her face, smear a tear down over her chin, her throat, to the hollow between her collarbones, the skin of her chest. She’s holding her breath as I drag my finger down to where her blouse has torn. “Are you offering to sleep with me, Priscilla?”

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