Chapter 11
Niamh
NOW
Cillian stares down at me for a long moment, then reaches for me. I whimper, pushing myself away from him as best I can, the cable ties around my wrists and ankles biting further into my flesh as I move.
He lifts my head, forcing it forward until his fingers find the knot at the back of the gag, but although he pulls, and twists and curses, it doesn’t loosen.
He straightens and pulls out the metal handle of a knife.
I jump at the loud click as a large blade comes into view in front of my face.
And when he leans towards me, I scream, bracing my feet on the floor of the boot, pushing away from him, pulling at my bonds with all my might, despite the fact that I know it won’t do any good. There’s nowhere to go.
‘Fuck’s sake,’ Cillian hisses, his fingers gripping my jaw and holding my head still, forcing me to look at him. ‘I’m not going to hurt you. Just stay still and let me cut you free.’
He’s not going to hurt me? Does he think I’m stupid? I shake my head, still trying to shift away from him. Tears pool in my eyes and I blink them away. Not that it matters. He has the control here and I have none.
He straightens, his words gradually penetrating my brain. Cut me free? Okay, that does make sense. I stare up at him, my chest heaving, sweat beading on my forehead, as I manage to stop the pointless screaming into the gag. My heart races and I force myself to breathe in an attempt to keep calm.
‘That’s a good girl,’ he says and deep inside me, heat coils at his words. ‘I’m going to lift you out, cut you free. And then you’re going to run from me. As fast as you can into the woods. Understand?’
I nod, frowning at him.
‘I know you’re frightened but…’ he whispers, his voice catching.
I can’t work out what this new expression on his face means, what he’s thinking.
If this situation pains him, why doesn’t he let me go?
He pulls the blanket off me, and I shiver when the chill of the night air hits my bare flesh.
I glance down, remembering that the straps of my dress have been torn and my breasts exposed.
But the stretchy material has been pulled neatly back, the strap pinned into place and, although the situation is precarious, I’m currently decent.
I flinch as he slides his hand over my shoulder.
Goosebumps form on my skin where he’s touching me, my body reacting to his touch even though it shouldn’t.
Each brush of his fingers sends sensation coursing through me.
The strength in his hand both reassures me and awakens something deep within me, something that I hesitate to explore, fearing that it’ll consume me.
How is it possible to still want this man, when he’s brought me here for one reason and one reason only.
‘Bloody hell,’ he mutters, putting the knife in his pocket. He leans into the boot, his strong arms sliding beneath me as he pulls me out, lifting me effortlessly. For a moment, we stare at one another, his embrace comforting, his body supportive. Everywhere we touch his heat warms my cold body.
We stare at each other for a long moment, and I can feel his internal debate about what to do, but he snaps himself out of his thoughts and sets me down next to the car.
He’s changed into his version of casual clothes – dark jeans, a designer T-shirt.
He’s not wearing a jacket, but he doesn’t appear to feel the chill that sends a shiver through my body.
His tattoos are dark against his skin, and I stare at them, remembering how mesmerised I was the first time I saw them.
Now I recognise the designs as a mix of Pictish symbols, Insular Celtic knotwork and some more modern illustrations.
The double disc on one bicep consists of two perfect circles connected by double straight lines.
Within each circle, triskelion spiral, creating a vortex that symbolises the endless cycles of life.
The colours he’s chosen are bright, far more vivid than anything found on the actual symbol stones, but which seem to make the designs feel modern, alive even.
His lower arm carries the image of a curved hunting horn, and I’m reminded of the sound I thought I heard all those years ago, the night we first met.
On his other arm there’s a crescent and V-rod, vaguely reminiscent of a cruder version of the Masonic compass and dividers, but it’s the black serpent that curls around his lower right arm that catches my eye.
Its tail sits neatly in the crease of his elbow before it winds around his arm twice, the head slithering at an angle onto the back of his hand.
While it might be clearly a serpent, it’s head is reminiscent of a ram, with curved horns on either side.
The black body of the serpent is solid enough that it must have been painful beyond what I could endure to have it inked.
He slams the boot closed, picks up his knife and moves it up to my face.
My eyes meet his as I struggle to decide what I should do, although realistically, there are no good options.
I’m completely at his mercy. He tugs on the fabric of the gag, pulls it away from my skin and slides the knife in between, then with a single easy movement, the gag falls away from my face.
I try not to think about how sharp the blade must be or how much damage it could do to my flesh should he decide to use it against me.
‘Cillian…’ I whisper as his fingers grip my chin and he freezes.
‘What? But… How?’ He steps back, his mouth open, moving as if he’s trying to form words.
‘How do you keep doing this to me?’ he mutters, his voice cold and controlled, as he slowly kneels in front of me.
I whimper as he slides his hand between my legs, running the hilt of the blade up my inner thigh.
The cool handle makes me gasp, the threat of danger and pleasure taunting me with what this man could do and how vulnerable I am.
I hold my breath, praying he doesn’t turn the knife around.
As the handle reaches my core, he pulls it away, lowering it and slicing through the thick ties that bind my ankles.
He grabs me by the shoulders, turning me to face the car with one arm clamped around my chest, holding me side-on against him.
‘Raise your arms,’ he demands, and I do so with some difficulty, my fingers nearly numb. Once again, he slides the knife between my limbs, then, with one smooth movement, the cable ties fall to the ground as his blade slides through them. I stumble instantly, and he catches me again.
‘Sorry,’ I say, then wonder why the hell I’m apologising to him.
He runs his fingers over the welts left by the cable ties on my wrists, shaking his head as he smears my blood with his fingers.
I look around at the small clearing surrounded by dark, menacing trees, noticing the familiar wooden signposting of a Forestry Commission car park.
I have no real idea of where we are, but it feels remote.
‘What are you going to do to me?’ If I sound terrified, it’s because I am.
His eyes close and it looks like he’s taking deep breaths to gather his courage.
But that can’t be right. The man in front of me isn’t afraid of anything.
If the past four years have taught me anything, it’s that the Hunters are successful because they’re ruthless.
I stare at him, everything within me telling me to run, but I don’t. I can’t.
‘I know you don’t remember what happened—’
‘In the club? In the alley? When I was attacked? When I killed—’
‘You … you remember?’
‘You think killing a man is something I’d forget?’
‘You shouldn’t remember. Vittoria … she did something. Used the Guth Dorcha. She told me she had taken all your memories of me, of Rose.’
‘Would that have made it easier for you to murder me?’ I laugh. Surely he can’t think something like that is even possible. ‘Well, either she lied to you, or this goo doracha thing didn’t work because I remember everything, Cillian. The night we met, the way you kissed me the next morning—’
‘But you shouldn’t … I… I don’t understand,’ he says. ‘But … it’s too late now anyway.’
He doesn’t answer, just continues to stare at me before he shakes his head and takes my hand, attempting to drag me towards the woods.
‘Come on,’ he says, but I plant my feet and refuse to move, yanking my hand from his grip.
‘Why don’t you just kill me here? It’ll save us both the walk.’
We stare at one another, but he doesn’t answer immediately.
I take a step backwards, then another and another, before I make contact with a tree and spread my hands back over the bark, steadying myself.
It’d been raining earlier in the day, and there’s a puddle beside me, still and shiny.
I dread to think what would be looking back at me if I looked into it.
I doubt my hair and make-up have survived the evening’s events.
Cillian moves towards me, still confused, and I’m getting the oddest sense that we’re not alone anymore, that we’re being watched.
But the car park is empty and all I can hear is the soft sound of the wind through the branches.
He reaches for me, runs his fingers down the side of my face, then around my jaw and throat.
I shiver. No matter how much I try to hate him, my body has other thoughts, and it reacts to his touch in a way that should send me running, but instead anchors me to the very spot where danger is lurking within him.