The cot groans when he settles onto the mattress next to me. I stare at my knees, waiting for him to make a move.
He doesn’t, and I shudder at the realization.
This is a game for him. He’s playing with me.
He puffs his cigar, blowing a few rings toward me. I let the smoke wash over me without reacting.
He clears his throat and says, “You’re carrying a Bernadetti, Zoya. That puts you in an importantposition, doesn’t it?”
His hand skirts over my thigh. My facade cracks the closer he gets to my crotch. When his fingers force their way between my legs, I can’t help my reaction.
I wince. I show fear. I crumble right then and there.
I don’t know how long I’m going to last here.
“At first.” His voice is so much closer to my ear than it was seconds ago as his finger pokes and prods. “I thought it would be a problem. But there’s a way that this will benefit us both.”
More tears spill from my eyes. My chest heaves while his fingers dig between my legs. I flinch when he wiggles them into my pussy.
Hot breath laced with tobacco and something pungent smacks my ear. “I’m going to marry you.”
That’s beneficial?My tears turn from frightened to angry.How fucking bizarre.
“Your kid will become mine,” he continues as he rubs circles into my slit. “That guarantees me the Citta Nostra no matter how hard that Bernadetti bitch tries to fight me.”
I clench my jaw when he licks my ear. His tongue feels slimy against my skin and leaves behind a residue that makes me feel filthy. I’d much rather roll in wet trash.
“Make no mistake, Zoya. You might become my wife—” He grabs my exposed breast and gives it a hard squeeze. “But you’ll be treated very much like the whore you are.”
His smell is nauseating. His hands are greasy. I try to press my knees together in a vain attempt to keep his hand from creeping up further, but his strong fingers force them open, and he continues touching me like he owns me.
And maybe hedoesown me now. Without anyone to save me, I have no way of defending myself. It’s useless to fight.
My heart quivers as I press my lips tightly together. Angry tears slick my neck.
No, I can’t give up.
Hope renews when he leans away from me. Relief kisses my skin like a breeze. His smell recedes and I close my eyes, drawing gulps of fresh air into my lungs that aren’t him and his smoke.
I’m okay. I’ll be okay.
And then I hear his zipper coming undone.
“Take off your clothes,” he demands. “Now.”
My hands freeze on the cot. Didn’t I know this was coming? How could I forget my place in the world of bastards like Cardona? It doesn’t matter how I feel—or if I’m pregnant. I have to perform.
It’s that or my life.
Nausea in my stomach doubles. I hold my gut and bow forward, trying to keep from throwing up. “N-no.”
He grabs my chin and forces me to look up at him.
“Zoya, I’ve been patient so far,” he growls as he leans toward me. The cot groans under our combined weight. It might give out soon. “I’ve been merciful. I’ve given you every accommodation in the book.”
He’s staring at me with those emotionless eyes, the dark beads laced with lust. It’s a frightening sight. It makes me want to curl up and die rather than face what I know is about to happen on this cot.
I can’t do it.