Page 42 of The Seller

Shit, what the hell am I doing? I’m really trying to appease the ego of the man who forced me into marriage. No. Fuck this. I’m not doing this. His stupid question is the final straw which snaps me out of the haze I’ve been in since my father woke me up in the middle of the night and dragged me off to be married.

I push up from the bed and turn around to face my husband. “Actually, it’s not good. Like, at all.”

I don’t think Don Corelli has ever been told the truth about his sexual prowess before. For a second he is confused, and then he’s just plain angry.

“How would you know what’s good? Your father promised you’d keep your legs together,” he grunts, pushing me down on my back.

“That’s not really something a father has control of,” I reply before I can stop myself.

“You’re not a virgin. Of course you’re not. A girl like you, face of a madonna, body of a whore. Whoever you let fuck you before, you’re mine now, Sirios. You’re my wife, and you’ll scream my name, or I’ll cut your fucking tongue out.” His anger is intense, all red and spittle filled. I crawl back across the bed to get away from him, knowing that one way or another, I am going to be hurt if I stay in his presence.

“Is that any way to talk to a woman?”

No fucking way.

It can’t be.

I must have gone crazy.

I must be hallucinating.

If I’m not, then Stavros just walked into the bedroom.

He has a gun in his hand and a murderous expression on his face. I don’t know what it is about Stavros, but every time I see him, no matter how long between moments, it feels as though I literally just laid eyes on him. He is etched into my heart and my mind, and seeing him now, strange as it is, does not feel strange. It feels right. He belongs here in this fucked up wedding night tableau. Wherever love is corrupted and commodified, there Stavros is, a dark angel ruling over all.

Don Corelli deflates visibly before grabbing a sheet to not quite cover himself. “Who the fuck are you?”

“I’m the man who is going to kill you for touching her,” Stavros says with a cool, detached tone.

“She’s my wife!”

“She doesn’t want to be.”

“She doesn’t have a choi…”

BLAM!

With a casual squeeze of a trigger and that loud, world ending sound, Corelli crumbles next to me. I don’t dare look at what the bullet did to him, but I can tell he’s dead. There’s an immediate stillness which a wounded man wouldn’t have.

I’ve never seen a man die before. I’m shocked by how pedestrian it is, how quickly sentient person turns to inanimate meat. Stavros executed Corelli without hesitation. It was like he just brushed some crumbs from his sleeve, not killed a man.

“You have anything here to wear?” Stavros is calm, collected. He shows no signs of stress whatsoever.

“Just the slip to my wedding dress,” I answer, in shock.

“It’ll have to do. Come on.”

I scramble to get myself into the light silk sheath. As soon as it is on, Stavros picks me up, tosses me over his shoulder and carries me out of the hotel room. We go down a freight elevator to the car park, where he has a car waiting, and just like that, we leave.

Idon’t know how to feel about what just happened. I haven’t had time to feel. Twenty four hours ago I was tucked up in my bed in Norway dreaming of Stavros, now he is here, having saved me from my unwanted, very dead ex-husband.

It’s too much to even try to process, so I don’t bother. I just sit there, numb and maybe safe, or maybe in more danger than ever before.

“Thank you,” I say finally.

“You’re welcome,” he replies. “I owed you one, remember? Dude-sel in distress?”

“Oh yeah,” I smirk just a little.

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