I’ve known since childhood that my future was in my father’s hands, not mine.
But he let me go to uni. He let me get my degree. I’m not sure why, if he only planned to sell me off in the end.
I drown out my mother’s cries and swing my legs to the side of the bed. I need to find out what’s going on. I knew my time was coming, or I should’ve surmised it anyway.
I should’ve been paying closer attention.
I throw on a bathrobe and tiptoe to my doorway, my steps soundless on the thick, plush carpet. I open the door. Dermot, one of my guards, stands just outside. I hate him, but he’ll prove useful right now. I make a hissing sound to catch his attention, and he looks my way. I crook a finger at him. A large, lumbering, ogreish sort, he moves with the elegance of an elephant and speaks mostly in grunts. I’ve wondered why my father gives him a gun. He’d be better suited with a club.
I whisper so softly I’m mouthing the words more than speaking them. He cups his ear as if to hear me better.
“What are they arguing about?” I whisper. “Tell me.”
He gives me a lewd smile. “I know alright,” he says. “But you ain’t gettin’ it for free.”
My stomach coils with repulsion. I frown. “Fine,” I hiss. “You know I’ll pay up.”
He grabs at his crotch, the filthy prick. It isn’t money he wants. Bile rises in the back of my throat and I swallow hard, trying to weigh my options. I could find out from him, and pay my dues on my knees, or I could wait and try to find out myself.
I jump when I hear the sound of crashing glass. Frowning, I clutch at the door knob. My parents are reaching a rare level of brawling.
I release the tie at my robe, letting it fall open to reveal my bare shoulder, my breasts barely covered by a thin tank top, and watch as the ogre’s eyes go half-lidded. He licks his lips and bends down to me, the smell of stale whiskey and body odor assaulting my senses. For Christ’s sake, he’s disgusting. I hold my breath and listen as he whispers.
“Supposedly, you’re to wed the McCarthy scum.”
I stand stock still as ice pulses through my veins. How could this man, who barely knows how to tie his own fucking shoes, know more than I do?
I keep my wits about me and swallow hard, ignoring the way the room sways a little.
“When?” I whisper.
“At the weekend.”
It’s Wednesday.
No.
I hear my mother sobbing and my father’s screams.
Dermot is already unbuttoning his fucking trousers for me to pay up, but I hardly see him. I see beyond them all, as my pathway’s clear as still water.
I have to leave. I can’t stay here. I won’t allow myself to be given to the “McCarthy scum.” I don’t think of the repercussions, how I could be caught and how if I am, I’m certain to be severely punished. I don’t think of where I’ll go or how I’ll get there. I’ve only one thought.
Fly.
I shut and lock the door behind us, ignoring the way his lewd eyes bulge when he drags his gaze down my robe. I fall to my knees on the carpet as he unbuckles his trousers, and his manky cock springs free. I don’t care, though. He isn’t getting a blow job tonight. Hell, when my father finds out what’s happened, Dermot will pay in flesh. I’ve seen what my father can do to a man, and for once it gives me some consolation.
I pull off my robe and let it fall to the floor, not only to distract him but to make my escape that much easier. My mind churns, going over my options. Wearing nothing but a tank top and shorts won’t work. I need to get clothes.
My parents scream on, my mother sobs, my father rails against her. But I drown it out as if it’s white noise. They’re dead to me. I’ve never been a daughter to them but a commodity. Even my looks and brains were assets to them.
Dermot, the fucking prick, strokes his cock and groans when I get to my knees. I quickly note what I need. His gun, still fastened in the holster that slumps to the floor, and his wallet, hanging out of his pocket and grazing the carpet.
“Tell me more,” I whisper, needing every detail. “Tell me everything you know, and tonight I’ll swallow.”
He drags the head of his cock to my cheek. My stomach flips with nausea, but I’ve learned to detach myself, to move my mind beyond my circumstances.
“Will you now, you pretty little slut?” he groans.
I give him what I hope looks like a coy smile. “Not for free,” I whisper, wagging my finger at him. “You know better than that.”