Page 114 of Twisting Beauty

I sank onto the closed toilet lid and grabbed my own hair, pulling until my scalp burned, trying to anchor myself to the pain. A ragged, ugly sound tore out of me, muffled by my knees.

Maeve’s empty, pleading eyes flashed behind my eyelids, Help me, over and over, syncing with the frantic, sickening thud of my heart.

I’d just fucking stood there. I’d just stood there like a fucking eejit while my friend got carted away. I had failed her.

I pressed my palms against my eyes until the pressure hurt. Cry later. Hate yourself later.

Maeve was still alive, which meant there was still hope. I could still save her, still save all those girls if I kept my head on straight instead of sitting here drowning in guilt.

I rubbed my thumb along the scar in my palm. “I won’t forget you.”

My hands shook so violently I could barely turn the brass taps on the sink. The freezing water on my face didn’t wash away the guilt; it just shocked the hysteria down into a cold, hard knot. I stared at my blotchy face in the mirror, my chest still heaving, demanding my muscles to lock back into Rua’s rigid, hollow shape.

I stared at myself in the mirror until my features settled, until the worst of the redness faded. Until I found Rua behind my eyes again.

I brushed the charms along her bracelet.

Then I took a steadying breath and walked back out into the den.

Someone caught my wrist before I’d taken three steps. He yanked me sideways and I was in his lap before I could blink.

It was the creepy one from earlier. “Look what I caught, boys.”

The laughter of the men around him cracked open.

Alistair stood three feet away, watching with a thin smile. He made no move. His friends could apparently handle his daughter however they liked.

Creepy’s hands landed on my hips and he leaned in, his sour wine breath making bile rise up in my throat.

I fought against him, trying to get away. “Let go of me.”

He laughed and his hand shoved up under the hem of my skirt, fingers cold and unwelcome against my thigh.

I pushed against his wrist, fighting against his attempt to get his fingers into my underwear.

One second Lorcan was across the room. The next thing he was ripping me out of the man’s lap. I slammed against his side, his arm locked hard across my ribs, his body planted between me and the creep. The speed of it knocked the breath out of me.

Relief hit before I could stop it. My breath broke. My body sagged into his side for one ugly, traitorous second, as if the violence he promised was safe.

He held a knife out, the blade catching the candlelight as his arm locked across my ribs. “Touch her again,” he said, voice low and lethal, “and I’ll gut you.”

The room was staring at us. Every masked face turned our way, the laughter gone, the air changed.

Deargán was staring at us, a darkness in his expression.

Even worse, Alistair was glaring at us.

Beyond him, other men had gone still too. Jackets shifted, metal flashing against the fabric. Guns.

Christ. There were levels of danger in this room I had only just started to understand.

“Stand down,” I hissed against Lorcan’s shirt.

His arm stayed locked around me. His knife did not lower.

Somewhere, a gun cocked.

The sound was small and mechanical and it cut through the music, the murmur of conversation, the last edges of laughter still dying in the air around us. Everybody in the room went still.