Blood and Wine - Margot Scott Page 0,30

stretches out before me. I’ve never seen this hallway before. It’s like something you’d find in a dungeon or the basement of a building much older than this one.

I must be dreaming, I tell myself. But when did I fall asleep?

And if I am dreaming, where’s Will?

Behind the door, something whispers, like the whoosh of an arrow over my shoulder.

A door appears at the end of the corridor, a heavy-duty metal thing with a serious-looking lock. I know instinctively that Will’s behind it, and I want to go to him, but I’m scared.

Breathing deeply, I force myself forward, one step a time, through the pool of blood that ripples as I move through it.

My pulse sprints. A low hum tickles my ears as I approach the door, growing louder and louder. Bees, I think at first, then no, not bees. Voices. Hundreds of voices, some urging me to keep going while others beg me to turn and run.

He’s coming, they say. He’s coming... Find him... Save him...

Run.

A bloody hand reaches out of the pool and grasps my ankle. I scream. Another hand rises up to grab me, and then another.

Half a dozen bloody arms reaching, grabbing, and dragging me to the floor.

My entire front body is soaked in blood. The taste of iron fills my mouth. I crawl toward the door on hands and knees, slipping. Splashing.

Blood in my eyes. In my nose.

The whispers become cries.

He’s coming... Turn back... Go back...

A door slams.

I’m shrouded in darkness, breathing heavily on two feet.

My hands and clothes are dry, as is my mouth.

At the sound of footsteps on the stairs behind me, I turn.

Christopher flips the light switch—the one that wasn’t there a few moments ago. I squint against the brightness, confused and grateful to be back in the tasting room’s wine cellar.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Christopher says, tucking his hands into his front pockets. “I figured you’d be used to that by now.”

I shake my head, blinking away the mental cloudiness left over from...whatever the hell that was. Some kind of vision?

“I’m at work, Christopher. I don’t have time to talk.” I grab a bottle of Pinot from the shelf, then attempt to head upstairs. He refuses to budge from my path. “I have to get back.”

“My father is determined to make you part of this family,” he says. “Yet he holds you to a different standard than the rest of us. Tell me, how is that fair?”

“You’ll have to ask Edward,” I say, pretending to be more annoyed than nervous when he takes a step toward me. “Please move.”

“Put down the bottle if you don’t want to drop it.”

I roll my eyes, even as my pulse flutters. “For fuck’s sake, Christopher—”

“Put it down,” he snaps.

My throat closes. I force my shoulders back, refusing to let on how fragile I feel. “Get out of my way, Christopher. I have work to do.”

He grabs the wine bottle from me and lets it drop. Glass shatters.

Wine spreads out across the concrete and under my sandals. Just like blood...

I meet his cold gaze and my heart starts to riot in my chest. He takes another step. I move, and before I realize where I’ve brought myself, he’s got me backed up against a set of shelves.

“Take off your apron,” he says.

“No.” He slams both hands on the shelves, penning me in. I flinch but stand my ground. “Get out of my face.”

He grabs me by the shoulders. I push at his chest, but he’s built like a fucking lumberjack. He turns me around, pressing his forearm to the back of my neck as he unties my apron himself. He tugs the back of my shirt up and over my head so I can’t see. I brace my hands on the shelves and push with all my might, but he holds me firmly in place.

I don’t understand how he can be this strong. It’s like trying to fight a pick-up truck.

“My father might be too scared to punish you for slapping my mother, but I’m not.”

“Your mother ruining those photos was punishment enough.”

“I disagree.” I hear the metallic clink of his belt, and my stomach clenches. He unhooks my bra with one hand—all those make-out session with private-school girls finally coming in handy, I’m sure.

“Christopher, please.” I pray for Keema or one of the other tasting-room assistants to come downstairs. “Don’t do this.”

I recoil at the swish of his belt passing through the loops on his pants.

“You want to be a Radcliff?” he