Dougal offered her fine wine.
She didn't think it was lice. Dougal wouldn't want extra wildlife in his bed. He wouldn't want her in his bed without a bath. God knows she stank. Since she'd thrown that wine at Dougal, Padric hadn't even given her a bucket of ice water for washing. Not what you'd call a dream date, by any means.
Her head sank down and jerked back again. She stumbled to her feet and forced herself to balance against the swirling of the walls and floor, the black dots swimming across her sight.
She thought it was low blood pressure. Brain not getting enough oxygen. Not just balance, not just eyes--screwed up her thinking as well. Logic went to hell, went to sleep, even if she couldn't.
"Can't go to sleep," she muttered. "Not sleep-time."
If she closed her eyes Padric would be there in an instant, always that bastard Padric. He was just outside the spy-hole, watching, she could hear his breathing. Close her eyes, and the fucker would hang her up by her wrists again, drench her with icy water, beat the soles of her feet with his goddamn rubber hose, take her clothes away so she was too goddamn cold to sleep.
But she could beat them. She was strong enough. The problem was Brian and Jo and David. Hold out and David dies, Jo dies, Brian lives on for years as a brainless slave. Not fair.
Fucking liar Dougal. All she had was his word. Everyone else could be safely home in bed. Everyone else could be pigging out on greasy pizza washed down with pitchers of beer. They'd abandoned her, the bastards. They didn't care.
Not their fault. Fiona caused this. Sean caused this, the traitor bastard. Dougal promised he'd help her get revenge, help her save Jo and David and Brian. Dougal promised he'd help her learn how to use her powers, the Power in her genes. Dougal told her that she could wash her hands in Sean's blood. All she had to do was sleep with him, bear his children.
She'd see him in hell first, take him on a guided tour.
"Give in, you get a bed," she mumbled, under her breath. "Give in, you get food. Give in, you get warm, you get clean clothes, you get a bath. So what if your bed includes a man? Men have slept with women ever since sex was invented.
"Sleep. Right now, you'd sell your soul for a good night's sleep. What's this big thing against selling your goddamn body?"
Nothing was going to happen to her that hadn't happened before. She'd survived. Saga of Woman: she survived.
Dougal wasn't all that bad. She'd never sleep with Padric. Padric was an animal, while Dougal was a gentleman. Dougal never hit her, never chained her naked in her filth, never took food right out of her hands because she'd done something wrong. That was Padric. Always Padric.
Good cop, bad cop, whispered the dying voice in the back of her head.
All she remembered of Dougal was him beating Padric with a whip. The finest meal of her life. Clean clothes.
So what if she'd prefer Brian? One man was much like another, a bunch of muscles fronting for some sperm. They were all pricks, when you came down to it. Jo sure didn't pay much attention to the differences.
Dougal was an Old One, and he chose her, chose her out of a million women. She was special. It wasn't his fault Liam screwed up when he came to talk to her. If things had gone the way Dougal had planned, she would have come here as a princess rather than a prisoner.
When Liam screwed up, she got tangled in Fiona's plan for Brian. All this nasty shit was Fiona and Sean, not Dougal.
He wasn't all that ugly. Hell, walk through the mall sometime and look at people. Really look at people. They aren't actors, they aren't models. Beauty was a crock of shit, an airbrush fantasy. Even centerfolds got retouched to perfection.
Her knees wobbled underneath her, and she slumped back on the bunk. A corner of the iron frame dug into her leg, and the pain served as a last anchor to reality.
Somewhere, out of the last depths of her soul, she dredged up the strength to pry her eyes open and glare at the peephole in the door. The eyes on the other side blinked and vanished.
* * *
"Go 'way." Maureen couldn't even find the will-power to shake her head or open her eyes.
Something lifted her. Seconds passed before the pain in her scalp made sense. The bastard was hauling her up by her hair. Fingers clamped her earlobe in a vise and squeezed until tears ran out under her eyelids. The pain shifted to her breast, her left nipple. She still couldn't care.
"If you're that sound asleep," a deep voice growled, "I can do whatever I want with you. You'll never tell."
She bounced against the rough stone wall and slithered down to sitting. Hands fumbled with her snaps and buttons, her zippers, tugged at her pants, forced her bare legs apart, groped between them.
Her mind flashed across the years, thrown by that touch, those hands. Buddy Johnson was back. He'd never really left. She whimpered in the darkness behind her eyelids.
The door clanged again, and she heard a scuffle and curses followed by blows like a boxer pounding on a side of beef. Gentle hands wiped the tears from her cheeks.
She pried her eyes open. It was Dougal. Buddy Johnson cringed in the corner, fresh blood flowing from his nose. His hair seemed longer than she remembered.
Dougal helped her with buttons and zippers and snaps, not even wincing at the touch of her filthy, greasy clothing, her filthy, greasy body. He helped her to her feet. He picked her up as if she weighed nothing, carrying her like a child in his arms. His face hovered just above hers.
"Maureen, I've got to save you from
