Page 73 of Seal My Fate
“I really have to go,” I say again, and he laughs meanly.
“You really are alike, you and your sister. Staying when you should have run. Trusting, when you already know it’s too late.”
Wren.
I freeze. “It was you,” I breathe in horror.
Hugh smirks. “Took you long enough to figure it out. I guess brains don’t run in the family.”
Rage consumes me. I lunge at him with a cry, furious, but I barely manage to scratch his face before he throws me against the wall and punches me in the stomach so hard, I’m sent reeling to the floor.
Fuck.
Pain blossoms, and I gasp for air. “Like I said, bad timing,” Hugh says above me, as I lay in agony on the marble floor. “I was hoping you were really dropping this, but it looks like you’re determined to cause problems for everyone.”
I hear footsteps behind me.Someone’s coming!
My heart leaps, and I struggle to my hands and knees, trying to turn. “Help me—” I start to cry.
Hugh lands a sharp kick to my gut, and I howl in pain, collapsing to the floor again.
“You brought the stuff?” he asks above me, as I lay there, reeling. Whoever it is, they’re an accomplice, I realize, through my haze of pain. Nobody’s here to help me.
Then a strong pair of arms drag me up from behind, and I feel a sharp prick in the side of my neck.
A needle.
“No… Stop…”
My voice comes out faint, and slurring. My head swims. I try to struggle, but whatever drugs were in that syringe, they’re too strong.
“Help me get her out the back exit,” Hugh is telling the other person. “I’ll clean it up from here.”
“Saint…” I whisper.My limbs turn heavy, and my legs give way, but I desperately try to fight it.I need to warn Saint…
But it’s too late. My body sags. Hugh leans in close, smirking coldly. “Don’t worry, we’ll deal with him.”
Panic swirls inside me, a desperate fear.
Then there’s nothing but black.
Chapter19
Saint
“Another round!”
“Easy there,” I warn Max, amused. He’s pouring whiskey shots for the groomsmen, although how he’s able to drink in this hungover state, I’m not sure. “You do need to be able to walk back down the aisle with her, you know.”
“Child’s play,” Max waves off my concern. “I’m made of sterner stuff, you know. Besides, how often does a man get to toast to his wedding day?”
“At least two or three, judging by your father,” one of the other men cracks, and everybody laughs.
“Here’s to Max and Annabelle,” another says, raising his drink. “The perfect starter wife!”
“Hear, hear!”
I stifle a sigh and take a sip. Clearly, I’m going to need it to make it through the day. So far, the groomsmen have done nothing but crack crude, filthy jokes and egg on Max’s worst instincts. Now, they’re discussing when it’s best to move on to Wife No. 2: