Loved

Before you begin reading, I want to warn you that this book will be very dark. If you read the previous books from this series, you will understand what I mean by that. This book has many triggers - abuse (lots of it), human trafficking, child abuse, sexual abuse (on page), body shaming, gaslighting, childhood trauma, non-con, dubious con, drugs, spiked drinks, and many others.

Please, take these warnings very seriously.

My father slams his fist on the table, rage blazing in his eyes.

I dare only a quick glance at him before focusing my attention back on my plate. I don’t look directly at him because my scarred face disgusts him. Everything about me disgusts him. It had been like this my entire life.

Wine spills on the white tablecloth, a red stain spreading across it.

I wince internally, knowing there will be hell to pay for that. Despite trying my best to do as I’m told, I always seem to bring out the worst in him.

“Did you just say ‘no’ to me?” my father asks me in a somewhat calm tone, but I know too well the anger that hides behind it.

Without giving me time to reply, he grabs my upper arm, his fingers digging painfully into my flesh.

“Do you want to spend another week in the cellar?” he snarls.

A wave of pure fear hits me. I hate the cellar–it’s not only cold in there, but there are insects as well.

I shiver at the thought of any of them crawling on me.

Don’t react.

I should have kept quiet. I should have agreed with him. Then, he wouldn’t be so angry at me, and we could all enjoy a peaceful dinner.

His fingers dig deeper. Hurting me. Bruising me. It hurts, but I don’t dare make a sound.

I place my trembling hands in my lap before I start to speak. Or try. I’m so shocked that I start to stutter. “I… I…”

I take a deep breath, trying to focus on each word.

“I, I, I, I,” my father mocks me. “Isla would have never stammered the way you do. Her speech was flawless. Everything about her was flawless.”

Isla.

My younger sister.

The perfect one. The loved one. The one who should have been alive.

He keeps speaking. “She would have never said ‘no’ to me.”

No, she wouldn’t. Isla was the obedient one, while I was the difficult one.

“It should have been you who drowned that day, not her,” he sneers before letting go of my arm and cleaning his hands on a napkin like he touched something foul. “The decision has already been made. You are getting married in two days.” My father’s word is final.

I don’t protest anymore. Not unless I want to make him really mad.

Tears sting my eyes, but I push them back. Crying will only make things worse.

I am going to get married. But I don’t want to. I don’t have a say in it.

My pulse quickens, dark spots flickering at the edges of my vision.

Breathe.

In and out. In and out. Slowly, my heartbeat returns to normal.

That’s it.

Across from me, my step-mother, Narcissa, frowns. “Two days are not enough to buy everything she needs,” she protests.

My father scoffs at that. “She works. She can use her own money to buy what she needs.”

I work part-time at an animal shelter. I don’t get paid a lot, but I love what I’m doing. Plus, the animals don’t judge me for the way I look.

My stepbrother, Rayan, joins the conversation. “She’s marrying into the Bratva. Her new rich husband will surely buy her everything she needs. Isn’t that right, little sister?”

His question catches me off guard, making me look up from my plate. He’s the only one who doesn’t make me look away, claiming that my scars make him sick. Well, not all the time. There are moments when he can’t stand seeing the marks on my face. That’s when he makes me look away.

I can feel my father’s furious gaze upon me. He hates it when people see my scars. He always claims that he’s mocked for having a disfigured daughter, with the face of a monster. That’s why he rarely lets me get out of the house.

Keep your eyes down.

I say nothing as my gaze returns to my food. Knowing that I am going to marry a man whom I’ve never met has made me lose my appetite.

My father sold me to the Bratva. I don’t know why I feel so hurt. Perhaps because I had hoped that he would allow me to continue living here. Despite everything that I endured in this house, it’s my home.

“I don’t need a wedding dress,” I mumble. What I do need is a black dress, because marrying a Bratva man means nothing good. Just a tragedy waiting to unfold. “Can I be excused?” I ask.

“Get out of my sight before I beat you for making me spill wine on the table,” my father snarls at me. “The only reason I’m not doing it is because I don’t want to leave bruises on you so close to your wedding.”

I quickly get up from the table and rush to my room. Once the door is locked, I get in bed, pull the covers over my head, and hug my teddy bear–the one I’ve had since I was a small child. It’s the only thing that makes me feel safe. Inside it, hidden away from everyone, is a small voice recorder. It has only three words memorized, but they mean everything to me because they are from my mother. She died of a rare disease when I was little. I don’t even remember her, but despite it, I love her so very much and miss her every second of the day.

After my mother died, my father was alone for years. Then he met Narcissa.

I was fifteen when my father brought home Narcissa and her son, who was seventeen at the time.  She’s never been awful to me, nor kind either. Most of the time, she pretends I don’t exist. I prefer it that way.

In two days, I’m going to marry a man who’s in the Bratva.

Bratva.

My body suddenly jerks up.

That means that I’m going to Russia.

My breathing quickens. I don’t want to go there. Anywhere but there. Because that’s where Isla died… And… where they live.

I want to stay here, in this house, living as I have up until now.

This is a punishment. My father is sending me there so I’ll never forget what I did.

I struggle to breathe. Not enough air reaches my lungs.

What are the chances that my husband actually lives in the US? Is he a Lord at least? I don’t even know his name or how old he is. I wonder if my scars will disgust him. Will he be kind to me?

So many thoughts race through my head.

I’m starting to hyperventilate.

Breathe.

But I can’t. I’m trying, but my lungs refuse to cooperate.

Three things that you can see.

I focus on objects around my room while trying to take some air in.

The desk.

The window.

The bed.

Two things that you can touch.

My teddy bear.

The covers.

One thing that you can hear.

The wind blowing through the leaves.

The panic attack fades away. I start breathing normally.

You did so well.

I hug Arthur–that is what I named my teddy bear–to my chest before I lie back on the bed. I pull my covers above my head and press the voice recorder hidden inside Arthur.

“I love you,” my mom’s voice whispers to me.

Tears fill my eyes, and this time, I let them fall.