Page 6 of Stolen Vows
Neither of us moves again. My feet feel like they’re stuck in concrete.
I’m so fucked.
A smirk plays at one corner of his mouth, and he lifts a hand. The black leather glove is rough as he reaches to cup my cheek, sliding his thumb under my chin and angling my face upward.
“Just how far does your inexperience go?”
My pulse hammers inside my neck, and I think if he glanced down, he’d be able to see the vein trying to jump out of my skin. Luckily—or maybe unluckily—he keeps his stare on mine.
“Hello?” he prods, pursing his lips in amusement. “Have you ever been kissed,stellina?”
At my sides, my hands ball into fists. I can’t seem to help myself. “Why is that any of your business? Afraid you won’t compare?” The words come from my lips involuntarily, slicing through the tension between us. Only, instead of clearing the haze, it allows something heavier—headier—to fill in the gaps.
“Stella,” Papà hisses from behind me.
Leopoldo just grins.
His grip on my jaw tightens, and something sinister flares in his irises. “Would you tell me if I was better?”
“Than the others?” I shrug one shoulder, feigning nonchalance. The razor blade slides up a little, and I press it back down with my tongue. I wonder if it looks as odd as it feels to talk with it there. “I’d tell you if you were worse.”
“Others—plural?” Leopoldo tsk-tsks, then glances at my father. “Does ‘untouched’ mean something else to you, Ricci?”
I can practically hear Papà sweating. “I assure you, De Tore, I?—”
With his free hand, Leopoldo cuts Papà off, and his eyes dart back to mine. They’re cold, solid granite, yet a liquid heat bubbles at the edges, too. “No matter. I suppose the details are hardly important at this point.”
His breath is minty as he leans in, pausing mere inches from my mouth. I can’t seem to concentrate on one part of him: The gloved hand holding my head still and yet somehow burning me through the leather. Or maybe it’s the icy warmth in his gaze, or the outline of his plush lips as they edge closer.
Everything blurs together in a cyclone of lust and resentment, causing me to remain immobile even after I realize he’s waiting on me.
Still, I can’t make myself move. I don’t know if it’s fear or embarrassment or just a deep-seated desire to do the opposite of what he wants, but as my body absolutely refuses to cooperate, I know it can’t be self-preservation.
Leopoldo’s likely planning where he’ll dispose of my body with every agonizing second that creeps by.
He slides one hand back, threading his large fingers through my hair. For a moment, he focuses solely on the tresses, a faraway look in his eyes. “You’re quite beautiful,” he notes, finally bringing his dark stare back to mine. “Your hair is lovely. Complements you well.”
My jaw slackens, and I try to ignore the furious blush crawling up my skin. I say nothing, unsure of what to do with that information.
“It’s official, whether you kiss me or not,” he says, gently tugging at my roots. “Might as well pretend you had some say in the matter.”
Obedience is something ingrained in the women of this world. From birth, we’re bound by tradition and violence, often born to men who care more about the business they conduct than the fact they’re ruining their daughters.
Or maybe that’s why they do it. Because to them, we’re nothing but pawns in the game of life. We’re valued, but not as sentient beings—asproperty.
The longer I stand here, staring at Leopoldo, the more I realize that coming here was a mistake. While I expected this outcome, I suppose a part of me was also hoping my father would try to stop it—or at the very least acknowledge the great sacrifice I was making by doing this for him.
Property doesn’t make sacrifices, though. Its sole purpose on this planet is to increase the value of whoever owns it, and right now, these men own me in every way.
The only way for me to take back who I am is to force my own choices into the fray.
I can’t necessarily change what’s happening, but I can control how I react to it.
I can control how it affects me. What he gets from me.
So, even though I don’t know what I’m doing, I reach up to grip Leopoldo’s designer lapels and yank his face down to mine.
4
