Resilient (A Pretty Pill, #3)

By Criss Copp

New Adult (mature content). Recommended for readers 18+ due to explicit sexual content, harsh language and adult themes.

When Isobelle Mulligan was kidnapped, she had no idea to what depths of depravity her abductor could go. When she discovers the levels of abstract evil he subjected her to, her world and relationships are altered completely, and her grasp on reality is tested.

Several years after his fiancé abandoned him; Silas Tayte has built himself a new life back in Australia, and is now a down-to-earth, responsible man with a fulltime job and adventure loving lifestyle. But he misses the one person who made his soul sing.
When an opportunity presents itself to resume contact with her, he eagerly grabs it with both hands. Silas intends to prove to the woman he still loves that they were always meant to be together, and sets out to woo her with word and wit.

He is not the angry, unpredictable and struggling man he once was.

And she has changed everything about her that she can to avoid public scrutiny.

However, when they finally meet again, it becomes obvious their paths were always meant to be travelled together.

This is the final instalment of the A Pretty Pill series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Criss Copp
• Release date: Aug 31, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310268311

Criss Copp

I'm so glad you came to stop by and read a few of my stories.Thank you, and I hope you enjoyed them.To those that began reading my stories over a decade ago, an even bigger thank you.Without your support I wouldn't have been able to afford to finish university.I no longer write under this name. But I hope these stories resonate with people still.Adios...

Book preview

Table of Contents

Reference

Resilient (A Pretty Pill, #3)

Dedication and Thanks

Prologue

Part I

Chapter 1: Isobelle

Chapter 2: Silas

Chapter 3: Ben

Chapter 4: Silas

Chapter 5: Isobelle

Chapter 6: Silas

Chapter 7: Ben

Chapter 8: Silas

Chapter 9: Jade

Chapter 10: Silas

Chapter 11:

Part II

Chapter 12: Silas

Chapter 13: Jade

Chapter 14: Silas

Chapter 15: Elle

Chapter 16: Silas

Chapter 17: Ben

Chapter 18: Elle

Chapter 19: Silas

Chapter 20: Ben

Chapter 21: Elle

Chapter 22: Ben

Chapter 23: Silas

Part III

24: March 23rd

25: April 16th

Chapter 26: Elle

Chapter 27: Silas

Chapter 28: Elle

Chapter 29: Silas

Chapter 30: Elle

~Epilogue~

About the Author

Resilient (A Pretty Pill, #3)

Criss Copp

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2015 by C.E. McNab

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes without the express written consent of the author; with the exception of the use of short excerpts quoted in reviews of this ebook. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious.

Dedication and Thanks

Of most importance:

This book is dedicated to those who emailed, messaged and generally asked, pleaded and cajoled me into writing the last book of the A Pretty Pill series. Thank you for your kind words of encouragement… they were most definitely read and taken into account.

And to Beck ~ you are an amazing woman and make a mighty fine coffee xx

Prologue

Get away from the window Belle, and come and help me here with this. She scolds.

But Daddy’s going without me. I cry, pressing my face up against the glass and feeling the slippery suction my tears create between the smooth coolness of the window and the warm flush of my cheek.

He doesn’t want to take you with him anymore. She says venomously.

I turn from the window to see if her words carry sincerity, however my emotion obscures my ability to effectively read her, especially given her talent at appearing legitimate despite the opposite being true. So instead, I just watch as she continues her tirade and stabbing that ever present accusatory finger with its bright red polish on her precisely filed nail toward me.

You get in the way and mess up his camping trips. He can’t be running after you and saving you every time you take a tumble down a rock face, despite those stupid ropes apparently stopping you from falling to your doom, or worse, grazing your skin and ruining your face. She argues.

Yeah, she’s about appearances. Even I know that, and I’m only nine.

As for me, I’m about the experience and feeling what the world has to offer me. A graze on the face is worth the climb to the top of the rock face and looking at the vista.

Daddy said I was brave and that I saved myself. I sniff, referring to that recent tumble I had on our last and what now appears to be my final hiking adventure with him, in which I twisted into the taut rope snapping back as I fell a few feet, giving me a decent rope burn across my right cheek. I turn my face back to the window to watch my Dad continue to pack up his vehicle without me, taking the reminding scar from my mother’s view. Unfortunately her reflection is ever present. I can see every feature, every nuance and every mannerism she melodramatically engages in.

Pffft. He was just trying to be nice. He told me himself that he hates being held back by you when he’s trying to ‘connect with nature’. She responds, placing a sarcastic emphasis on the last three words and doing the finger curls either side of her for further emphasis. I know that it’s sarcasm. She’s always being sarcastic concerning my Dad. But it still hurts; it still attacks that ever present insecurity I have of being good enough for the adults in my life.

He did? I feel the bottom of my stomach beginning to fall away as I turn to her once again in order to ascertain if there is any real sincerity in her words. But all I see is her beautiful face, made up as though she is about to attend one of her big and important charity evenings, when in reality, she’s simply redecorating the living room, again.

Of course he did. It’s not a place for girls. He always did wish for a boy. she twists her hand in a flourish and rolls her eyes in exaggeration.

Does she even know she’s hurting me by saying these things? Does she care that I’m hurt by these words? They worm their way into my insecurities and eat away at the floundering wall I have erected in order to withstand such attacks.

A feeling of abandonment washes across my chest and down my arms, and I realize I’m standing there with my mouth open and gaping at her, because I can’t believe what she says is true. Her words are like poison to me and they cause a deep pain to tear through me.

It’s true. You’re nine years old now and it’s high time you begin acting like a girl and stop pretending you’re a boy. Your father agrees with me and he’s more than happy to be rid of your insistent presence on his trips. She states, once again without thought to my feelings.

He told me I’m better than a boy. I mumble, thinking of the time that my mother shouted at my father for showing me how to tie knots; insisting that I wasn’t a boy, and how when she left the room, he immediately leant in and whispered, ‘no, you’re not… you’re better than a boy.’

What? she dismissively asks, but I recognize that dangerous tone, I need to change the topic.

Why does he look sad? I ask, looking back out the window at my Dad who has just finished packing his 4WD and now has his forehead pressed forlornly against the side of the vehicle.

She stands up to look out the window, and in doing so, takes a sharp breath before dropping the color swatches from her hand onto the coffee table and sweeping dramatically from her position towards the front door.

I can’t help noticing that she’s now furious. It’s my fault, again. And of course now she’s about to have words with my Dad, again.

I watch as she storms out the door and clomps in her heels to my father, who is only now looking up at the devil rushing toward him.

Tell her Dad. Tell her she’s wrong. I whisper, willing him to hear me, to stand his ground this time. My fingers are curled up against the window, smearing my watery responses to my mother’s tirade across the otherwise streak free glass. I feel as though my anxiety in this moment could spread webs of fractured tension through the transparent medium and shatter the window entirely.

And my wish comes true. I eagerly watch as my father gets his back up and begins to shout back at her. This is new, this is promising. My Dad normally just sits and listens to her shouting at him. I like that he is fighting her, I want him to win and I’m willing it to be true with every ounce of my being.

But the devil doesn’t wilt; she slaps him across the face and takes off her heels before launching at him with vehement force.

I’m in shock. She always screams at him, but I’ve never seen her attack him.

My father is in shock too. If it were me, I’d be screaming in terror at the nature and brutal forcefulness this attack has shaped into being. In fact, I am shaking and howling right now, harder than ever before. I can just see the red mark from her hand competing with the red rosiness my Dad’s cheeks go when he’s embarrassed. I hear the staff behind me chattering in gasps of disbelief, yet nobody approaches me; nobody comes to calm the terrorized child or encourage her from witnessing this abuse.

And then my father retreats to his vehicle’s door, pushing away from her onslaught and leaving her screaming obscenities at him as he jumps into his vehicle before making his hasty retreat… tires squealing.

And now I really do feel abandoned.

He’s left me with the devil.

He’s left me with her and her frightening and abusive behavior.

So maybe it’s true. Maybe he doesn’t think I’m all that special and perhaps he really doesn’t want me to accompany him on his trips anymore.

My bottom lip is quivering uncontrollably, my breathing is so erratic I struggle to gain enough oxygen to keep me conscious, and all this is accompanied by the warm rush of torrential tears drenching my face and dribbling mucous from my nose and mouth. I feel the heaviness of my beating heart, trapped like a wild bird desperate to escape my erratically moving ribcage and in this moment I’m claustrophobic. I cannot stand being trapped in this house, trapped in this life.

I feel her move through the living room rather than see her, because my watery sight is now a barrier to everything but movement. And yet her anger permeates the entire room like a liquid presence, hot and suffocating me by drowning me in its resonance. And then it’s moving beyond me and out of the room.

I hear her in the kitchen slamming cupboard doors and rudely dismissing our staff.

I hear her return to the room and aggressively place one of her wine glasses on the glass coffee table. I listen to her call my father names I know I’d get into trouble for using and some I haven’t even heard before; however, the harsh sounding consonants lead me to believe they aren’t anything I’d get away with either.

I can’t move. I’m frozen to the spot. Even when her attention returns to the room and her frustration and wrath turns to the sniveling child in her presence…me.

He left me here, with her.

How could he?

He mustn’t care as much as I thought he did. He’s supposed to be my hero, my guide and my… well; he’s my buddy, and my Dad. Why would he let this happen?

I hate her, I think I know instinctually that I always have, but it is in this moment that she has crossed that line of no return. I can feel the aching heat of dreadful hate for her, this woman who is my maker, and I despise her. In fact I despise him too for abandoning me here with her. The pain of his rejection is excruciating.

Part I

"...if you gaze long enough

into an abyss,

the abyss will gaze back at you."

Friedrich Nietzsche,

19th century Philosopher.

Chapter 1: Isobelle

There are three things I’m extremely grateful for in this moment.

The first is my breakdown a few months back when my mom pushed me off the precipice that had been edging my tentative sanity for decades; that fragile outer limit that skirted my ability to cope, surrounding me and my introspection on life. If I hadn’t broken down then, I would certainly break down now that this asshole has decided to claim me and take me away from the only stability I’ve ever known and the only man I’ve ever truly wanted. If my psychosis hadn’t happened at that time, then it would’ve right now, because I’m certain that I would’ve had a complete meltdown as a result of this and that would’ve resulted in a total disaster for me in that my focus for escape would be devoid. Instead, I am forcing myself to calm down and reel in any of my negative emotions so that I can concentrate on dwelling on any positives and look for opportunities for escape.

Remarkably, given the cocktail of drugs I’ve likely been given and in whatever measured or unmeasured proportions he’s used, I’m still alive, and I’m planning on remaining that way. And so, it is with this in mind that my objective is clear. I plan on returning to Silas as soon as I possibly can so we can resume the life we have started together.

So my immediate concerns are to center my thoughts on all those important skills I learned in my recovery phase after my recent breakdown and thoroughly utilize them. Hence providing me with the strength I need to get me out of this God damn mess by focusing on how.

The second thing I’m grateful for is my near death experience back in Afghanistan. I never, ever thought that would be possible, but it is. Not only did I manage to crawl out of that experience alive, but it feels as though the medical aftermath has made me more tolerant of the analgesia and drugs that Ethan… no, Michael; his name is Michael, has been consistently pumping into me to keep me in a state of suspension. Spending significant amounts of time on different opioids and analgesia can do that. It seems I may have built up sufficient tolerance for these medications and it appears that despite the extensive time period since I was last administered analgesic medications, I’m awakening from the administration with a clear mind; at least I believe this is true, since upon waking, I don’t feel overtly groggy. By no means am I one hundred percent, but at least it means that although I’m in this hellhole, I’m alert to the sounds and smells of my surroundings, which should assist me to try and work out where I am and what my approach to escape will be. I’m not about to make this fight an easy one now that it’s only me and him and I have no intention of giving him any part of me.

I concentrate on breathing for the moment; measuring my respiratory responses while attempting to ascertain my situation.

I can’t move and I’m tied down to a bed so tightly the pressure injuries I’ll likely get from it are inevitable, and I just hope any tissue damage will be salvageable. I feel like groaning as I think of the hideous damage pressure injuries could give me and how they’ll look afterwards. More scars. My mother will be mortified. They’ll be so ugly, possibly even uglier than the injuries I already have and it makes me feel morose.

What am I thinking? Get a grip Isobelle.

Who gives a fuck about scarred wrists and shit like that if I get out of this alive? Really, would Silas even baulk for one moment if I had more scars? He loves my scars that weirdly kind of match his own. Where I obtained mine after an unfortunate encounter with an IED whilst in Afghanistan as a paramedic, he obtained his whilst a child, in a car accident that unfortunately claimed his parents and necessitated his teenage sister to take full guardianship of him. We’re both scarred. And not simply on the surface, because he has some pretty hefty scars internally, as do I. And as for my mother, why ever would she come into the equation? I can’t stand her, I don’t want her opinion, I can’t abide her in my life and I wish I’d never even known her. So no, I'm not going there.

This absurdity of being worried about the cosmetics of how this may pan out is not lost on me, and I feel an internal chuckle bubble up to spite me in this desperate situation, especially as my mind takes the random opportunity to remember the incident with my childhood friend Katherine not long not long into Silas’ and my ‘friendship’, and had taken him and his friend Hank on a shopping expedition into town, and the conversation I had with Silas afterward about fake people. And now of course I’m remembering that entire situation in detail and what I had said to her and how Silas and Hank had played along about threesomes and how the two men apparently shared me. The memory is pleasant and it leaves me flushing warmly.

Damn, perhaps these drugs have affected me more than I’m willing to admit, because now I’m struggling to breathe in the regulated rhythm I had just established, and I really need to in order to keep myself from bursting out in a fit of laughter. This is absurd.

Settle down Isobelle.

I need to focus. I need to swallow down this ridiculous moment and stop myself from trying to laugh. I need to recognize the danger I’m in and work out what I can do to get myself out of it. I need to harden up and stop the giggling. This is stupid, I’m being stupid.

My body shudders as I force my internal foolishness out of me, despite my inability to actually move.

Now, if I could just see the area immediately around me, I may understand his need to keep me so tightly bound, but that too is impossible on the account I have a blindfold over my eyes.

I’m almost certain that it’s more than simple incapacitation here. I mean, I’m in some fairly deep shit here, and it is this realization that sees my focus return completely.

Mentally I scan and feel my way down my body, trying not to focus on the peripherally painful areas, just to feel if I can tell whether or not my body has been tampered with while I’ve been under. I’m not sure… perhaps the sheet draped over me gives me a sense of safety and therefore false security, yet despite the feeling that I haven’t been intimately touched in any deliberate way; my guess is I’m positioned on this bed in a very deliberate way. I’m guessing and somewhat hoping that he’s merely been a tourist and observed from a distance rather than touching and... Oh... this grosses me out completely, but I need to maintain my focus. So, I’m not going to dwell on it because I simply don’t need to waste my time thinking about what he’s doing or has done. I don’t need the image and I don’t need the delay such thoughts mean in planning my escape. However, the rage inside me at possibly being used in any depraved way is bubbling away like trapped magma in a dormant volcano, and I do know that part of my plan will be to take this asshole down, preferably with violence involved as my anger spews forth in an emotional pyroclastic flow.

The third, last and most important thing I’m extremely grateful for in this moment is Silas.

How could I not be grateful for discovering the other half of me? The missing piece in my puzzle that means I’m whole when we’re together, because he’s my everything. Through him I found my will to survive, my strength of character returned and my courage restored. I’ve already rejected the idea of failing him in this moment by letting Michael win, and I refuse to fail myself. Silas’ desperate need to protect me, which saw him reintroducing me to techniques to defend myself in ways that don’t include objects, just physical prowess, are key in my planning, and in preventing Michael from having me and keeping me. I will not submit to this asshole. I intend on decimating him since there’s simply no alternative.

Silas’ importance cannot be underestimated. I love him more than I ever knew it was possible to love. I place his value to me far above anyone else’s and I am desperate to get back to him, to feel him hold me, to know he’s beside me and treading the same path that I’m walking. My body aches in ways that have nothing to do with being confined and tied up by the physical restraints keeping me imprisoned in this moment, and everything to do with this enforced distance from the man that has my heart beating in the cradle of his hands and my soul bound to his. I need him and I yearn to return to him so that I can truly breathe again, but also so I can feel complete once again, rather than a fractured collection of particles that masquerade as a person. It is what I had been for so long before I met Silas, and in this situation I find myself, I feel the loss of him acutely and once again feel like I’m at risk of impersonating a human being, because my heart and soul are wherever he is. All that is truly left are the functional components; but I gather my thoughts and functional components and begin to tease out the fabric of this situation and strategize, because Silas will not be handling this well. I have no illusions about how Silas’ mind will be processing this situation. I know he’ll take this hard.

I’ve been forcibly removed from our bedroom, from the bed that we shared for at least the moment in our quest to be away from my stalker. I’ve been abducted from his sister’s home, and this has all happened despite the intense structure of protection and security both he and Ben had put in place. So of course he’ll be suffering, knowing that I’ve been taken by this bastard that has