“Get undressed. I want to see what I inherited,” the man says authoritatively.
He comes close, his fingertips touching the tip of my cheek. And I—dead-grip strong—I clutch the robe’s sides.
— Don’t touch me with your filthy hands!
— You’re my property, Vika. Your body belongs to me. And now get down on your knees—right where someone as disgusting as you belongs.
* * *
He’s wild.
Unpredictable.
Evil.
And he… blames me for his father’s death. He doesn’t want to hear excuses. He wants to punish me, to hurt me.
But can there be anything more painful than loving a person who hates you?