Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 78044 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78044 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
I blink, then widen my eyes. “I wasn’t done in there.”
“If you want a prostitute I’ll get you one. A clean one.” He shakes his head, shifts his gaze to his suit jacket, the disgust unmistakable. “I’m going to have to burn this suit.”
“You need to lighten up, Uncle.” I swig more of my whiskey.
“Is that from tonight?” He gestures to the bottle.
I look at it. Note how little liquid is left inside it. I nod.
“Christ.” He shakes his head, glances at my ring finger. “What’s the matter, Cristiano? Trouble in paradise? And on your wedding night?”
“None of your business,” I say, suddenly remembering I’d put my mom’s ring in my pocket. I feel for it and I’m relieved to find it’s still there.
“It becomes my business when I get a call at two in the morning telling me you’re wasted in just about the seediest strip club in town.”
I lay my head back against the seat. “I’m tired.”
He sighs. “She’s not worth getting upset over. Certainly not this upset.”
“I said I’m tired.”
“Fine. We’ll talk in the morning when you’re sober. I just hope this night straightens you out. You let that whore turn your head—”
My hand is around his throat in an instant. I’m not even sure how I move that fast, considering, but I’m squeezing, fuming.
“You do not call her that.”
He sputters, one hand around my forearm, face reddening. The car comes to a screeching stop.
“You. Do. Not. Fucking. Call. Her. That.”
I’m not sure which comes first then. The cocking of a pistol or the cold steel against my throat.
34
Scarlett
It’s so quiet, it’s almost eerie. I look up at the ceiling, watching steam rise from my bath. I hear a drop of water fall into the tub. That’s it. That’s the only sound. And it feels somehow wrong.
The bedroom door opens. I turn my head, but from this angle I can’t see who it is. It’s quiet again. Like whoever opened the door just walked away.
“Cristiano?” I ask quietly, sitting up, drawing my knees toward my chest.
He doesn’t answer. No one does, but if I listen closely, I hear footsteps in the living room, then whispers. Men’s whispers. Soldiers?
No.
Not soldiers.
Ice coats my spine when I hear his voice. He shouldn’t be here. Cristiano wouldn’t allow him to be here.
Would he? He wouldn’t do that to me, would he?
I look around for a robe, a towel. Something to cover myself, but his footsteps become more pronounced. He’s not trying to be quiet. The opposite.
He’s in the bedroom so I remain in the tub, my arms hugging my knees to my chest.
And then he’s leaning against the doorway. He cocks his head to the side. When I try to swallow, my throat closes up.
I don’t want to show fear. But I am afraid.
If I’m honest, I’ve always been afraid of him. I just lied to myself when I said I wasn’t, because sometimes you need to lie to yourself to survive.
“Scarlett,” he says, walking into the bathroom, eyes roaming my body. He sits on the edge of the tub and extends the arm that’s not in the sling into the water, fingers skimming it, not touching me but creating a ripple. “Where’s your groom?”
Relief. Cristiano didn’t send him. But that relief is short-lived.
“He’ll be right back,” I say.
“Hm. I don’t think he will.” His gaze moves to my breasts, which are fairly well hidden by my legs. He tilts his head, touching my knee. I resist, water splashing as he pries a knee open to have a good look.
“I thought you only liked little girls, Uncle.”
He drags his gaze over my body and up to meet mine. “Oh, I’m not looking for myself.”
It takes all I have not to physically shake at his words. I hold his gaze, even though all I can see is him over me, on top of me. All I feel is sweat dripping on me as he grunts. All I feel is him inside me. Hurting me.
God. I’m going to be sick.
“But you’ll still bring in some money. Cartel Princess on the auction block. Do you know how many enemies your brothers made? Just imagine the ways they can punish you for their wrongs.”
“Where’s Cristiano? What did you do to him?”
He stands up, shakes off his hand and gestures to the two soldiers who come into view. I don’t recognize them.
“Get up.”
“Fuck you.”
“Lift her out.”
They’re on either side of me before I can make a move. Two sets of hands hauling me to my feet, water dripping off me, splashing onto the bathroom floor as I fight. It’s no use, I know.
“Where’s Cristiano?” I yell to my uncle as he stands perusing me.
“Take her.”
One of the soldiers reaches for a towel.
“Like she is,” my uncle instructs, and the soldier only hesitates momentarily before he drops the towel.