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My padre squeezes my shoulders and then drops his hand from me, making my heart race.
I want so fucking badly to turn around, but I don’t, I won’t, that will show fear, and there is no room inside me for fear. I need to be numb. I need to be everything he needs me to be.
This day was coming. I knew it was. The sooner we get this over with, the sooner I can get to work and be the mostro I was always meant to be.
Michael moves from the corner of the room. Right now, he is my Padre’s enforcer, but he won’t be for long. That position is fucking mine. He stops in front of me and grabs my shoulders, ensuring I can’t move.
I close my eyes, and when the whip tears into my back, I lose my breath. The blades on the end dig into my skin, making me scream when my Padre pulls it back, ripping through my flesh.
I bow my head as my Padre cracks the whip again and again. And again, until the only thing I can hear is my screams, my body is shaking, and I can feel the blood rolling down my back. Every strike caused the knives to go deeper and deeper into my back.
I don’t know how long I was in this position or how many times he whipped me, but all of a sudden, my Padre stopped. Michael releases my shoulders, and I fall forward with my hands firmly on the bloody floor in front of me. I feel the blood covering my back, the smell taking over my nose.
My heart is beating so fast I can hear it in my ears as the tears escape my eyes and drop into the blood, mixing in, becoming one.
Mostro.
Mostro.
That is all I am now.
I wipe the tears from my face and grab the alcohol bottle and the cloth. I turn around, return to the couch, and kneel before her. She is in the same position, looking at the same spot on the other side of the room as she was when I went into the kitchen. She is staring right at me, but she is far away, so fucking far away.
“We all have scars, Bambino,” I whisper.
She doesn’t respond as I start to clean her hands.
“My Padre thought I was weak and soft, so when I was thirteen, he chained me to the basement floor and whipped me. The whip had sharp blades on the end. He said he wanted me to be a mostro, so he created the mostro that night,” I whisper in a shaky voice. Even though it was my choice, even though I didn’t fight him, it changed me, just like I know her scars have changed her.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers in a distant, sad voice.
I freeze for a moment and look up at her. Her eyes are deadlocked onto me as more tears fall down her face. I set down the cloth and sit up on my knees, my hands planted firmly on the couch on either side of her. She sits back on the couch. I stop when my lips are almost touching hers.
“Don’t apologize, Nicoletta,” I whisper, looking into her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers again, an automatic response to those fuckers. I look into her eyes. They trained her, broke her in that basement, and educated her on being a slave. I can see it in her eyes now. She still feels, still acts as if she is enslaved. A fucking sex slave.
“You are my equal in every way. Inside this house, you are my slut, my whore, my everything, but out there,” I point towards the door, “you are my equal, my queen, do you understand?” I ask softly but firmly.
She nods.
“Don’t apologize. You are a queen,” I reassure her. She needs to fucking hear the words, those men, they lied, they fucking lied. She is my everything. I will help her. I will help her to fucking understand that they lied. I will do whatever I have to do to help her become free of those fuckers that whisper inside her head and take her away from me.
“I don’t feel like one Christian,” she confesses in a sad, shamed voice, making my heart stop.
“You will, Bellissimo,” I whisper.
I slowly stand up and pull down my sweatpants. Her breathing increases as she looks down and sees the branding on my inner thigh. She leans in and gently brushes her fingertips over my skin. I bite down on my lip as my dick hardens, her fucking touch.
“Yours is like mine,” she states softly.
“Yes” is the only word I can say.
I pull up my sweatpants as I kneel between her legs. I wrap my arms tightly around her, keeping her in place. She lifts her hand and places it against my face, and I lean into her touch. I need to feel her, need her to understand that we are the same, not in every way but in the ways that matter. We are one and the same.
“You’re my monster,” she whispers.
I search her eyes for a moment as I lean the rest of the way, connecting my lips. She opens her mouth, allowing my tongue to enter. A growl leaves me as I push her back onto the couch. She grabs my hips as I lower myself on top of her, my hand resting on the back of the couch, keeping my weight off her.
