Rosalind
Hysterical laughter bubbles up in me as Rafe stands over me, watching as I eat.
The shit in front of me is some kind of stew full of kale and vegetables and bland as all hell. I force in another mouthful and then put the spoon down on the vanity-where I have to eat, as there’s no table here.
The vanity sits in a closet with a pair of white Mary Janes, a drawer of cotton panties and bras, ankle socks, a baby doll nightdress, and an endless supply of dresses that are all the fucking same button up, demure, white numbers.
At least they aren’t pink.
“I’m done.”
He doesn’t say a word as he takes the tray and leaves, locking the door behind him. I slump, even as that horrible, hysterical laughter bubbles again.
I’ve been here two days, locked in this room, Mr. Granite as my only company. I get fed on schedule. Day one, I refused, and he explained the ways in which I could eat, including-and I’m not kidding-being forced by him or with a feeding tube.
Who would have thought I’d long for Nikolai’s prison? I take a shuddering breath, bored out of my mind. Misery eats at me, along with fear.
Mostly, I’m alone, which suits me. If I can’t get out, then alone is best.
Still, I know I won’t be alone for long.
When I shower, I dry and put my dress back on immediately. I sleep in the thing. I don’t want someone else touching me, not unless it’s Nikolai.
I squeeze my eyes shut. What is wrong with me?
The man isn’t here, and he took me captive as well, but he…he touched me, made me ache with want, gave me so much pleasure.
He-
I go still. A key scrapes in the lock, and slowly, I stand and turn. The light at the door turns from red to green, and I move, then falter to a stop.
It’s not Rafe. It’s… I swallow hard. It’s the man who took me. He stares at me as I narrow my eyes.
“You called my mother a whore,” I spit, the words spilling from me without thought.
“I’ve called that pathetic cunt a lot worse,” he sneers.
Dark hot rage sweeps through me. It surges like a tidal wave, all consuming. It’s like nothing I’ve ever felt, and it takes me over.
“Bastard.”
“Cunt whore.”
I hate him, more than I’ve hated anything or anyone, and I don’t think, don’t breathe. I just launch myself across the floor and start hitting him, scratching. The only thing in my mind is hate and rage, the need for revenge. My fist connects with his face and my whole arm goes numb as he grabs it, wrenching it back, pulling me off him like I’m a fly.
He laughs-laughs-then punches me in the stomach so hard, I think I’m going to hurl. Pain ricochets through my body in resounding waves. He flings me back and I fall, landing hard on my ass, and my eyes sting with unshed tears.
I try to rise, but I fall back again as a memory hits me. I don’t know where it’s from, but it’s there, so bright and vivid that the wave of sickness comes back. It’s almost deja vu.
I’m so small when he laughs, hurting my arm and punching me in the tummy. I’m sick and my mommy is screaming and going for him, but he punches her in the face.
He looks at me then and says-
“Be a good little girl, Thorne.”
I stare up at him, hurting everywhere: heart, soul, body. The hate is still there, a surge in my blood. He’s said that to me before, back when I was a little girl.
The memory is new, old, and so wrong it’s right. It’s wrong in the way terrible things that happen are. You don’t want them, but they happened, so they’re true.
He’s hit me before, when I was a child. He said those words, too.
I swallow hard and look up. Using every bit of my strength, I push forward, grabbing at the bed to help me. The darkness is ugly on his face.
“My name is Rosalind.”
He laughs and shakes his head. “It’s not. It’s Thorne.” That laughter, as cold, ugly, hard as his soul, stops, and he takes a step towards me.
It takes everything I have, everything I didn’t know I possessed, not to step back. Instead, I raise my chin and meet his gaze.
He sneers. “That defiance will fade. I’ll beat it out of you if I have to. I fucking tried with your mother, but a whore is a whore. Probably fucked that prick, Wilder, too.”
My heart slams, and I almost lurch as my vision wavers.
The man comes in closer. “What?” He smirks as he picks up a lock of my hair, twisting it viciously around his finger and yanking. “You thought you were the only one that bastard sank his tiny little dick into? A dumb whore is the worst whore. I’ve half a mind to let my men really show you want a man can do.”
“Rape?” I push it out.
His eyes narrow. They’re blue like mine, but ice cold. They’re familiar in a strange way, and my stomach lurches.
“Of you? No. You love to spread those legs, don’t you? We both know all the things you did with that weasel, Wilder. I should let them have you, destroy you and leave you as their little rag to use at the end of the day. I think you’d love that, wouldn’t you, Thorne? You might be mine, but you’re pure slut like your mother. That urge to put out to anyone with a dick ran deep in her and I couldn’t stop her.”
My head spins and I think…I think I’m going to be sick. Bile and vomit burn thick in my throat, but I swallow it down, the bitterness, the heat, wave after wave of nausea because I’m not giving him the satisfaction.
I hate him.
I despise him.
This is different to any other violent emotion I’ve felt. It’s huge, so strong, hot, with ice deep in the center, like a permafrost.
“If you’d kept your slutty instincts under control, you’d be worth so much more. Maybe even a place at my side.”
“Never. You sick-”
“Careful, Thorne,” he warns, taking another step and lifting his hand. “Be very careful. I’m not above making you as ugly as your soul. I’d love to see you broken and bleeding and understanding your place in this world.”
I keep my mouth shut, no matter how much I want to spew anger and hate at him, to call him a bastard, prick, coward, sick fuck.
He will hurt me if I do. Maybe not now, but he will. It’s there, in his eyes, the set of his mouth, the way the vein at the side of his throat throbs.
He wants to hurt me.
It’s terrifying, like pee your pants and run terrifying.
I change tact. “Why?”
The softness of my voice makes him blink. “Your bitch of a mother stole you from me, Thorne. And you…” He stops. “You deserve it. Her blood is in your veins. The only thing that saves you is that it’s not just your mother there.”
“Then let me go. I’m not useful to you. You hate me, just like…” I do you. I swallow those words down. “Just like you hate her.”
He waves a hand. “That’s the past. We have a future to focus on: yours. Pity you handed it out. Your virginity was powerful. I could have shaped you, married you to the best of the crime world. Then you could have ruled with your husband by my side. Fuck, even if you gave it to some random boy, there would’ve been ways around it.
“But no. You had to sully yourself with him. All I can do now is marry you off to the highest bidder, for a deal I need. You’re fucking lucky-this man doesn’t care that you’re used goods now. He’s seen your picture and says you’re pretty enough.”
My chin trembles a little against my will, and the small, tight smirk on his face when he sees it riles me further.
He thinks the tremble is because he’s won, but it’s not that. This is pure, unadulterated hate.
He hurt you and Mommy. The little girl’s voice from my past, the past I don’t remember except in dreams and these new memories, is there, whispering at me to run, to fight and strike out, to try and right all the wrongs that sit somewhere in my bones.
“What’s done is done.” His gaze rakes over me. “The dress looks good, but when you meet your fiance, I want you fresh and pretty. Demure. Can you be demure?”
I keep my mouth shut.
“You know, I’m doing this for you. We never really met officially. You were too small to remember, but I’m your father. You can call me Daddy, or Sir, whichever you prefer.”
What he’s saying shouldn’t be a shock, but it is. It’s a massive slap to the face. I almost reel back at the force of his words.
It’s one thing to have memories slipping in and out, another to be standing in front of him, this horrible man, to hear the words when my head’s clear.
My father.
My stomach roils violently, and I clutch at it.
“Nothing to say? Dear?” The last word is a sneer and it pokes at me. “You look at me like I’m your enemy. You’re a Finnegan, my kin. You’re not a Wilder. His dick made you feel that good? Pathetic.”
“You don’t know anything,” I say. “Nikolai is worth a thousand of you. I fucking hate you. If I could, I’d kill-”
The blow to my face sends me skittering down to the floor, numbness and pain spreading across my cheek. My ears ring, and I see double as tears sting my eyes. I blink them back and try to breathe.
“You fucking little bitch. Don’t you dare speak to me like that. Don’t mention his cursed name.” He stands over me, spittle flying as I stare up. “You think he likes you? Everything you know about your life, about him, is a lie. He fucking used you to get at me. He doesn’t want you, and you? You will do everything I want, when I want.” “No.”
He stares at me incredulously. “No?”
I stare back, like some kind of terrible cold and deadly war. God, I want to kill him. The rage and hate in me are insurmountable. I hate that I can’t do anything to him; he’s bigger and stronger in every way.
I can’t do anything yet, I amend. I’ll find a way. The clarity of the moment sears into me. He’s the reason I couldn’t have a real life, the reason Mom was so jumpy, always on the run. He was why she was so worn out when she thought I wasn’t looking.
He’s the reason all this has happened to me. How I feel for him is like the purest glass: there’s nothing there, no complications, no regrets, no second guessing. No, there’s only hate and anger.
“No.”
He nods. “You will. You’re lucky I need you to look good for your fiance. He has certain tastes. Maybe you’ll enjoy them, but I’m betting even something as slutty as you won’t.”
Without a word, this man, my father, turns and leaves. I try and rise, but I can’t. When the door opens again, the man of granite, Rafe, is there.
“Ms. Finnegan, I can’t protect you if you act stupid. He’s a dangerous man, your father, and you’re about to learn a lesson in that.” I look at him, one hand on the bed. “I think I just did.”
“Not that.” He holds something up: a syringe. “This is punishment. You’re going to be drugged every day.” He crouches and takes my arm. His expression is as blank and hard as it was when I first met him. With a quick glance at the door, his voice lowers. “But first, look under the bed. That’s your secret. Your message.”
I frown and look, and there it is: a beautiful rose, with thorns, just like the ones Nikolai gave me.
Something pinches my arm, and a coldness starts to spread. Things waver and go black.