The Villain (Boston Belles, #2)(4)

He swiveled on his heel, assessing me. Every second under his scrutiny dropped my temperature by ten degrees. Sharing a space with Cillian Fitzpatrick was an experience. Like sitting in an obscure, vacant cathedral.

At that moment, I wished I were my sister, Emmabelle.

She would tell him to stick his attitude where the sun don’t shine. Then drag him into one of the private gardens after the ceremony and ride his face.

But I wasn’t Belle. I was Persephone.

Timid, nice, Goody Two-shoes Persy.

Missionary-sex-with-the-lights-off Pers.

The awkward romantic.

The people-pleaser.

The boring one.

There was a beat of silence before he took a step back into the room, closing the door after him.

“Not much going on inside that pretty head, huh?”

He sighed, discarding his blazer on the bed, then unbuttoning his cuff links. Hiking his dress shirt up his muscled forearms, he stared me down with dissatisfaction.

My body had decided this was a great time as any to collapse on the floor, so it did just that. I crashed on the carpet, heaving as I tried to draw my next breath.

So that’s how Auntie Tilda felt.

Unaffected by my fall, Cillian flicked the faucet of the claw-foot bath in the middle of the room, turning the tap to the blue side, so the water would be ice-cold.

Satisfied with the water temperature, he stepped toward me, rolled me over on my stomach with the tip of his loafers—like I was a sandbag—and leaned down, pressing his palm to the base of my spine.

“What are you—” I gasped.

“Don’t worry.” He tore the corseted dress from my body with one long movement. The violent sound of fabric ripping and buttons popping sliced through the air. “My tastes don’t run to little girls.”

There was an age different between us. Twelve years weren’t something you could easily disregard. It never bothered me, though.

What did bother me was my new state of nakedness. I shivered like a leaf beneath him.

“What the hell did you do?” I shrieked.

“You’re poisoned,” he announced matter-of-factly.

That made me sober up.

“I’m what?”

He kicked the pink flowers next to me in answer. They careened to the other side of the room.

My breath became shallower, more labored. The vitality seeped out of my body. The echo of gurgling water pouring into the tub was monotone and soothing, and suddenly, I was exhausted. I wanted to sleep.

“I found them in the garden outside the suite,” I murmured, my lips heavy. My eyes widened as I realized something.

“I tasted them, too.”

“Of course you would.” His voice dripped sarcasm. He hoisted me over his shoulder and carried me to the restroom. Dumping my limp body by the toilet, he lifted my head by fisting my hair. My knees screamed in pain. He wasn’t gentle.

“I’m going to make you throw up,” he announced, and without any further intro, he stuck two of his large fingers down my throat. Deep. I gagged, vomiting immediately while he held my head.

In the words of Joe Exotic, I am never going to recover from this. Cillian holding my hair while he is making me puke.

I emptied my stomach until Cillian was sure everything was gone. Only then did he wipe my face with his bare hand, undeterred by the puke residue.

“What’re they, anywhmm?” I slurred, resting my head on the toilet seat. “The flowers.”

He scooped me in his arms with frightening ease, walking across the room, and dumping me onto the bed. I was stark naked, save for a skin-colored thong.

I heard him rummaging through the cabinets. My eyes fluttered open. Grabbing a first-aid kit, he produced a small bottle of medicine and a syringe, frowning at the tiny instructions on the vial as he spoke.

“Bleeding Hearts. Known for being beautiful, rare, and toxic.”

“Just like you,” I murmured. Was I seriously cracking jokes on my deathbed?

He ignored my riveting observation.

“You were about to poison an entire chapel, Emmalynne.”

“I’m Persephone.” My eyebrows pinched.

Funny how I could barely breathe, but I still managed to take offense at being confused with my sister. “And my sister’s name is Emmabelle, not Emmalynne.”

“Are you sure?” he asked without looking up, sticking the syringe into the bottle and drawing the liquid into it. “I don’t remember the younger one being so mouthy.”

I was filed under The Younger One in his memory. Great.

“Am I sure I am who I am, or what my sister’s name is?” I resumed my scratching, about as demure as a wild ogre. “Either way, the answer is yes. I’m positive.”

My older sister was the memorable one.

She was louder, taller, more voluptuous; her hair was the dazzling shade of champagne. Normally, I didn’t mind being overshadowed. But I hated that Kill remembered Emmabelle and not me, even if he got her name wrong.

It was the first time in my life I resented my sister.

Kill lowered himself to the edge of the bed, slapping his knee.

“On my lap, Flower Girl.”

“No.”

“The word shouldn’t even be in your vocabulary with me.”

“Turns out I’m full of surprises.” My mouth moved over the linen. I knew I was drooling. Now that I was breathing better, I noticed the stench of puke from my breath.