Stolen Mafia Bride by Mae Doyle

Tess

Ihonestly can’t believe what the fuck just happened. I feel like my body just betrayed me.

After Marcelo leaves, I sit on the counter for a moment, doing my best to catch my breath, but it feels like all of the air in the room has been sucked out. Grabbing my knees, I dip my head down, trying to breathe, trying to hide from the shame that I feel washing over me.

What the fuck was I thinking? Sure, I whispered ‘no’…or tried to…but I didn’t exactly do anything to try to stop him from...going down on me.

Even thinking the words for what he just did to me fills me with shame. Tears fall down my cheeks but I don’t even bother to wipe them away. I have no idea how the hell this is my life, and no idea what I did to deserve all of this, but I have to fix it. I have to get out of here and away from Marcelo.

Somehow.

I’ve never actually been wanted in my entire life, and it doesn’t make sense that he would be the man to want me now. It’s also not fucking fair. Grabbing my thigh, I dig my fingernails into the skin until little half-moons appear, then suck in a deep breath.

The foster families that I lived with sure as hell never wanted me. I was like a fucking hot potato, passed off from family to family as soon as they got tired of dealing with me. Kristen is the only person who’s ever really been a constant in my life, but now Marcelo tells me that she isn’t going to be looking for me.

How the hell is it fair that the one person who seems to actually want me is my fucking kidnapper?

I slip from the counter and lean into the shower, turning on the hot water. While steam fills the bathroom I take off my bra, throwing it on the floor with the rest of my clothes.

Hopefully the hot water will wash me clean. I don’t even give a shit if it scalds me, as long it rinses the dirty feeling away. Stepping into the water, I gasp. My skin turns red almost immediately from the heat of the water, but I don’t make a move to turn it any cooler.

I deserve the pain if I’m going to act the way that I just did.

Taking a deep breath, I turn around, letting the water run down my skin. It courses over my collarbones and down my chest just the same way that Marcelo had trailed his fingers along my body. The thought makes me shiver, even though the water is as hot as it can possibly go.

What was wrong with me? I shouldn’t have enjoyed him touching me. Hell, I shouldn’t have let him touch me, but after he spread my legs for him, it wasn’t like I was fighting him very damn hard. My fingers trace the same path that his did, moving from my neck, across my collarbone, and then finally along the swell of my breasts.

When my breathing catches in my throat I open my eyes and drop my hand, turning to grab some shampoo. Never before has my heart slammed this hard in my chest. Never have I felt the ghosts of someone’s hands on me like this.

“You need to get your shit together,” I tell myself. “He’s your fucking kidnapper and a murderer, not your knight in shining armor.”

All my life I’ve wondered how the hell women fall victim to Stockholm Syndrome. It makes no sense. If someone hurts you and takes away your freedom then the last thing that you should do is want them.

But isn’t that exactly what I just did? I ran my fingers through his hair and held him close to me.

The memory makes me shiver. His tongue, rough and demanding against my clit, made me cum harder than any vibrator ever has. I don’t want to tell him that he’s the first man to go down there, but I can’t help but wonder if somehow he already knows.

Angrily, I wash up and do my best to push the thought from my mind. The absolute best thing that I could do right now is focus on how the hell I’m going to get out of here. It’s one thing to make a mistake once, like I just did, but another thing entirely to stop trying to get out and just allow myself to make mistake after mistake.

That thought in mind, I grab the collar again, pulling hard. It doesn’t fucking budge, but I don’t cry. I’m pissed more than anything. I pull again, my fingers searching for any weak spot that would allow me to unhook it.

Nothing. Fucking nothing. Whatever psychopath made this knew what the fuck he was doing. I can’t get it off, but that doesn’t mean that I can’t get away.

One of the foster families I lived with had a Dalmatian named Radar. That dog was an utter asshole, but there was one trick that he learned that I can use.

The neighbors were too cheap to put up a physical fence, and had installed an electric one instead. At first, Radar stayed in the boundaries just like he was supposed to, but he learned pretty quickly that if he wanted to escape all he had to do was hold his head at a certain angle when running over the wire for the electric fence. This kept the little box that would zap him from touching his skin and he could make it through without getting shocked.

I feel the collar again. It’s one smooth ring. I have no idea if there is a section that delivers the shock or if the entire thing does, but right now that’s my best option for trying to get the fuck out of here. I know that it sounds crazy, but I’m willing to give it a shot.

All I have to do is turn my head as I run through the front door and I might be able to get out in one piece. Maybe.

Leaning forward, I rest my forehead on the shower wall as hot water streams down my back. I’m not the type of person who likes to sit back and wait to see what will happen in the future. Even when my future was uncertain, I’ve always liked to have a plan.

And now I have one for getting the fuck out of here. I have no idea if it’s going to work or if I’m going to regret trying, but I don’t feel like I have a choice.

If that doesn’t work, then I have another plan for getting the fuck out of here. It won’t be easy and it sure as hell won’t be fun, but I’m determined to make it the fuck out of here.

I’ll kill Marcelo Bonanno.

And if this fucking collar still won’t let me out, I’ll burn down the entire house.