THE UNDYING | TWILIGHT

21. Peccavisti

The security guard loosened his grip on Dahlia's wrist. "You know this woman?" he asked Cillian.

"Of course," Cillian answered. "She's my date for the evening." His red eyes passed over to Dahlia, and his lips curled into a seductive smirk. 

"And you live in the penthouse suite?" asked the guard.

"Well, the room is so exquisite it certainly feels like a suite." Cillian chuckled quietly to himself. "But no, it's a standard room on the fifth floor. She desperately wanted a suite, though, and I tried my best to please her but was ultimately unsuccessful. I suppose she's still bitter about the whole thing. You know how women can be when they have their hearts set on something."

The guard snorted. "My wife's the same way. It's a never-ending battle with her." He released Dahlia then and gently patted her shoulder. "Well, I guess it's all settled, then. This was just some silly misunderstanding. My sincerest apologies to you, sir, and to your date. Enjoy the rest of your evening."

Dahlia reached for the guard as he turned and walked away, but her fingers caught nothing but air. "Please," she murmured. "Please, don't leave me alone with him. ... He's gonna kill me."

"Shall we, my dear?" Cillian said as he offered her his arm. When the girl failed to move, a spark set off in his eyes. "Or should I call back the guard and tell him the truth?"

It was an empty threat, as he had no intention of ever telling the bum in black, but he enjoyed watching the fear creep into her brown eyes as her body stiffened like a wound coil, releasing only after he spoke once more.

"You already know what you're going to do," Cillian said. "You have only one choice."

Hesitantly, Dahlia stepped forward and hooked her arm around the crook of the man's elbow. "Then let's go."

✧ ✧ ✧

Behind the locked door of Room 518, Dahlia slowly reclined on the mattress and rested her head against the soft feather pillow. The smooth satin sheets felt like needles on her bare skin, but she herself lay as still as a corpse, her vacant brown eyes fixed to the ceiling. Sometimes, it was hard to tell if she was even breathing.

When Alexei climbed on top of her, she barely felt the weight of him, but she could hear him grunting and groaning in agony and despair. He was talking the entire time, murmuring something in Russian. Dahlia couldn't understand him, but she could feel his hot tears on her face and chest. Still, no matter how much he cried, no matter how many tears he shed, she would never look at him. Instead, she focused her eyes on the wooden headboard and watched it smack against the wall to the steady rhythm of his movements. It was almost comforting, this sound, because she could pretend it was somebody's head bashing against the wall.

Thwack! ... Thwack! ... Thwack!

Unexpectedly, Alexei stopped in mid-thrust and then crawled away from Dahlia. "I can't do this!" he croaked, his throat raw from screaming. "I can't! I won't! I don't care what you do to me. I'm done playing your sick game!"

Cillian had been watching from the leather chair in the corner. After uncrossing his long, slender legs, he rose to a standing position and slowly made his way toward the bed.

"What's wrong?" he asked. "Performance anxiety?"

Alexei held his gaze with a challenging glare. "Go to hell."

Cillian smirked. "Gladly."

Like a whip, Cillian's hand lashed out and ensnared Alexei's skinny neck, squeezing it so hard it seemed like the Russian's head would pop right off. With wide, unwavering eyes, Dahlia watched as Cillian's teeth ripped through the man's tender flesh. Blood sprayed all over the bed like a heavy rain, drenching the sheets with red and staining Dahlia's exposed skin.