Stolen Mafia Bride by Mae Doyle

Tess

Ihonestly thought that it couldn’t get worse, but I was wrong.

I have a fucking collar around my neck and can’t leave the house without getting shocked, but I had a plan. I was going to angle my head to keep from getting shocked and make a run for it, and what did I do instead?

Fucked up a sofa and some art. It’s not exactly the best way to make a splash when you’re trying to escape from an utter psychopath, and now things have gotten much, much worse.

Marcelo dumps me on a mattress in the corner of a room. Immediately, I bounce to my feet, turning to say something to him, but he holds up his hand to stop me. I could talk over him, but something in his presence demands that I listen and I clamp my mouth shut.

Hatred and embarrassment wash over me. I dropped my blanket, the one thing that was preventing him from being able to really look at my body, and now I feel totally exposed to him. Marcelo glances at me, but his eyes don’t linger on my form long before they snap right back up to my face.

“This is your room now,” he tells me, leaning against the door casually, like a bouncer at a busy club. His body language lets me know that I’m not going to get past him and that I better not even try because he will happily knock me on my ass if I do. “You live here until you prove to me that you can be tamed.”

“I’m not a wild animal,” I spit, probably doing more to prove his point than mine.

“Oh, but you are, Kitten.” Marcelo crosses the room to me and lightly cups my cheek. “You’re a wild animal who has always had to fend for yourself. And for the first time in your life you don’t have to, and I think because of that you don’t know what to do with yourself. It’s okay, Kitten. I’ve got you.”

“I don’t want you to have me,” I say, hitting his chest with my fist. Unfortunately, he’s solid muscle and I bounce right off of him. I don’t think that I could hurt him if I really tried.

“Tough shit. I’ll be back at dinner. Don’t do anything stupid.” He glances around the room like he’s making sure that there isn’t anything that I could get into. Then, before I can come up with a retort or try to stop him, he’s gone. The door shuts with a loud thud and I run to it, slamming my fists onto it.

“Fuck you, Marcelo!” I scream, throwing myself at the door. It doesn’t have a handle and I claw uselessly at the frame like I’m actually going to be able to pull the door open and escape. I know that there’s no way out, and I turn, tears streaming down my face, to look at my new accommodations.

They’re tiny. In fact, most of the space is taken up by the mattress on the floor in the corner. There is a window, but it’s high up on the wall and I immediately notice the bars across it to keep me from trying to get out. Even if I could reach the window and pull myself up, there’s no chance in hell that I’d be able to squeeze through the bars.

And even if I did, then what? Fall from the third floor down to the ground before trying to escape from this massive estate in the middle of fucking nowhere?

The tears come faster and I wipe them away angrily. They’re not helping me escape and I hate that I feel so weak crying like this. Walking over to the mattress, I give it an experimental kick. It seems clean, but I hate the fact that it’s bare and that I don’t have any clothes or blankets to warm up in.

An open door on one side of the room leads into a bathroom and I walk in tentatively, knowing full well that this one isn’t going to be anywhere near as nice as the one that I used before. I’m right. I groan when I see the small sink, tub, and toilet. There is a rug on the floor, fluffy and white, and it looks clean enough. Grabbing it, I throw it onto the mattress before I sit down on it.

I don’t know what the fuck to do.

I honestly thought, given enough time, that I’d ether be able to escape from Marcelo or convince him to let me go, but there’s no chance of either or those happening now that I’m locked up in a fucking cell. No fucking way.

With a sigh, I collapse backwards onto the mattress. The fact that this room reminds me so much of a few of the foster homes that I lived in—and one in particular—when I was younger makes my stomach twist. There’s no way for Marcelo would know that, right?

I mean, he’d have to be an even bigger monster than I thought if he was willing to put together this space just to remind me of my old foster families.

Fear rises up in me and I sit up, grabbing at my throat. This isn’t that room, though. I’m not twelve years old and back in that house. It may feel like it, and it may look like it, but they’re gone. I was taken away. The state made sure that I had a new family.

Standing, I gasp for air. I know that it’s silly, but just being in a room that reminds me of that house I lived in is enough to make me sick. I want to get out of here, and I run to the door, banging on it again.

“Marcelo!” My throat is tight as I scream out his name. “Marcelo! I’m sorry! Don’t do this! Don’t do this to me!” Sucking in a breath, I sob, then feel the vomit rising at the back of my throat. It burns and I try to hold it back so that I can get to the bathroom, but I don’t make it.

Bending over, I grab my thighs, squeezing hard as I release the contents of my stomach onto the floor. It hurts. Everything is all twisted up in my stomach and I want to die.

I wanted to die then, too, back then. It was only when I started acting out so much that my foster mother got rid of me. That caused a fight, because he didn’t want me to go. My foster father didn’t want his little plaything to disappear.

“No,” I mumble, stumbling over to the mattress. Just the sight of it there on the floor makes me sick again, but I don’t have the energy to keep fighting to get out of here. I had to do that once in my life and it took too long for anyone to help me.

I thought that I could escape from this house, but this room is too much. I honestly don’t know if I can make it out of here.

Not this room.

Not again.