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Hell, I wish I could just go back to those precious few nights in Fiji. Those rare, beautiful days when I actually had my head screwed on straight.
But if I could have my own wishes granted, I sure as shit wouldn’t be sitting in this dim, foul bar reeling in the aftermath of spending more than ten seconds with my own father.
What Icando is do right by Willow. Make her life as easy and joyous as possible. Distract her from the pain of being separated from her mother.
And, hopefully, forever hide the fact thatI’mthe one to blame.
43
CLARA
It’s only been a few days in this place, but it already feels like an eternity.
Master gave me this bedroom shortly after he branded my thigh, acting as if this was some great and wonderful gift he expected me to be excited about. All I could do was wince and whimper.
I thought for sure he would hurt me then and there. But he didn’t.
And he hasn’t. Instead, he’s only come into my room to check my wound and keep the bandage clean. His touch is gentle, and he keeps asking me if it’s still tender. As if he actually cares about my well-being.
He doesn’t. I know for a fact that he doesn’t. Aside from being a sick, perverted bastard who buys women to use as toys, he barely sends me enough food to get through the day. It’s a miracle if he remembers to send water with it. If it weren’t for the small bathroom attached to this bedroom and the tiny sink inside it, I’d be struggling to swallow the dry crusts of toast his men set on the dresser by the door.
I’m not sure what would be worse: forgetting to feed me until my unborn child and I starve to death…
Or giving me far more attention than I want.
I lie on the bed with several decorative pillows stuffed underneath my foot so my burned leg doesn’t rub against the duvet. The canopy bed has mirrors installed in the frame, which means I can easily see the bruises and cuts still on my face from that horrible night.
I shouldn’t have gotten in that car with Demyen.
I should have told him to fuck right the hell off.
My hand smooths over my stomach as I stare at myself in the mirror with another “should” percolating in my head:I should have told him the truth.
Even now, my stupid heart squeezes painfully at the thought of Demyen taking back every hateful word he’s ever said and welcoming our baby into this world with the same warmth and enthusiasm he welcomed Willow with.
Willow…
No. I can’t think of her. I can’t bring her sweet memories into this terrible place. I don’t want the torture Master will put me through to be filled with echoes of my sweet little girl’s laughter.
I grab one of the pillows next to my head, clamp it over my face, and scream.
This time, I scream in rage.
This time, the pain is from deep within.
I hate him. I hate him. I hate him for everything. For being so caring and compassionate even when he swore he wanted to hurt me. For making me believe we actually had something, that weweresomething.
I hate Demyen Zakrevsky so fucking much—because loving him hurts even worse.
But even so, I can’t stop the horrible pain in my chest where my heart used to be. I can’t stop crying over the memories of being in his arms, listening to his sweet, whispered promises of forever spent in paradise with him.
I want you to come to me when you want me, when you need me, and I want you to trust that I will do everything in my power to lay the world at your feet.
Liar.
Cruel, vicious liar.
The bed gently shakes as I sob into the pillow. When I’m done screaming, I pull it down and hug it to my chest so I can at least breathe in the air of my prison cell. It smells like cedarwood and cigar smoke, laced with wisps of food wafting in from the kitchen that I know I won’t be allowed to eat.
