Chapter 36
Piper
I’m so fucking pissed.
Ever since I woke up, my wrists and ankles tied, a gag in my mouth, in the back of what feels like the back of a van, I’ve been running through a full gamut of emotions.
Fear, loss, anxiety, anger.
I’ve settled on the last. Why the fuck does this keep happening to me? Why can’t they let me be? I never asked for a thing. I just want to be with Quill. That’s all I want. Why can’t I just be happy?
I don’t give a fuck about the mafia. I’m not a threat. I don’t want to rule anything, so who cares if technically I’m a Moretti descendant? I certainly didn’t ask to be one.
And yet, I’m in the center of an absolute clusterfuck, hunted by the men who forced my mother into marriage with her rapist, while also being hunted by their enemies, who want me dead, and not even able to trust my stepfather’s best friend, because he sees me as a threat too.
Goddamnit, I want to die.
I guess that’s what’s about to happen anyway. Though this time, I have a ring on my finger, and the certitude that Quill loves me.
The reason I’m scared this time is different from the last. I can’t imagine the old Quill letting me get taken like this.
The old Quill was invincible. The only reason I was taken before was because of my own stupidity.
Because I allowed myself to believe two people I had no business believing, and ran away.
This time, I was taken right from under his nose.
The old Quill would have whipped out his gun and killed the soldiers before they could take me. The new Quill just watched, helplessly. I saw enough, before that handkerchief, imbued with chloroform or something, was clamped down on my face, to know that he stood there, frozen, as I was taken.
Has he grown soft?
I hate myself for even letting my brain form those words. I used to fear his bloodthirsty nature. I used to hope that his vengeful harshness would soften. That he would give in to love and let the rest go. And now he has, and I resent him for it.
I’m sure he’s feeling guilty enough for the both of us. I hate how anger twists in my stomach, anger at him, for allowing this thing to happen. For allowing our perfect happiness to be cut short. I’m going to die, just when I started feeling more alive than ever.
This time, it feels certain. Because Quill is soft, and if Logan didn’t send that message, it means he’s still off searching for Seraphina. Searching for his best friend’s girl, because that matters a lot more than his own stepdaughter.
More resentment. More anger. Not directed at my kidnappers, but at the people who care about me. I’m all kinds of fucked up.
I sink my head into my knees, which I’ve succeeded in folding up to my chest, feeling pretty fucking hopeless.
After a while, that hopelessness is tempered by something else.
Something purely physical. We’ve been in this van for what feels like hours, and it probably has been a long time, since I spent the first part of the trip unconscious.
An uncomfortable sensation in my bladder deepens with every minute, and by the time the van rounds a sudden, sharp corner, making me topple over onto my side, it’s become undeniable: I really fucking need to pee.
What the hell am I supposed to do? If they don’t stop soon, I’m going to piss myself.
Maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad idea. Maybe that would keep them from raping me.
I shudder at the thought of what could await me.
Or maybe it wouldn’t stop the rape, it would just make it all the more humiliating.
I shudder harder. Regardless of whether peeing my pants could save me from the fate that terrifies me, I just can’t bring myself to do it. I’m definitely going to die of a ruptured bladder before they even have time to shoot me. I groan with every bump of the road, my belly throbbing.
This definitely never happened to Nancy Drew. I don’t think she ever faced the bad guys while also facing nature’s needs.
Fuck. Me.
Self-preservation has been making me keep as quiet as possible, though I know all it can possibly do is delay my fate, not prevent it.
But desperation now pushes me to bang on the wall behind me with my head.
I can’t move, my limbs are firmly zip-tied so there’s not even a chance of finding some random sharp object to cut through them—I guess they’ve learned from their past mistakes—and I’m gagged, so the only way I can get their attention is to bang my head.
And fuck, it hurts. But I keep doing it, until at last the van pulls over, and I breathe in relief.
Then dread, when the backdoors open and light floods in. But my pressing urge takes precedence over all the rest.
A man I haven’t seen before is standing there, with long black hair, a thick, equally black moustache, and eyes that glint at me furiously.
Then his mouth twists up in a cruel smirk. “Well, well, well. Aurora Moretti.”
Two of the soldiers who took me, still bemasked, step up behind him, blotting out the sky behind him. Just a few triangles of light allow me to look upon his face.
“I’ve been waiting a long time to meet you,” declares the man. “Or rather, to see you again. The last time I laid eyes on you, you were a four-year-old toddler with an attitude.”
Okay, I don’t care. Just let me pee, please.
“I was one of the first ones to hold you when you were born. Did you know that? Moretti’s loyal and trusted righthand man.
The underboss. But my anger runs deep. He’d fucked me over once too many times.
I remember giving you your first bottle, as you lay helplessly in my arms, and making myself a promise. I’d be the one to kill you.”
I swallow nervously, my pressing urge momentarily forgotten, because what the fuck.
“I could’ve done it right then. I could have crushed you in my arms. That’s all it would have taken to kill the helpless newborn who is now causing me so much fucking grief.
But you’re just as helpless as ever, aren’t you?
This time, you’re not going to escape me.
I’m not one to repeat my mistakes. I’m here, and I’m going to fucking destroy you.
Do you know who I am, Aurora Moretti? I’m Miguel Coltello, and I’m the last face you’ll see before you die. ”
Okay, then. Dramatic. I realize I should be terrified, but Mother Nature’s needs surge back to the front of my mind when my bladder spasms suddenly.
It’s definitely putting things into perspective.
Sure, I may die later at his hands. But that feels abstract in comparison with the very real, very pressing need that is going to make me implode if I don’t assuage it.
Coltello reaches over to me and whips off my gag. I whimper, feeling the duct tape tear across my skin. Then I cough out the thick cloth that had been crammed inside my mouth.
“Well?” says Coltello, his eyes glinting dangerously. “Do you have anything to say before you meet your maker?”
“Yes,” I gasp. “I really, really need to pee.”
_
I have to give it to Coltello. Even that vicious, bloodthirsty crime boss, who was about two seconds away from killing me, was humane enough to allow me to relieve myself first. Or maybe he just didn’t want to deal with the clean-up after.
Thank God, though. I can’t believe the way my mind functions, but even worse than the thought of dying is the thought of pissing myself while I die.
It brings back my old fear of dying while crossing the street and everyone discovering that I’ve been listening to a 2000s mix tape featuring Britney Spears and Christina Aguilera or something.
I was always putting on the Beatles and the Rolling Stones around Quill and pretending to have amazing taste in music.
And I definitely might have said I didn’t know who Ariana Grande was.
Being found out like that, while lying dead on the street, would be so awkward.
In fact it beats my second greatest fear, which is dying a suspicious death and my internet history being examined. What if they found my secret Kindle Unlimited subscription which I use to download smut in between my Agatha Christie binges?
By the time the two soldiers leading me deep into the forest stop walking, I’m red in the face from embarrassment, thinking of all these scenarios.
But those thoughts are wiped clean from my mind as I suddenly realize how deep in the forest we’ve walked. Was it really necessary to go so far just to pee? What if…
My entire body suddenly grows clammy. What if they’re planning to kill me right now, after all? Before I even get to empty my bladder?
I knew they were planning to, but somehow it had remained an abstract thing to deal with after peeing. The throbbing of my bladder had, in a weird way I guess, protected me from having the absolute panic-induced meltdown that any normal person would experience in the face of impending death.
Now, I’m facing the heart of the forest, very aware that the two soldiers have stopped just feet behind me. This is the kind of position people are placed in when they’re about to die execution-style, isn’t it?
Panic makes me grow numb. My senses stop working right.
Despite my glasses still being in their usual, slightly lopsided position over the bridge of my nose—because I can never quite take care of them properly and the stems get bent out of shape pretty fast—I see fuzzy.
A weird metallic taste invades my mouth.
Goosebumps break out all along my back, and the pebbled texture makes the wind whistling through the trees feel wrong as it hits my skin.
My hearing is the only thing that remains normal, though very heightened.
I hear them breathing behind me, I hear a twig cracking, I hear what isn’t.
The lack of sound. The deathly silence that nearly brings me to my knees in fear.
Then one of them places a hand on my shoulder. I nearly jump out of my skin, before realizing he only means me to turn around.
I do so, feeling more dead than alive. So this isn’t going to be done execution-style, after all. Of course not. They’re soldiers. They’re going to shoot me in the forehead.
But no gun is pointed at me when I turn.
One of the soldiers nods his creepy, featureless white mask at me, then gestures to the ground.
I allow myself to breathe once more in relief.
I’m not sure what their plans are for me after this, but my death isn’t going to come yet. At least, not until after I’ve peed.
I was feeling pretty awkward earlier in that white dress Quill chose for me, but now I’m thankful.
At least I won’t have to pull down my jeans in front of them.
It would have been quite the struggle, too, because my wrists are still zip-tied together, though they did remove my ankle ties to allow me to walk.
Now, I just have to manage to pull down my tights and panties—which in itself is pretty embarrassing, given how the soldiers have their masks fixed on me—but I can probably at least partially shield myself with the fabric of my dress.
The tinkle of pee leaving me never felt so loud. It feels like the only sound in the quiet forest, and I imagine it being heard miles around. At least far enough to reach Coltello, who’s waiting by the roadside with the third soldier, arms crossed.
It takes an embarrassingly long time for the stream of pee to at last stop.
There is definitely nothing arousing about this weird situation.
Which, in a way, comforts me, because getting so turned on by Quill watching me pee had made me nervous about having potentially unlocked a new kink.
It’s not like I’m not kink positive after having survived my high school relationship with Quill, but I always drew the line at body fluids.
This is confirmation that it wasn’t the urine but the idea of being helpless for Quill that was arousing. I may be just as helpless with these men, but it’s the kind of helplessness that leads to death, not sex, so it’s not exactly a turn-on.
Damnit. I really am thinking of the weirdest things before dying. Is this how my brain wants to spend its last moments?
At last my bladder is empty, and physical relief is quickly replaced by pure fear, now that nothing is keeping me from turning my thoughts back to Coltello’s words.
I manage to pull up my panties, my hands shaking furiously, but my legs are shaking just as much, and standing up feels impossible. I am not dying squatting down, though.
Before I can even begin to move, one of the soldiers puts his arm on my shoulder again. I bite down on a cry of surprise.
His hand is a weighing presence on my shoulder that tells me not to stand. My brain insists on the opposite, because really? They’re going to kill me while I’m in this humiliating position?
But regardless of my brain’s input, my body is paralyzed. I can only crouch, staring up at the soldier in confusion.
Both of them creep closer to me, and the soldier with his hand on my shoulder bends so the space where I assume his mouth is stops right against my ear. A whimper of fear escapes me as I feel them both just inches away.
Then the soldier closest to me whispers, “Run.”
All my panic, my fear, my weird thoughts, melt at that word. No, not at the word. At the voice speaking it.
The world feels like it comes crashing down, the blood exploding in my ears, because I recognize it. I fucking recognize it.
“Liam?”
“Run,” he insists.
The word is like a jolt of adrenaline forcing me up. The voice only feeds my frenzied panic. I don’t even look back as I hit the ground running.