Chapter 22
Piper
Present Day
The door slams shut behind him and I stare at it, feeling like I’m going crazy.
He kidnapped me, brought me here, fucked me, then looked like he had no clue what I was talking about when I accused him of killing my parents. And I believed him. That is, I believed the denial he never uttered, which makes no sense. I know what he’s capable of.
And now, after I just opened my heart to him, he’s slammed the door shut between us, leaving me alone in this place, wherever this place is. His bedroom?
It’s got just the same kind of bland, empty look as the bedroom I used to spend my nights holed up in when he wasn’t in mine.
Yes, I guess this is his room, alright. He brought me here, I have no idea why, but right now, the why doesn’t matter, and neither does the furniture and color or lack thereof.
What matters is getting the hell out of here.
I shake myself out of my stupor and launch at the door, but of course, it’s locked.
I hadn’t even heard the lock turn. I guess begging my ex pathetically for protection from a murderer only to be completely ignored and deserted, kept my brain so occupied it didn’t notice the sound of the lock.
So, I really am kidnapped. I wonder what Quill’s going to do to me next.
What’s wrong with me that my insides are clenching at the thought?
His reaction to my plea should have proven once and for all how little he cares.
Somehow it hurt even more than when I thought he was planning to murder me. At least that would have meant he cared enough to kill me.
Instead, he heard me beg for help and… left.
Fuck. Me.
I don’t think I’ve ever felt more pathetic as I slump over on his bed, which makes me remember everything we just did here. Goddamnit. How the hell can you hate a person as much as I hate Quill Nelson while getting so aroused at the mere thought of him?
Then I sit up abruptly and freeze as I hear the front door of the apartment open, followed by voices.
They’re muffled, coming from far away in the apartment, but I can just make them out. I’d know those voices anywhere. The voices of the Devil.
Or rather, of his soldiers: Liam and Dane.
Guess the three of them are still as tight as ever.
Have I gone completely mad, to go running back into the arms of the psycho who ordered my rape?
I can try to pretend he didn’t leave me any choice just now, but the truth is, I wanted him to fuck me.
Hell, I still want him to fuck me. Even as I hear his deep voice mingling with Liam’s whiny one and Dane’s clear one, I want him to come back and fuck me.
I’ve always considered myself to be rational, but all reason goes out the window when Quill’s around.
Then the voices grow louder, and while I can’t make out their sense, I have a feeling they’re fighting. That is, Quill’s deep one is growling out strings of expletives while Liam is bitching and snivelling, and Dane is playing the mediator.
I can’t make out much, but I have a feeling this is about what I overheard at Devil Tower. Some contract Quill screwed up for them, and now they’re all in trouble.
Each of Liam’s snively high-pitched words makes a chill crash down my spine, while Dane’s clear, quiet tone makes me feel filthy inside. I want to claw at my skin, remove every piece of it that’s ever been touched by them.
I hadn’t seen them since they raped me, and the sound of their voices has me curling up in a ball, trying to force out the threat of the memories crushing down on me.
I hadn’t seen them, that is, until I spotted them at Devil Tower with Josh—
Fuck.
Josh.
What kind of a person am I? I never once thought about the guy who lost his job for me then tried to help me hunt down my parents’ murderer.
Did Quill really kill him? Did the monster I just had sex with end the life of my friend?
As my mind spirals, caught between guilt as I wonder about Josh’s fate, and cold dread as I hear the voices of the men who destroyed me, I hear the angry opening and shutting of drawers and then footsteps that grow louder.
My heartbeat picks up as whoever it is clearly makes a beeline for my door.
But I’m incapable of doing anything but wait, curled up in the tightest ball I can manage, every inch of my skin coated in terrified sweat.
I fully expect to see Liam’s dull eyes fix themselves on me, but instead, it’s just Quill.
Just Quill. The worst monster by far. But also, the one who makes me feel safe.
I’ll never be able to understand myself.
He stops in the doorway, one hand clutching a roll of duct tap, the other on the doorknob.
“What’s wrong?”
I nearly laugh out loud at the question.
What’s wrong? How about the fact that my parents are dead, someone’s probably out to kill me, you just kidnapped me, then ignored my pleas for help?
Oh, and also, your roommates, you know, the ones you told to rape me, are just a few rooms over, and my friend is probably lying in the gutter somewhere?
I open my mouth and shut it a few times, but I don’t even know where to start. So I curl up into myself fiercely, hiding my stupid round glasses from him by sinking them into my knees.
There’s a long, drawn-out silence, punctuated by the sound of a door closing quietly. Great. I don’t know what’s wrong with me for hoping the one person responsible for all, or at least, most of this shit, would come over and comfort me. Clearly that was never going to happen and he’s left again.
This is nothing more or less than a kidnapping.
He’s not someone who cares for me, he’s a psychopath, and I need to get away.
I should be trying to escape. I should get up and break open the door.
Or maybe go to the window. Is there a window?
I haven’t even looked to see if there’s a window.
I haven’t half-tried to run away, have I?
But I’m far too tired to move. I’m too tired, even, to cry. I think the great big gash that I’ve been managing to keep mostly closed is starting to open, too, letting out all the ugliness of my parents’ death, and I can’t even find in me a speck of energy to force it shut again.
Instead I remain unmoving, a curled-up, pathetic ball on the bed of my psycho ex.
I practically jump out of my skin when I feel a hand on my back.
I jerk up, my glasses tumbling from my face, and a hand gently pushes them back on.
“What’s wrong?” asks Quill gruffly again.
I keep my mouth resolutely closed and try to dive back into the safety of my knees, but he holds my chin up and sits down beside me.
“I haven’t heard a single word out of you for at least a minute, which tells me something is very wrong,” he murmurs, and I try to glare at his stupid attempt at teasing.
But his voice has grown soft and it’s making me want to crawl up into his lap.
Except he would only go away again, and I’d be forcefully reminded how one-sided my absurd ache for him is.
I practically cry out when I feel his hand latch onto mine, and drag me up onto the lap I’d just been wishing myself on. Except of course, since he’s doing the dragging, I start to struggle a bit, just to show him I’m not a fucking lapdog.
It’s intoxicating to feel his arm turn into a band of steel that pushes me right where he wants me to go, not caring the least bit what I want.
What I want is what he wants, anyway, but I’d rather die than admit it after I allowed myself to be so vulnerable for nothing.
So I struggle harder, until he’s clamping me to him with both his arms, and the roll of duct tape falls to the floor.
“What’s that for?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
He holds me to him possessively, locking me in his arms so tightly that I couldn’t move even if I wanted to. Which I definitely don’t.
“What’s wrong?” he asks for the third time, his deep rumble of a voice doing things to me even as my entire body feels like it’s close to shattering in a million pieces.
“Nothing.” My word is an echo of his, and he clicks his tongue impatiently in my ear.
I can’t decide if I want him to keep holding me like this forever, or if I’m hoping he’ll flip me over his knee and spank me.
Either way, I’m far too turned on right now given the situation.
How can I possibly be in the depths of emotional torment and this aroused at the same time?
“What the fuck do you think is wrong?” I spit out, hunting for the anger that I know is in me, somewhere, to use as a shield.
Or maybe I’m hoping cursing him out will get me punished again.
He doesn’t take the bait, though. He merely folds me to him all the harder, and guesses, “You’re sad your parents died.”
I never thought I’d roll my eyes at hearing someone tell me my parents died, but that’s just what I do.
Sometimes I wonder if Quill isn’t a legit psychopath.
It’s like his brain isn’t wired the same way as mine.
Maybe he actually didn’t realize how vulnerable I was earlier.
Maybe he never thought about how upset I was about my parents’ murder, or scared, because he doesn’t experience emotions the same way.
No. Stop making excuses.
“You’re scared,” he continues, clearly not noticing my eyeroll. “You’re scared the person who killed your parents will kill you next.”
Another eyeroll, carefully hidden in his chest, because there’s no point in poking the bear.
Especially when you’re sitting comfortably in the bear’s lap and really want to stay there.
“You don’t have to be scared,” he concludes. “I’m here.”
I manage to bite down on a snort. “Oh, really? So that means you’re my protector?”
When I say it this time, the word is drenched in sarcasm, but I can’t tell if he notices. I can’t tell if I want him to.
He pauses a beat, then says, “You can call it that if you want.”
“What would you call it?”
His arms are like a vise as he holds me to him, and his hot breath tickles my nape. “I call it,” he answers, his voice deep and rough, “killing anyone who gets close to you.”