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She closed her eyes as she tugged the hemline higher, until her underwear was bare to him.
She broke out in a cold sweat as the old fear—that all-consuming, paralyzing fear—stole over her once more. Her teeth started to chatter. She was so cold. It was well into the eighties and her house wasn’t much cooler, yet she felt as if she were standing in the middle of a frozen wasteland.
Suddenly he was behind her, his breath against her neck, and she nearly doubled over as a wave of nausea rolled through her stomach.
His fingers gripped her arms, and he pulled her back so that she was flush to his long length. He was aroused—she felt his erection against her back and wanted to scream. Wanted his hands off her. Wanted the smell of him out of her body.
“You never dressed like a whore for me.” His hands crept around and he grabbed at her breasts roughly, pinching her nipples through the cotton until she whimpered. “Never wore sexy panties or went braless.”
He ran his tongue along her neck, and she bit her lip, trying her best to keep quiet. She knew the more she struggled, or screamed, or cried—the more excited he got.
“You never wore your hair down or smelled this good.”
Dante seemed to forget that he was the one who’d chosen her wardrobe. Her hairstyle. Hell, he was the one who’d bought her undergarments.
“Do you fuck like a whore now, Maggie?”
His touch made her skin crawl, and it took everything inside her to remain pliant in his arms.
His hand slipped inside the halter top of her dress, and she wanted to die as he ran his thumb over her nipple. As he cupped her breast and squeezed it brutally.
His mouth was near her ear. “I’m going to fuck you, Maggie. Once more for old time’s sake, and then I’m going to take my son, and you will never see him again.”
Dante’s words set off something inside of Maggie—like a pin had been pulled, releasing a rush of emotion. Even though it was the wrong thing to do—she needed to stay calm for Michael—she began to struggle. She kicked and tried to bite his hand, but she was no match for his strength.
He clamped his hand over her mouth and dragged her down the hall toward the back of the house. Toward her bedroom.
She stopped struggling as they passed Michael’s closed door, and though her mind was circling fast, she was losing hope that she’d find a way out.
He yanked on her hair, and she yelped as he threw her onto the bed. Dante was breathing heavily, and the weird fire in his eyes—the one she’d noticed earlier—was brighter, more frantic.
Maggie pushed her hair from her face and stared up at him, her chest heaving as she tried to calm herself.
Dante glared at her and flexed his fingers. “On the floor.”
“Dante, you don’t have to do this.” Oh God, he was going to rape her, and there was nothing she could do to stop him. He’d beaten her in the past, but he’d never forced himself on her.
She was going to be sick.
“Get on the floor.” His hand was on his belt, and she glanced around the room wildly. “And bend over like the bitch you are.”
She froze, and for a moment nothing happened.
Then he growled like an animal and grabbed for her foot. Maggie kicked toward him and tried to scramble away. She didn’t see the fist flying, and when it connected to the side of her skull, for a few seconds she saw stars.
“Mommy!”
Michael’s terrified cry ripped into her soul. Dante turned toward her son, his fist raised, his body thrumming with violence.
Maggie reacted on instinct and grabbed the glass vase full of tulips that was on the nightstand by her bed.
“Michael, run!” she screamed.
Michael’s little white face stared at her in horror. “Run! Now!”
He turned and darted back down the hall, and when Dante would have run after him, Maggie swung the vase with all her might.
She hit him near his shoulder and knocked him off balance, but it wasn’t enough. And as she scrambled forward—her only thought to get between Dante and Michael—he slammed his fist into her stomach.
