Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 53880 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 269(@200wpm)___ 216(@250wpm)___ 180(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 53880 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 269(@200wpm)___ 216(@250wpm)___ 180(@300wpm)
I’m not sure how long we’re going to wait in this room, but finally the butler approaches Bryant and says, “They just pulled up, sir.”
Bryant nods and says, “Tell the chef to begin. I want dinner served promptly despite their tardiness. The quicker we can get this night over with, the better.”
I remain quiet, wondering if Bryant is going to give me my marching orders for the night, but he hasn’t said a single word since we’ve been waiting. I wish I knew the rules of the game. I wish he would tell me what his expectations are. I wish I got anything at all. I feel as if I’m entering a dark cave with no direction or light to guide my way.
I could ask… but…
Two men enter the room, a feeling of arrogance oozing off of them. They don’t seem to be the least concerned that they are over twenty minutes late and have been keeping us waiting. They aren’t winded, frazzled, or even offering apologies. They prance into the room as if we should be happy they are even here to begin with. The empath in me can feel the rage sizzle off my father’s body. I could be wrong since I’ve just met this man, but I’m pretty sure he’s furious and barely controlling his anger from erupting.
“Bryant,” the Sidorov I recognize from Italy begins. “This is my nephew, Pavel Sidorov.”
He motions to the skinny man—if you call the boy standing next to him a man—who simply stands and doesn’t make a move to greet my father in any way. The skinny man-boy is tall, sharp features on his face, and frankly appears to be no older than eighteen. He even has a thin line of acne where his hairline meets his forehead. Pavel darts his eyes to me, but then quickly looks away. I can’t tell if it’s because he doesn’t like what he sees or because my very presence makes him uncomfortable. I can’t blame him for being uncomfortable, however. Arranged marriages are not the norm and there isn’t exactly a rule book to describe how to act.
I hear Bryant release a deep breath as he reaches his hand out to shake Pavel’s. “Welcome, Pavel.”
Pavel hesitates as his eyes examine Bryant’s extended hand. It’s almost as if he hasn’t been groomed on proper etiquette. But as if someone had just kicked him in the back, he shoots out his hand awkwardly and shakes. I imagine his palm is clammy and limp. I’m starting to imagine a lot of him is clammy and limp. Disgust is slowly rolling over me as I realize that this man is supposed to be the man I’ll marry.
“This is Lyriope,” Bryant introduces. I notice he doesn’t say “my daughter” or make any acknowledgement that I’m related to him at all.
Thankfully, Pavel doesn’t reach out his hand to shake mine, and I sure as hell am not going to be the first. Instead, his eyes briefly connect with mine as he gives a quick nod. I do the same, not sure what else to do.
Finally, not able to avoid the inevitable, my eyes narrow in on the man I recognize from Italy.
I only know him as Sidorov. No one has used his first name.
But this is the man who hurt me.
He hurt me.
He strikes me hard across the cheek. “I don’t care who your daddy is, or whose whore you are. You better mind the way you speak to me.”
I shake my head slowly, keeping the fake smile painted on my face, not revealing that his slap stung like a bitch. “You should care.”
I don’t know where I’m getting all this courage. But I know that if I have any chance of surviving, I have to present myself as one of them. I have to dance in their shadows right along with them to earn this man’s respect. If I cry and grovel, I know he’ll not go easier on me. In fact, I know my tears will make his dick hard, and he’ll fuck me rather than grill me for information. If I’ve learned anything at all from Nick, it’s how to put on that fake smile and exude power even if it’s as far away as possible from what I’m actually feeling.
Reaching for a small knife in his belt, the man cuts a line through my shirt and into my chest, a thin line of blood staining the lacy material of my bra. The cut isn’t deep, but I know it’s meant to scare me. He stares at me directly in the eyes, assessing, waiting for me to cry out in pain, to beg for him to stop his torture and have mercy on me.
I refuse to give him the satisfaction, remaining silent, barely flinching as the blade cuts into my skin even though the fire sizzles along my flesh.