“I will not marry him,” I tell him firmly, refusing to wince at the pain lancing through my shoulder.
“The choice is either marry Rokiades or die.”
“Then I choose death,” I say, spitting in his face.
He throws me to the ground and pulls out his gun. I know he won’t kill me. That’s what logic tells me at least. He needs me too much to actually pull the trigger.
But for a second at least, I’m worried.
He leans down and presses the gun to my temple. “You fucking bitch, I’m not going to kill you. But I am going to make you fucking hurt. I’m going to make you hurt so bad that you’ll beg to be married off to that Greek son of a bitch.”
I realize something suddenly—I’m tired of fighting.
I’ve been fighting my whole life and it hasn’t gotten me anywhere. I’m in the same place I’ve always been—at my brother’s mercy.
I just can’t do it anymore.
So I close my eyes and I wait for the final pain.