Page 102 of Once Upon A Time

Pierre said to Quentin, “Take her to my bedroom.”

Flicka fought Quentin all the way to the suite’s bedroom, but he was too strong for her.

And so was Pierre.

Escape, Again

Flicka von Hannover

Anything, always.

Footsteps marched in the hallway outside and paused outside the door for a long, terrible moment, and continued past.

After a moment, Dieter leaned to look through the peephole again.

Flicka straightened, shaking off where she had touched him. Her skin slithered on her body, and yet she wanted to crawl into his arms and cry.

She couldn’t do that.

So many reasons.

“I need a shower,” she whispered.

As soon as she said it, the imperative grabbed her. She needed to hose the filth and horror off of her bodyright that very instant.

“Where’s your bathroom?” she asked. Shaking jumped from her hands to her forearms and her elbows. “I need to showerright now.”

Dieter’s eyes examined her as he stepped away, his hands raised and open. “Through the bedroom, to the right.”

Flicka ran.

She kicked off her glittering sandals as she ran, holding her dress up for speed.

Behind her, “Flicka?”

She grabbed handfuls of the silk at her shoulders, pulling it down and trying to get it off.

The thin fabric proved tough and dragged at her shoulders. She wrenched her hands behind her back, trying to unzip the damned thing.

The zipper snagged in the silk, and she couldn’t get it down.

Flicka shoved aside the shower curtain, twisted the faucet to start the shower, and stepped in.

Icy water soaked her dress.

She tried to peel the sopping silk off of her skin, but water weighed down the fabric. It stuck to her as she yanked at it.

The shower melted the hairspray in her hair, and the mass slopped to her shoulders. The tiara tilted and fell, still pinned into her wet hair. Her makeup was running down her face and stung her eyes.

Quiet knocking rattled the door. “Flicka? Can I come in?”

“No!”She grabbed the soap and tried to scrub her thighs and shoulders, but pale pink silk swaddled her legs.

She was another person, an observer and floating wisp of nothing, and she watched the blond woman do completely inadvisable things like grabbing a bottle of still water from the side of the sink, sticking it inside her body, and squeezing the bottle like a douche. Ice water flooded down her legs, and then she used the skirt of her dress to scrub that away as hard as she could, ripping her skin with the glass-beaded silk of her dress.

Useless. Dirty. Bleeding.

Flicka slid down the wall, and the water turned warm as she pressed her face to her knees.