Branded By The Devil's Cruel Kiss

Elie violently shoved Mortimer's hand off her leg. She scrambled up from the deep leather sofa, her movements frantic and uncoordinated.

Because she stood up too fast, the high-proof vodka hit her brain instantly. The room spun. Her ankle gave out in the oversized heel, and she stumbled forward, nearly crashing into the glass coffee table.

Mortimer's face darkened. He scowled, opening his mouth to yell at her.

"Women are always so much trouble," Ebert's voice cut through the tension. It was smooth, cold, and dripping with disdain. "Forgive her lack of manners, Mr. Finch."

Hearing Ebert apologize for her as if she were a misbehaving pet made Elie's spine lock up. She didn't look back. She practically ran toward the back of the massive suite, searching for the bathroom.

She found the heavy, frosted-glass door. She shoved it open, threw herself inside, and slammed the door shut. Her trembling fingers fumbled with the lock until she heard the heavy thunk of the deadbolt sliding into place.

The bathroom was dead silent. The faint, mechanical hum of the exhaust fan was the only sound. The heavy door completely blocked out the thumping bass of the club music outside.

Elie lunged toward the marble vanity. She gripped the edge of the cold stone counter so hard her fingernails bent.

The violent nausea she had been fighting finally won. She leaned over the porcelain sink and began to dry heave uncontrollably.

Her stomach cramped with agonizing force. Because she hadn't eaten anything all day, there was nothing to throw up. She only gagged up bitter stomach acid and the burning taste of the vodka.

The violent spasms wracked her chest. Tears streamed down her face, mixing with the snot running from her nose. She looked utterly pathetic.

After several minutes, the spasms slowly subsided. Elie felt completely drained, her legs shaking weakly.

She reached out and turned the brass faucet. Freezing cold water rushed out.

She cupped her hands and splashed the icy water onto her face. She splashed it onto her neck, scrubbing her skin frantically, trying to wash away the disgusting feeling of Mortimer's sweaty hand on her thigh.

The cold water dripped from her chin, falling onto the red silk dress and blooming into dark, wet stains.

Elie slowly raised her head. She looked at her reflection in the massive, brightly lit mirror.

Her hair was a tangled mess. Her eyes were bloodshot and swollen. Her face was ashen.

Her gaze dropped to her neck. The dark, purple-red hickey Ebert had left was glaringly obvious against her pale skin.

A surge of pure, unadulterated hatred flashed in her eyes.

She grabbed a rough paper towel from the dispenser. She pressed it against the hickey and scrubbed. She rubbed the paper towel back and forth with brutal force. She scrubbed until the delicate skin on her neck turned bright red, until it felt raw and started to peel.

But the bruise remained.

Elie dropped the paper towel. Her knees buckled. She slid down the tiled wall and collapsed onto the freezing bathroom floor. She pulled her knees to her chest and buried her face in her arms.

She cried silently. Her shoulders shook with the force of her suppressed sobs. Her psychological defenses had completely collapsed.

In the darkness behind her eyelids, she saw her grandmother's frail face lying in the hospital bed. That face was the only reason she was still breathing.

Elie took a ragged, shuddering breath. She wiped her face roughly with the back of her hand. She forced her shaking legs to straighten, pulling herself up from the floor.

She looked in the mirror one last time. She smoothed down her wet hair. She took three deep breaths, forcing the panic down into a tight, hard box in her chest. She locked her facial muscles into a mask of pure, numb ice.

No matter what hell awaited her out there, she had to walk back out. For her family.

Elie walked to the door. She wrapped her hand around the cold metal handle. She hesitated for three agonizing seconds.

Click. She unlocked the door and pulled it open.

The moment the door cracked open, the heavy stench of cigars and cheap cologne flooded her senses.

Elie looked up. Her pupils shrank to pinpricks.

Mortimer's massive, bloated body was completely blocking the narrow hallway right outside the bathroom door. A disgusting, predatory grin stretched across his sweaty face.

He raised his right hand. Between his thick fingers, he held a plastic hotel key card. He waved it slowly in front of her face.

"Mr. Ewing has given his blessing," Mortimer whispered, his voice thick with lust.

He stepped closer, his stomach brushing against her. "I have a private suite booked three floors down. You're coming with me right now."

A loud ringing sound exploded in Elie's ears. The blood in her veins turned to solid ice.