1. Adriana #3
Then my father turns back to Lachlan. "But you," he says softly.
"You raped my daughter. You violated her.
You took something that wasn't yours to take.
" He steps closer, until he's right in front of Lachlan.
"You're going to die for that, slowly, and painfully.
And when you're begging me to end it, when you're screaming for mercy, I want you to remember that this is what happens when you touch what belongs to me. "
"No!" I wrench free from the man holding me and throw myself forward, grabbing my father's arm. "No, Papa, please, you can't—"
He backhands me.
The blow snaps my head to the side, and I taste blood. My cheek throbs, hot and sharp, and I stumble backward, my hand flying to my face. "Take her inside," Giovanni says to the man who'd been holding me. "Lock her in her room. I don't want to see her face until I've decided what to do with her."
"Papa—"
"Now."
The man grabs me again, rougher this time, and starts dragging me toward the house. I fight him, twisting and pulling, my feet sliding on the grass.
"Lachlan!" His name tears out of me, a desperate, broken sound. "Lachlan, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry—"
He doesn't look at me. He's staring straight ahead, his face blank, as the other two men start dragging him in the opposite direction toward the outbuildings and whatever hell my father has planned for him.
"Please!" I'm sobbing now, the words barely coherent. "Please don't hurt him, please, I'll do anything—"
But no one's listening. The man pulls me through the garden, past the party guests who've started to notice something's wrong, their conversations dying as they watch Giovanni Santoro's daughter being dragged through the yard with tears streaming down her face and blood on her lip.
The last thing I see before we round the corner of the house is Lachlan, still held between my father's men, disappearing into the darkness.
—
They lock me in my room.
I pace for what feels like hours between my bed and the door. My face throbs where my father hit me, and my body aches in places I've never ached before, a soreness that would be sweet if it wasn't wrapped up in so much horror.
He's going to kill him. He's going to torture him and kill him, and it's my fault.
I should have been more careful. I should have waited, should have known my father would notice I was gone, should have—
Should have, should have, should have.
It doesn't matter now.
I try the door every few minutes, knowing it's locked but unable to stop myself. I bang on it until my fists hurt, screaming for someone to let me out, to tell me what's happening, but no one comes.
The house grows quiet as the party winds down. I hear cars leaving, voices fading, until there's nothing but silence pressing in from all sides.
I sink onto my bed, pulling my knees to my chest, and then I notice the blood—just a little, on my inner thighs, dried now and flaking. Evidence of what we did, of what I gave him freely, that he's now dying for.
I have to get to him.
The thought crystallizes, and suddenly it's the only thing in my head. I have to get to him. Have to see him, talk to him, tell him I'm sorry, tell him I love him, tell him—
Tell him goodbye.
I move to my window, testing it. I've snuck out this way before, but never under such duress, and never when there's probably security specifically told to make sure I don't leave the house.
It takes me three tries, my hands shaking so badly I can barely grip the latch, but finally it gives.
The window slides open with a soft scrape that sounds deafening in the quiet.
I don't let myself think. If I think, I'll lose my nerve.
I climb out onto the ledge, my bare feet scraping on the rough stone. It's a longer drop than I remember, and I land hard, my ankle twisting. Pain shoots up my leg, but I bite down on my lip and force myself to move.
The estate is dark. Most of the lights are off, the guards doing their rounds on the perimeter. I know their patterns—I've lived here my whole life. I know where the cameras are and their blind spots, how to move through the shadows without being seen.
I make my way toward the outbuildings, my heart hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat. There are three buildings back here—storage, mostly, and one that my father uses for... other things. Things I'm not supposed to know about. That's where they'll have taken him.
The door is unlocked, which sends a jolt of fear through me—either Lachlan is dead or so incapacitated they aren't worried about him running… or maybe he's just tied up. I cling to that last hope as I slip inside, and the smell of copper and sweat and dirt hits me.
"Lachlan?" My voice comes out as a whisper. "Lachlan, are you here?"
There's a soft, pained sound. I follow it deeper into the building, past empty closets and storage crates, until I find him.
Oh God.
He's on the floor, his back against the wall, and there's so much blood. His face is swollen, one eye nearly shut, his lip split in multiple places. His shirt is gone, and I can see the bruises blooming across his ribs in swathes of dark purple and black. One of his hands is bent at a wrong angle.
"Lachlan." I drop to my knees beside him, my hands hovering over him, afraid to touch and hurt him more. "Oh God, Lachlan, what did they do to you?"