Pretty Lies & Ugly Truths (Ugly Truths #1)

24. Maggie

24

Maggie

A fter a very brief tour of the main hall, I am untied and deposited in a large room. As soon as the door closes, I hear the click of a lock, that has my heart rate spiking. Immediately, I run to it, turning the handle, my worst fears confirmed.

I’m locked in. I try the window in vain, but of course, it doesn’t open either.

I scour the lavish bedroom for any way to get free, but the other two doors lead to a large walk-in closet and an adjoining bathroom. There is no other way out.

Tears fill my eyes as I mentally berate myself for running from Archer. Had I just stayed, we would have been together, and none of this would have happened.

Instead, I’m trapped in some madman’s home, in God knows where, and Archer probably doesn’t even know I’m gone. I told him I needed space, and with the way I walked out, how long will it take before he comes looking for me? Will he come looking for me ?

And if he does and he finds me gone, what will he think? Will he think I ran?

I know he said he wouldn’t let me go, that he would hunt me down, but what if he decides I’m not worth the trouble after all?

Tendrils of doubt begin to creep in as uncertainty gnaws at me, leaving me feeling raw and exposed. Darkness closes in, as if trying to swallow me whole, and for a moment, I almost let it. It would be easier to give in than to fight back.

Flashes from that night all those weeks ago flood my mind. The feeling of warm blood, wet and sticky on my hands, remind me I am not weak or defenseless. The last man who hurt me, who tried to take me against my will, found himself dead.

A few days ago, I would never have thought myself capable of something like that. Though there has always been a certain darkness lurking under my skin, I managed to keep it at bay. But I guess, like any wild animal, when backed into a corner, I will do whatever is necessary to get free.

I don’t know why I was brought here, but I find it seriously unlikely that it’s for some twisted family reunion. If so, he could have just introduced himself that day at the store and invited me for a visit, instead of knocking me out and kidnapping me.

What I do know, though, is that I have to assume no one is coming for me.

I need to be smart and play my cards right if I ever want to get out of here.

I don’t see anyone else for the rest of the day, save for the young woman who brings in my meals. She appears to be about my age, and is rather pretty, with her mousy brown hair and brown doe eyes.

I explain to her my situation, tell her that I’m being held here against my will—in hopes of appealing to her better nature—but it falls on deaf ears. No matter what I say, she never reacts; she only continues to look straight ahead as she exchanges my untouched trays without uttering a single word.

The next morning, I am still in bed when I hear the door open, and the same girl enters to inform me I have been instructed to eat breakfast with the family. Downstairs.

She leaves me, and though I have no desire to eat with the family , I know this would be a good opportunity to familiarize myself with the layout and the day-to-day activity of this place.

I throw the covers back off the bed I’d slipped into last night, noticing I’m still dressed in Archer’s shirt. I bury my nose in the collar, breathing in the delicious sandalwood and citrus scent that is quickly starting to fade. My heart lurches as I’m hit with a longing so strong, it causes me to double over.

I miss Archer and Jane. I just want to go home. A lone tear trails down my cheek, and I swipe at it. I don’t have time to give in to my grief, not if I want to get out of here. So, steeling my spine, I push it down to be dealt with later .

After freshening up in the ensuite bathroom, I pad over to the walk-in closet that is fully stocked with expensive designer clothes and shoes, all of which are in my exact size— like that’s not creepy at all.

After donning a simple A-line shift dress and matching cardigan, I go to the door, finding it unlocked. This could be my chance.

My heart leaps into my throat, my muscles tightening in anticipation of making a run for it. When I open the door, however, the same girl stands right outside in the hallway, along with a big, burly guard, waiting to escort me. My shoulders slump with disappointment as I fall in line, following them down the stairs.

Without being obvious, I look around, trying to take in all the hallways and doors and committing them to memory so that if ever given the chance to run, I won’t find myself backed into a corner.

Once we reach the dining area, the girl shuffles me inside. She slams the doors behind me, the sound echoing loudly in the large opulent room. The walls are a dark green with heavy velvet drapes that reach all the way to the marble floors. The center of the room is dominated by an oversized mahogany table that seats at least twenty. This is where they eat breakfast?

All heads seated at the table turn in my direction, and I shrink back under the weight of all their attention.

Next to my birth parents sit an older couple: a heavyset man with white hair and a ruddy face, and a tall, birdlike woman with dry, pinched lips. The older gentleman, I notice, has the same green eyes as me and my father.

These must be my grandparents.

My assumption is confirmed when they stand, moving forward to make their introductions.

Ronan, my grandfather, gives me a big, warm smile before wrapping me in a tight hug. I leave my arms by my sides, not returning the gesture. He appears nice enough, but nice has never gotten me anywhere with strangers.

My grandmother, Lydia, however, looms behind him, regarding me with shrewd dark eyes. Once he releases me and steps back, she swoops, in circling me like a vulture.

“She is lovely, Colin. Nice skin. Good hair,” she says, taking a strand between her wrinkled fingers before giving it a hard tug that has my scalp stinging. “Petite, modest bust,” she says as my cheeks flame.

She continues to comment on my looks, picking apart my attributes and flaws, while everyone watches on, as if this is an everyday occurrence.

Once she is finished, she turns to my father. “Well done. She’s certainly pretty enough, though perhaps a little too robust in the bum for my taste…”

Did she just say I had a big ass?

They continue speaking like I’m not even here, but it doesn’t matter—I’m not listening anymore. I am too outraged at the audacity of this woman. Who in the hell does she think she is?

My intentions are to play nice, to try and win their trust, in hopes of gaining enough freedom I need to escape, so I force myself to keep my mouth shut .

Lydia continues her assessment. “I think it’s safe to assume she’s no virgin. That may deter some suitors, but she’s easy on the eyes. I have no doubt you’ll secure a good match for her.”

Suitors? A match? What the hell are they talking about?

“And she has the McGregor eyes,” Ronan says with pride. “That will help with the questions they’re sure to have about her legitimacy. No, you’ll have no trouble. She’ll make a fine bride.”

“Bride?” I ask, on a whisper.

All the blood drains from my face as nausea churns in my gut. These people are all insane. What is this, the 1830’s? They can’t just marry me off to the highest bidder. I have a fucking boyfriend, for God’s sake— at least, I hope I still do .

Oh God. Archer.

What will he think if he finds me and learns I’m married to someone?

I choke back a sob, unwilling to fall apart or show weakness in front of these people. I push it down. I cannot think about that now, or I will crack.

“You’re all fucking crazy,” I say quietly, but no one is listening to me.

They continue to discuss my future as if I’m not standing right here. I don’t catch everything they say, but I hear something about securing alliances—whatever that means—and a lot of talk about my potential husbands.

Breakfast dishes are brought in, and everyone moves to the table to re-take their seats .

I no longer have any appetite. All I want is to get the hell out of here.

I take a few steps back towards the exit. I would rather be locked up in my glorified prison than stay here another minute with these people.

The look my father gives me, however, lets me know my presence is not optional.

I take a seat at the end of the table, furthest away from everyone. Glancing to where my mother sits to the left of Colin, I notice the dark rings that line her lifeless eyes and take in her waxy complexion as she uses her fork to push food around her plate, never taking a bite.

She hasn’t spoken once through this whole exchange, refusing to even look at me. Any modicum of that fire she showed in the car has now been snuffed out.

And again, I can’t help but wonder just how she got mixed up in all this.

If there was any hope she may be the one to help me out of this situation, it disappears as she continues to sit silently by her husband's side. I know she is likely a victim too, but that doesn’t stop the anger and resentment I feel for her that grows with each passing moment.

I must remind myself that I don’t know her situation or the things she has gone through. One thing I do know is that this sad, broken woman cannot help herself, let alone me. If I want to get out of here, it looks like I’m on my own.

Once back inside my room, I discreetly remove the small knife I commandeered from the breakfast table from the sleeve of my sweater. It’s small but sharp, and having it makes me feel safer. Plus, I remind myself, I’ve made do with worse.

After stowing it under my pillow, I pace the floor, trying to formulate an escape plan.

My family is completely insane, and I have to get out of here.

I don’t know what day it is or how long I was out before I got here. It’s possible no one has even realized I’m missing yet. At this point, I have to assume no one is looking for me.

And even if they are, I have no clue how long it will be before anyone is able to locate me— given I don’t even know where I am.

But I refuse to sit here like a helpless princess locked in her tower, waiting for some prince charming to save me while my psycho family arrange to marry me off.

If my father expects me to be some meek and dutiful daughter, he has another thing coming.

I am not my mother, and I refuse to be pushed around.

If he’s not careful, he will learn that we may be more alike than he realizes.