Isat on a hard folding chair, in front of a floor-length mirror, taking in my image. I’d been made up to perfection. . . well, as perfect as a damaged woman could be. Hell had organized a makeup artist. She’d arrived at the room a little over an hour ago, and that was how long it had taken to make me look presentable.
I wanted to tell the pretty blonde of my situation. I wanted to tell her everything and beg for her help.
But I couldn’t.
I’d already been threatened by the weight of her death, of her blood on my battered hands. And I knew Hell would see his promise through. He had the knife that would guarantee her death in his hand when his lips evacuated the threat.
As the lady brushed pink onto my cheeks and flicked up my eyelashes with a coating of black mascara, all I saw was a warped version of her—a version with holes in her pretty pink blouse, crimson blood staining the satin as it leaked through each one. When she’d moved behind me, guiding me to my feet to get a better look at my painted image in the mirror, she smiled, proud of her work.
But I didn’t see her skills in makeup art.
All I saw was her. . . but not her happy face. I saw the death I hadn’t caused. I saw her eyes on mine, sad and tearful, black smudges of her perfect makeup trailing down her face as she stared at me through our reflections.
I breathed easier when she collected her stuff and finally left the room, her professional smile still on her face.
I stayed near the mirror, not enjoying the heaviness of my dress now that I was standing. I smoothed over the black satin. I hated satin, as of this very moment. The soft feel beneath my fingers gave static shocks, trying to reverberate me closer to my senses.
A flower sat in my hair, lost to the volume. I didn’t get a tiara. I wasn’t his princess, never his queen. I pulled my hair forward, disrupting the flower because I didn’t like the exposure of my face staring back when my eyes found my face in the mirror. Its petals bounced, appearing to fall in slow motion as it fell to the carpet.
I bent, turning to pick it up. His fingers brushed mine as he clutched the daisy from the ground. I hadn’t even heard his silent feet step up behind me; he moved like a ghost—an entity from my past that I was desperate to expel from my life.
He smiled at me. His pretty eyes narrowed as he took in my made-up look.
“You look nice,almostperfect.”
Almost. . .the jibe hurt because the look on hisperfectface told me why he said it. Because my scars made me less-than.
My fingers weaved through my hair, making sure it covered my mottled skin. I reached for the flower, planning on stealing it back to secure my hairs position, ready for the event I didn’t want to attend.
But he retracted his hand, creating a bigger distance between the large daisy and me. I stared at the petals. . . daisies were always his favorite. Mine, too. They reminded me of freedom; the kind of freedom I longed for as I’d watch them blow in the wind from the house he called home.
He moved forward, guiding the flower back into my hair. I cringed, trying to pull back, as his fingers twirled in my hair. His other hand latched around my bicep; he wasn’t letting me go.
“Don’t spoil things. . . constantly. We have the potential to have a nice evening together. Neither of us really want a repeat of earlier. There are so many other things we could do. . .” Hell’s hand dropped from my arm to my knee, shimmying up my leg, snaking beyond the layers of my dress. “Things you could enjoy as well as me.”
His hand crept further up my thigh. Angry fingers rubbed over my satin knickers. My body proved its disloyalty to me, enjoying his touch. He moaned, his teeth sinking into the fullness of his bottom lip.
“Already excited, doll?” He closed his eyes, pulling his hand away, and acting like it was the hardest thing he ever had to do.
He took his fingers to his nose and inhaled. My wetness had seeped through the fabric, my scent was all over him, and he couldn’t deny how much he liked that, as he moaned again, loud and obnoxiously.
My nostrils flexed in fury. . . in hatred.
“You look so cute when you’re mad.” He laughed. And the action hurt him.
I wanted to smile at his pain, but I kept my expression passive and my joy muted.
Maybe the reason he wanted to suck the enjoyment out of my life was because that was the only way he’d ever feel any.
I shifted onto my feet, moving from his touch, and he followed.
He found me in the bathroom as I dwelled over the sink, still feeling repulsed by my own messed-up feelings. He leaned back against the doorframe, blocking me in. His suit crinkled where his knee bent, one leg tucked behind the other.
“I know you don’t want this. You’ve never wanted any of the things I’ve done to you. I know that.”
“Then why do you do them?” I regretted my words almost instantly, fearing the repercussions they may cause.
I stared at myself in the mirror, adjusting my hair some more.
