Page 27 of Do It For Me
I shake my head. “No, but I’m tired.”
He smiles and pats his legs. “Come here; I’ll sing you to sleep.”
Heat rises to my cheeks, but I obey. I rest my head on his lap, and Dante strokes my face, my hair, and my arms as he sings softly in Italian.
My mum used to do this when I was a child. She sang something about leaving home… I can’t remember the lyrics, but I remember how I loved her singing.
My father took that away from us too.
Tears stream down my cheeks, and I surrender to his voice.
It’s been a long time since someone treated me like I’m something fragile, and I realise how much I needed that.
I can’t act like I’m strong forever.
I wake up, disoriented. The sun hits my face. Since when does my room get sunlight this early?
Someone is singing softly, and a hand gently strokes my arm.
I open my eyes. Dante’s face hovers above me, though his gaze is turned away.
As if he senses I’ve woken, he looks down, a smile spreading across his lips—a smile that melts me instantly.
“Buongiorno, ragnetta,”7 he murmurs.
I really love how he speaks Italian, but I’ll never admit it to him.
“What time is it?” I mumble, rubbing my eyes.
“Six in the morning. Don’t worry; your father left the house at five. He didn’t even check your room.”
“How do you know?”
He grins. “I have my ways.”
I sit up, pulling off my scarf and cardigan. The sun feels unbearable at this hour. I sigh, rubbing my eyes again. I must look like a complete mess.
As I stretch and yawn, Dante yanks my hand down. His grip is strong—too strong—and it startles me. A sharp bolt of fear shoots through my chest.
He’s going to hit me.
He’s got that dark, twisted look—one that reminds me of my father every time he’s about to lash out. His tense jaw tightens further as his gaze moves up and down my body, finally locking onto mine. I swear my soul abandons me.
We’re alone here. He could hurt me—beat me so hard I’d die—and no one would ever know.
I could die today.
“Who did that to you?”
My stomach sinks. My face drops.
Damn it, there’s light.
I glance down at my arms, the bruises giving me away. My fingers brush against my neck, and the ache is still there. My father’s handprint must be blooming in purple on my skin. My body has always been so sensitive; I’ve been taking hits since I was a child, yet I still haven’t hardened to it.
“Dante, I—”
“Your father did this?”
