Page 3 of Do It For Me
His nostrils flare. “I don’t care. This is the best I could get for you. Now, go and show him your tits if you must, but he’ll stay with you. Not me.”
Why does it still hurt so much, even after twenty years of his insults?
He storms out of the room, his footsteps heavy on the stairs. I stay rooted in front of the mirror, staring at the reflection I’ve come to despise.
I’m not a person. I’m a doll they can manipulate however they want. That’s all I’ve ever been to them.
“Come the fuck down!” his German voice booms from below.
Don’t cry. Crying only brings trouble. Fight instead.
“I’ll do whatever it takes to leave this house,” I reply in the same way. “I’m sick of you!”
I hope my future husband isn’t German.
Taking a deep breath, I steady myself and head down the stairs. I focus entirely on the handrail, each step deliberate so I don’t trip.
I don’t want to meet my fiancé’s eyes. I don’t want to see his face. Even picturing him makes me want to throw up again.
I don’t deserve this. I’m a human being. Why is this any different from being sold by strangers? My own father is doing this—giving me away to get rid of me and profiting from it.
“Look at him, brat,” my father snaps.
I obey, defeated. What choice do I have?
To my surprise, however, it’s not someone unlikeable.
The man in front of me looks only a few years older. His blue eyes are darker than my father’s—thankfully. His gaze is much more comfortable to look at. Softer.
A lock of black hair curls over his brow. A scar runs down his forehead, slicing to his cheek, another along his nose and one more across his lip. Is it strange that I think it makes him more attractive?
And the tattoos? God, the tattoos.
If I weren’t so broken, he might’ve caught my attention.
When he offers me his hand, memories crash over me like a wave. He’s a man. They’re all the same. He’ll want what they all want, what I’ll never willingly give.
But again, I have no other options.
I brace myself, expecting him to grab me or pull me towards him. Instead, he surprises me by asking, “May I?”
I can say no, right? Or is this one of those trick questions where yes is the only real answer?
I don’t want to find out, so I nod.
When his hand meets mine, I’m startled by how gentle and warm his touch is. Every other man who’s greeted me has been harsh, even when I extended my hand willingly.
But not him. He touches me as though I’m made of glass... or maybe I just imagine it that way.
“I’m Dante Cassano,” he says, his voice calm. He kisses the back of my hand, his thumb brushing over my skin, all while keeping his eyes locked on mine. “It’s a pleasure,ragnetta2.”
He’s Italian.
There’s a faint accent, but it’s there.
God.
I glance at my father, who nods at me with his usual fake smile. Then, I look back at Dante.
