Page 52 of Black Wedding

“You look exactly like him,” I mutter, just as much to myself as to this asshole.

“I think that might be an insult since my brother was a junkie meth head with blotchy skin, greasy hair, and very few rotten teeth. I’m Luther.”

I instantly jump on the most essential part of that sentence. “Art was your brother?”

“Yes, my twin, actually. I am the younger one by sixteen minutes. He had this beautiful, natural birth, whereas I got stuck when my mum pushed to give birth. The only way they could save my life was to cut my mother open and pull me out of the sunroof, as she says. She later summarised that she should have known I would be fucked up since I ripped her open in two places trying to barge my way out. I hardly think I can be blamed for her saggy cunt. All the pimps she fucks for meth probably has something to do with it, but she feels she has to find the reason why I am so fucked up,” he spits, no longer sounding carefree but still like a loose cannon.

Luther steps forward, his dark and unnerving eyes now completely visible, and he looks very unstable. He stares at me with deep loathing, and despite being completely unprovoked, he raises his hand and, using the back of it, slaps me across my face.

The power behind the action is immense, and it instantly knocks me from my kneeling position flat onto the floor. The crack of skin on skin rebounds around the room. The pain seems to bounce all around my already aching head. As his hand swept across my face, he must have caught my nose because I can feel the blood gushing from it. I want to reach up to stem the flow, but I hurt so much; even just getting into a sitting position enough to bring my hand up to stop the blood flow is too much. Besides, there’s nothing to stop Luther from kicking the shit out of me, and at least in this position, I can still try to protect my major organs.

It sounds stupid, given the dress is already more than ruined, but as I watch the blood drip down and touch the fabric, my heart aches. This was the dress I chose for Liam. Our ceremony should be done, we should be officially married. Maybe he even liked it so much that he helped me out of this dress and ravished me before ceremony number two. Instead, I’m sitting here, curled up into a ball, trying not to die, and crying about stains on my dress. Will Liam know to come and find me?

Falling into my happy place, daydreaming about what today could have been, I must have missed whatever Luther was trying to tell me. A hard kick to my abdomen gets my attention.

Screaming out in pain, I roll myself up into a ball to try and protect myself. Luther is obviously not happy with that, and he kicks me again, three times in quick succession against my back. I scream loudly, sobbing and begging for him to stop. The last one connected with my possible broken rib, and the pain is so intense that my breath catches, and I struggle to breathe fully. Whenever I try to fill my lungs completely, there’s a stabbing pain in my chest that stops me. I am reduced to taking short, shallow breaths as I attempt to breathe through the pain.

Realising Luther is trying to talk to me again, I try to block out the pain to focus on his nasty words. Anything to avoid being beaten more.

“Not so tough are you now, little mafia bitch. In what world did you ever think you could rule?” he taunts, and I just lay there, listening to him. “Then again, you’re not really going to rule, are you? Everyone knows Liam Doughty is just fucking you so he can take your crown. Did you know he is double-crossing you? Pretending to like you, fucking you, probably making you fall in love with him. All so that he can get what he wants from you in the end. Desmond Doughty has waited patiently for London, and he wants it. Sadly for him, so do we,” he chuckles, and my heart feels like it’s about to snap.

My mind is whirling as Luther’s words penetrate that part of the brain we all have but try to ignore. He is playing on my insecurities, making me believe I am alone and that Liam doesn’t really care about me. There’s a big part of me that wants to tell him to fuck off. The part that is so sure Liam really cares for me, and with each happy memory, that feeling is confirmed.

But then there’s the negative part of my brain. No matter how much I try to silence it, the insecurities and the vulnerable side always somehow manage to sound louder than the happy side. This picks apart all my happy memories, looking for actions or words Liam may have used that affirm Luther’s statement. I already know that Desmond has no issue forcing his sons to marry women to get what he wants. He is forcing Finn to do it as we speak, but that doesn’t mean he is doing the same with Liam, does it?

Why is it so easy for me to ignore everything Liam has ever said to me? Every sweet gesture or sexy touch get’s replaced by false memories. Why do the memories fall into oblivion just at the mention that he could be using me? I want to trust him. I want to believe he really does care about me, but right now, all I feel is despair.

I’m pulled out of my anguish when I feel Luther roughly grab me by the back of the head, his fingers gripping my hair so tightly that my scalp feels as though it’s on fire. He yanks back so quickly it feels like he is going to pull my hair out, and his grip is so tight that he can easily manhandle me back into the kneeling position I was in before he punched me.

Every movement causes more pain to ripple through my body. Breathing is challenging, and it feels like I am breathing in glass every time I inhale. My heart is racing, and I can feel the beat whooshing through my veins. I use my arms as best I can to cradle them around my body to protect my already damaged ribs and stomach. I’m not sure I can take many more blows, but I sure as shit am going to go down fighting.

“How do you know I’m not using Liam? Keep your enemies close and all that,” I say, my voice deepened due to the pain.

Luther looks confused, like out of all the conversations he envisaged, maybe even practised us having, this was not one of them.

“Fuck that. Stop trying to mess with me, bitch!” he yells as he slaps me across the face again.

This time I manage to keep my kneeling position, but the pain is still just as bad. My brain feels like it is being knocked around in my skull, almost like it is reverberating off the sides, just waiting for it to happen enough times that it becomes mush, almost like I put my brain in a blender. The pain feels like a raging thunderstorm is taking place in my skull.

Using the hand not cradling my sore ribs, I bring it up to my cheek, slowly trying to massage the painful and most likely red area. As I lick the lower lip, desperately trying to get rid of the dryness, I taste the very recognisable flavour of iron. His hit must have caught my lip. Sure enough, when I probe it using my finger, I find a cut on the lower corner leaking blood. But given the fact I’m covered in dry blood, sweat, tears, and the wedding make-up I had on when I got here, a little bit of new blood is barely fucking noticeable. I’m glad there isn’t a mirror nearby because I sure as fuck don’t want to see what I look like right now.

“Who do you work for, Luther? Who organised this?” I mutter, needing to know desperately who it is.

I’m almost sure that Jimmy knew this attack was going to happen, but what I need to know is if he looked the other way, or did he help organise this attack on me? Is my father involved, or has Jimmy gone rogue? Either way, everything I have ever believed has been a lie. Jimmy was like a father figure to me, and he led me to think he wanted me to rule, that he would stand by my side. Yet when I needed him the most, he turned away. Everything that happens to me right now is because of him, and I will never forgive that.

“What makes you think that I’m not the leader of this little party. You wouldn’t be insulting me now, would you, little bitch?” he sings, kneeling down so that he is eye level with me.

Using the hand still fisted into my hair, he pulls my head back so I’m looking straight at him. No matter how hard I try, he doesn’t allow me to look away. Instead, he stares at me with that demented glare, his eyes roaming all over my body. His look of contempt and disgust is still there, but he also now has this hunger that scares me more than anything. As he licks his lips, looking at me like a juicy steak that he is about to demolish, I start to quiver in fear.

I can cope with a lot, suffer and withstand any pain he throws my way, but if it becomes sexual, that’s something I am not sure I can recover from mentally. So I have to keep fighting. I have to believe that Liam will come and save me. But more than that, I have to have faith that I can save myself.

“You are not a leader, Luther. You are given instructions, and you follow them. Now tell me, who is in charge?!” I shout angrily, ignoring the pounding it causes in my head.

“Fuck you, bitch,” he says with another punch to my stomach.

I try to bend over as I cry out, desperate to protect my exposed abdomen, but I need my arms to steady myself. I need to place my arms out to stop myself from falling, as he will have more of an advantage over me then. No point protecting what is already damaged now anyway. I can’t help the tears that continue to flow. No matter how hard I try to stop them, they flow freely.

He reaches out with his other hand and rips the two spaghetti straps holding my beautifully blemished dress up. With nothing to stop them from falling, the front of the dress flops down. Luckily my perky tits act as a shelf, preventing the fabric from falling and exposing them. Given the sneer on Luther’s face, he is not happy they aren’t visible.

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