22. Chapter 22
Skye
S kye swore she could feel every nerve ending, every synapse in her brain burning and freezing simultaneously.
A steady and awful pulsing behind her eyes made her wish for the oblivion she just woke from.
She cracked her eyes open, her eyelids heavy and gritty as if sand dragged beneath them, and her cotton-like tongue made her long for a glass of water.
She swallowed several times, wishing her mouth didn’t feel so strange.
Lifting her head, she scanned the room, trying to gather her bearings.
Gradually, the throbbing in her skull subsided to a dull ache, and she rolled carefully to the side.
Her hands and knees hit cream carpeting.
Dazed, she let out a gasp. A fair amount of disgust and nausea mixed together, creating a horrible sense of déjà vu.
The pale-pink wallpaper that graced the four walls taunted her with familiarity, as if welcoming her back to a picturesque prison.
The golden antique metal-framed bed waited in the corner by the window, untouched since she’d moved out.
The same large, mirrored vanity perched beside the closet door.
She rose onto her knees and peeked out the window, recognizing the giant leafy green bush that grew by the sterile, horrible fence.
She had no idea how or why she was in her childhood bedroom.
On shaking legs, Skye stumbled across the room to the painted white door that led to the house. She grasped the doorknob and twisted. Nothing happened. She pulled, turned, and yanked on the handle, but the door didn’t budge. Skye’s breath came in short gasps as she struggled to think clearly.
Why was she at her parents’ house? None of this made any sense.
Still unsteady, she hurried back to the window and peered down.
Two stories below, the ground glowered at her.
She’d always been too chicken to risk sneaking out of the second story opening, but she might try today.
Compared to being abducted and trapped in her parents’ home, maybe a two-story drop would be nothing.
She wracked her brain, searching for any reasonable explanation that might keep her from panicking. Yes, someone had locked her in her old bedroom, but these were her parents after all. They loved her and wouldn’t hurt her.
And yet the utterly terrified part of her mind didn’t care if Mother Teresa held her prisoner.
As a grown woman, Skye had her own life and agenda.
She rolled her neck, hoping to ease some of the stress that bunched in her shoulders and didn’t help her headache.
She reached up to rub her neck and hissed through her teeth as her fingers found a stinging pin-sized spot between her neck and shoulder
Her eyes widened, her hand flying to her mouth. “Oh, my word. Oh shit.”
Everything that happened came back in a rush. Dylan at her house. Their fight. The reason why that spot on her neck hurt.
“He drugged me,” she whispered, her voice rising with hysteria. “He fucking drugged me!”
Usually she avoided cursing, but under the circumstances, it felt appropriate. The stumbling, the confusion, the pounding and persistent headache—all of it made sense. Only one puzzle piece continued to elude her. Why was she in her old bedroom?
Skye searched the room, exploring every corner and testing anything she might be able to use as a weapon.
While she looked, she ran through every recent conversation she’d had with Dylan and her parents, trying to find the anomaly that would lead to this conclusion.
Despite their encounters being charged with anxiety and strain, none of their words stood out as anything out of the ordinary.
They left the room like a shrine dedicated to her childhood years; the little girl they’d trained to be the perfect princess.
When she left for college, she never looked back.
The reason why glared at her in every inch of the room, especially the things she chose to leave behind.
Nearly every gift her parents gave her sat on the vanity.
Diamond bracelets. Emerald rings. Pearl necklaces.
The wealth atop the vanity was staggering.
Designer dresses she’d long sense outgrown still hung in the closet, the names on the tags ones she could never afford on her teacher’s salary.
In truth, she had no desire to own anything like those clothes again.
Maybe she was crazy to leave those here, to take the solo route paying for college, but she learned long ago that her parents did not give gifts. They traded favors to unwitting participants and then collected on the favor later, with interest.
Buying her expensive things became their apology letter, but the jewelry, the dresses, and other gifts were just a pretty bejeweled prison for a confused, sad teenage girl.
Skye wished she’d seen the gifts for what they were earlier, but the bribes never worked on her.
She had only ever wanted one thing, and her father had successfully ripped that away from her.
Her parents always obsessed over maintaining societal standards, spending her youth wrapped up in themselves and whatever they thought might further their social standing.
With Max in the mayor’s office, Gayle thrived under the attention she received as his wife.
She planned parties and charitable events, anything to fulfill the imaginary expectations of the Wellington name.
Skye snorted. She knew who her parents really were—power hungry opportunists, plain and simple.
Across the room, the doorknob twisted, and the door creaked.
Skye spun around, putting her back to the wall.
Pushing down the instinct to freeze, she bent her trembling knees and steadied herself on the balls of her feet.
Every screaming part of her wanted to cower, to hide behind the bed, but she squashed it, hard.
Dylan, dapper as ever in a black pin-striped suit and tie, waltzed in as if he owned the right to the room and all of its trappings.
He scanned the space with bland and hooded eyes, a smirk growing on his face as he noted her position against the far wall.
He tucked his hands into his pants’ pockets and for all the world appeared like the cat who ate the canary.
“Skye,” he said, voice deceptively soft, “we are so glad you have decided to join us.”
Beneath the gentle tone, an underlying note of condescension lurked. She’d always hated that.
She bared her teeth at him in a feral snarl, surprising herself with her ferocity. “Dylan, what the hell?”
Apparently, she should have been harsher when she broke up with him in college if he still harbored some delusion that she had any interest in him. His obsession passed from an annoyance into a different realm of concern.
He tsked. “Is that any way for a gentle lady to speak?”
Skye resisted the urge to roll her eyes, not wanting to let him out of her sight for a moment. She opted for flipping him off with both hands.
Behind him, the sharp clack of high heels on the wood floor grew louder until Gayle Wellington glided through the door.
Skye felt the color drain from her face, and her voice came out as a whisper. “Mother?”
Gayle’s red-tinted lips curved upward at the corners in a sorry excuse for a smile that contrasted with her saccharine sweet voice. “Good evening, darling. Why, when you didn’t wake up right away, you gave Dylan and I quite a scare.”
Skye’s mouth dropped open a fraction in disbelief. Surely, they weren’t serious.
Gayle strode to the closet, her steps marking the seconds like a clock. She nearly floated in her grace, ever the perfect lady, and hung a hot pink garment bag from a hook on the closet door, its bottom barely dragging on the carpet.
Skye’s stomach dropped. Her nausea came back in full force, and she pressed herself tighter to the wall, wishing the wallpaper would come alive and swallow her whole.
Her newly discovered inner-fortitude quickly ebbed away, evaporating a little more with every new and horrible puzzle piece that clicked into place.
“No matter, sweetie.” Her stepmother executed a sharp turn, the deceptively serene uptilt of her lips plastered in place. “Now that you are awake, we can move forward with the wedding.”
Skye’s head shook back and forth in appalled denial, her tangled hair swinging languidly about her face.
Gayle waved a hand dismissively at her and gave a small laugh, the sound like tinkling bells.
“Oh darling, Dylan’s been quite smitten with you since your first date.
With the mayor and the senator both up for reelection, wouldn’t it be just perfect for your love story to help voters make the right choices in November? ”
Skye flicked her gaze toward Dylan, hoping he wasn’t as delusional as her stepmother. Gayle had always been driven and manipulative, but this? This plan to force Skye, her own stepdaughter, into a marriage she didn’t want? And for what—political gain, more power, higher social standing?
Dizziness coursed through her, making her stomach roll. She crossed her arms over her belly as if she could stave off the queasy, bubbling feeling as a cold sweat broke out on her forehead.
Dylan, for his part, listened to Gayle speaking with an intensity that startled Skye.
She expected his eyes to glimmer with glee, but she found the solemnity in his gaze far more frightening.
She contemplated pinching herself in an attempt to wake up from this nightmare.
The longer Gayle stared at her expectantly, that placid smile fixed on her lips, Skye’s hopefulness drained away, agitation rising to fill the emptying space.
“You cannot seriously think I’ll go along with your hairbrained scheme?” Incredulous disgust rang in her voice. “Why the hell would I even stick around for this?”
Skye took a step forward, aiming for the door, but Dylan moved toward her, angling his body to block her path, his hands out to physically stop her if she continued forward.
Gayle smoothed her wrinkle-free navy sheath dress and sniffed daintily. “Come now, dear. Enough with this childish behavior. You’re old enough to stop playing games.”
“Games? You hear how insane you sound, right?” Skye’s voice rose shrilly as she realized the sheer depth of her stepmother’s delusion.
For the first time since she’d entered the room, Gayle’s perfectly serene expression faltered, and her eyes flashed with ire. She folded her hands together in front of her, the bright red fingernails standing out against the dark-blue dress.
“Skye Louise,” she chastised, “You’re a grown woman. It’s time you step up and take your place in the family. You have a job to do, just like the rest of us. Why, who knows, with your marriage to Dylan, you could be the mother of the future president.”
Gayle’s smile brightened, her eyes seeking Skye’s, searching for the anticipated excitement at the prospect of birthing the future president of the United States.
“We aren’t the damn Kennedys!” Skye yelled.
Gayle crossed the room quickly, her hand striking out before Skye could blink. The slap stung against her cheek, the sound echoing in her ears. Shocked, she stumbled back a step, her fingers coming up to cup her stinging cheek.
Her stepmother stepped back, adjusting her dress and composing herself before hissing, “Watch your language, young lady.”
Skye’s eyes whipped to Dylan imploring him for some semblance of sanity. He watched her, a vague disappointment tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“I am not your puppet!” Skye bit out each word, accentuating the syllables.
Dylan’s displeasure turned into a full frown. His eyes going hard, “Skye.”
A warning. And a threat.
Skye pulled herself up to her full height, though she was several inches shorter than both Dylan and Gayle in her heels. “You cannot keep me here. You have no rights to my body or my time. And you’re both fucking crazy if you think I’ll stay here for another damned minute.”
Dylan strode toward her, and Skye resisted the urge to shrink back from him.
His hands came up to grip her arms, pulling her tight against his body.
She felt every awful inch of him against her.
The muscles in his biceps, the bony angle of his hips, the hard press of his thighs against hers.
She turned her head, refusing to meet his eyes, refusing to acknowledge his desire for her.
His fingers tightened cruelly, digging in with bruising force. With his breath hot against her ear, he whispered, “You forget your place, but that’s okay. I’ll remind you. It’s time to take your place at my side, Skye. If you don’t, I’d hate to see something happen to your little toy soldier.”
Her toy soldier? Skye’s eyes widened, fear freezing the blood in her veins as his words sank in. Rabble.
Near the door, Gayle cleared her throat delicately. “Well, dear, now that that’s settled, I’ll let the officiant know we’ll be ready for the wedding before the end of the day.” She clapped her hands excitedly. “There is so much to do!”
She whisked from the room, ticking off tasks she needed to finish on her manicured fingers.
Dylan turned his head to watch her go. When Gayle’s heeled tapping disappeared down the hall, he locked his eyes on Skye, releasing one of her arms to run his fingers through her tangled hair, then down the line of her jaw, forcing her to meet his gaze.
His fingers moved to her lips, and she barely contained the desire to lash out with her teeth and tear the digit from his hand.
Dylan grinned. “See, it won’t be so bad.”
She tried to turn her face from him, but his fingers caught her cheeks, pushing against her viciously. Skye clasped his wrists, tugging with all her strength to move him away, to make him to let go.
Gone was the gentle concern he’d shown moments before with an audience looking on. Now, his eyes gleamed with a dark light. His lips quirked in an infuriating smirk. “I win.”
She furrowed her brow and dug her fingernails into his wrists, leaving red small half-moons in his skin.
“I told you, Skye.” A dark promise rang in his voice. “I play the long game.”
Then he too was gone, the door snicking shut followed by the death knell of the lock sounding behind him.