HE DOESN’T NEED TO KNOW
D uring dinner, we talked about our childhoods.
I shared the only time I saw my mum truly happy; the mischief Tara and I used to get into, and how devastated I was when they told me I’d never see my mum again after marriage.
I could feel the weight in my chest as I spoke, but Dante didn’t press me on it.
He changed the subject when I stopped talking.
My mind had wandered back to the day I was kidnapped, and I don’t want him to know what happened.
He talked about his mother, how she’d been learning to knit, using the excuse that it was for her future grandchildren.
They would be my kids...
But do I even want children? I don’t see myself as a mother, not with everything I’ve been through. The thought of my child falling into the wrong hands, or the fear of losing a daughter if she gets kidnapped as I did… It terrifies me. Yet, the kid I met earlier today was so sweet.
Maybe, someday, I could have one of my own. Just not right now… or any time soon.
“Can I come get you tomorrow?”
Dante’s voice startles me, bringing me back to the present. I didn’t even realise we’d reached the house.
“I don’t think my father would let me go out two days in a row.”
“He doesn’t need to know.”
I turn to look at him, a little confused.
“What do you mean?”
His smile widens. He takes my hand and kisses it. “You’ll see.” He winks.
He steps out of the car and quickly comes to open my door.
My stomach tightens again, but this time it isn’t because of him—it’s because of my father.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“Yes… I don’t know. All of this is a bit confusing.”
As I stand up, Dante pulls me against his body with one hand around my hip.
To my surprise, it doesn’t bother me at all.
His touch is warm and tingly, in a good way.
I haven’t felt this close to someone since Tara.
Not even my mum can make me feel this comfortable.
Since I came back, she’s always sad, and that’s a constant reminder of what I’ve been through.
“I only have one umbrella,” he explains, placing it over our heads. “I didn’t think it would rain. I was too nervous to think straight.”
“I still don’t understand what’s making you nervous.”
“Well, you, of course.”
“Why me?”
I wouldn’t kill a fly. He looks lethal— I should be nervous. In fact, I am nervous!
His grip tightens as we reach the door.
“I do not need to earn your family’s affection, but yours is absolutely necessary to me.”
“Why? You don’t want an unhappy wife?” I tease.
He huffs. “I wish to have a wife who is as passionately in love with me as I am with her.”
Oh…
“But you don’t even—”
My father yanks the door open. My stomach twists.
This is wrong. This is so wrong, and I’m not just talking about the look on his face or the anger in his eyes.
I don’t want to go in.
I don’t want this to end.
I want to be with Dante.
I’ve never had a happy day like this one, not even when Tara was around. Dante laughed with me, never shouted, or even raised his voice. He listened to me; he wanted to hear me! No one ever wants to hear me because I’m boring…
I might not love him yet, and I won’t for a while, but I enjoy his company more than I enjoy being in this house, near my father’s presence, or locked up in my room.
Dante doesn’t beat me, humiliate me, or remind me of what happened three years ago. At least, not on purpose. He doesn’t insinuate or ask about it, even though I know it’s painfully obvious something’s wrong.
My father glares at my fiancé, but Dante doesn’t flinch. He stands tall, chest out, chin raised; he’s even smirking.
“It’s late.”
“She was safe and sound,” Dante says, squeezing my hip.
My heart flutters. I don’t want him to let go.
“From now on, I hope you bring her to me before eleven o’clock.” My father glares at me. “And you,” he spits, “you should be more responsible. You wouldn’t want to… relapse .”
Meaning, being raped again.
I shiver, and tears gather in my eyes.
“I assure you; Lana won’t relapse by being with me,” Dante says, his voice cold and harsh.
“You can’t know that, kind 6 .”
Dante tenses, and I pat his back in an attempt to calm him, just like my mum used to do with my brothers. But I immediately regret it. I don’t know if that’s an appropriate gesture.
“I’ll go to sleep,” I whisper, knowing full well I can’t yet. I’ll have to face my father’s wrath first. “I had a great time. Thank you for… everything.”
Dante nods with a soft smile. He leans in as though he might kiss me on the lips, but instead, he presses a gentle kiss to my cheek. Then, he whispers in my ear, “Leave your window open. I’ll come tomorrow night.”
I nod slowly as he pulls away. He smiles, turning to leave without even acknowledging my father. I hope he doesn’t take offense.
My father yanks me inside, and I close my eyes as he shoves me against the door, grabbing the collar of my shirt.
“Did you fuck him?” he grunts.
“Would that matter?” I try to stay calm. “I’m not a—”
“You fucked him!” He laughs. “You’re a fucking slut.”
My chest tightens, and my vision blurs. I want to say I didn’t, that I had a good time, that I relaxed for once. But why would I? He doesn’t care. Even if he believed me, he’d hit me anyway.
He yanks me again, his fingers digging into my skin, and it hurts. Yet the only thing I care about is my new cardigan. But as if he can read my thoughts, he rips it apart.
“This isn’t yours,” he growls. “And this? You think hiding your body makes you any less of a whore?” He rips my shirt next, and I clutch it to my chest, tears streaming down my face.
“You’ll be in trouble if you ever tell him the things you make me do to you!” He spits. Every word is like poison to me.
I don’t reply. I have no reason to do it.
“Do you hear me?”
I hate him.
“Please—”
He slaps me. I shut my eyes.
“Do you hear me?” he repeats through gritted teeth. “You say ‘Yes, Daddy.’”
“Yes, Daddy .” My voice is barely a whisper.
He looks at me up and down, his frown deepening. I’m still covering myself with the remnants of my clothes, but he doesn’t care. He likes watching my tears. He loves knowing he has power over me. I hate that I can’t fight him. I hate the way he looks at me with disgust.
I don’t understand why he hates me. I didn’t ask for any of this. I didn’t choose to be born a woman. I didn’t ask to be kidnapped. I didn’t ask to be raped. I didn’t ask to be sold.
Why does everyone claim I brought this on myself, when all I’ve ever wanted is to be free? The one thing I ask for—the one thing no one will ever give me.
“You’re worthless. I can’t expect anything but disappointment from you.”
He shoves me so hard that I slam my head against the edge of the staircase.
Pain explodes, my vision blurs, and a sharp ringing fills my ears.
He paces in front of me, and for a fleeting moment, I think he might let me go.
Instead, he drives his foot into my stomach with such force that the air is ripped from my lungs in a painful rush.
“I can’t risk you giving me a bastard,” he spits.
I close my eyes. My father’s hands wrap around my throat. He squeezes so hard I think he’s going to break my neck.
A gasp echoes behind me.
I can’t open my eyes again.
I don’t remember how I got to my bed, but I know I wasn’t able to tuck myself in. The window is shut, and I’m still wearing my ripped clothes. That’s a good sign.
When I push myself up on my arms, a sharp pain sears through my back. My chest tightens, a lump rising in my throat, but I force myself to stand. Step by step, I inch toward the window and push it open as quickly as my aching body allows.
Fresh air floods the room as I take a deep, shuddering breath. A sob escapes me, and I press my hand over my mouth to stifle it.
I was never enough. Nothing I’ve ever done has ever been enough. Being flirty like he wanted me to be at dinners. Being submissive and obedient. Keeping secrets from my mum. None of it was enough.
He said it was. He said it was enough to make him happy. He said watching me while I showered was enough to make him happy. He said lying next to me, checking how my body was growing, was enough to make him happy. He said my kisses were enough. My touch was enough.
Was it not enough because I never wanted it? Because I cried the first times? Because I was supposed to be married? Why? Why wasn’t it enough? Why am I not enough? Why can’t he love me like he loved Tara or my brothers? Why are my mum and I the only ones he ever hurt? What did we do?
Even the men who kidnapped me said he didn’t care about me. If I died, if I was sold as a piece of meat, who cared? He let them do whatever they wanted, however they wanted, because he wouldn’t pay what they asked for. They broke me because he didn’t care about me.
I hoped for a shred of love after my rescue, but I got nothing. The doctors were kind—so kind I almost beg for them to let me stay. But then I saw my mum. She looked as broken as I felt, and I knew I couldn’t leave her. She needed me. I needed her.
I thought my father would show me even a bit of love after what happened, like my mum. Instead, he just told me to stop crying. A few nights later, he came into my room, and when I screamed and begged for him to leave me alone, he beat me until I passed out.
It doesn’t matter what I do, how I behave, or what I say, I’ll never be worthy of his love because I’m neither a man nor my sister.
I’ve never hated her for being his favourite. I’ve never hated anyone. Just him. Always him.
A knock at the door makes my hair stand on end. I quickly rub my sleeve against my eyes, turn around, and try to adjust my ripped shirt in a desperate attempt to cover myself.
Mum stands in the doorway, her eyes red, a cut on her lip, bruises scattered across her body. I don’t even care about the bouquet of roses she’s holding. Her face is a wreck, and it’s my fault.
It’s my fault because I dared to feel a flicker of happiness. My fucking fault.
“Are you okay, pet?” she asks softly.
Am I okay? Really?
I force a smile. “Yeah, don’t worry.”
She sighs and places the bouquet on the bed. “Dante brought these.”
Something stirs in my stomach. Maybe it’s the faintest flutter of hope. Or maybe it’s nausea. Or fear.
“Was he here?” I ask.
“This morning. But neither your father nor I saw him.”
Luckily .
He has no idea what happened last night. Great. He doesn’t need to know. Ever. I’ll forget about it in a few days, as I always do.
I pick up the bouquet, and a small card slips onto my pillow.
“See you tonight. Remember to keep your windows open.
—Dante.”
“What’s it say, a stór ?” Mum asks.
I shake my head and force a smile. Right now, I’m glad she doesn’t know how to read. “He says he’s excited for our next date.”
She sits on the bed, her bruised face softening with a smile. “What’d you two get up to? Did you give him a wee kiss?”
“He didn’t even try.”
Her smile widens. “Ah, that’s grand altogether. Did he say when your next date is?”
I blush, leaning close to her ear to whisper, “Tonight. Don’t tell him, please. I’ll be back before the sun sets, I promise. I—”
“Oh, mo chroí, ” she interrupts gently, “you can take all the time you want. I’ll sort yer father.”
I sigh and nod. She said the same thing yesterday. I can’t blame her, though. He’s unpredictable.
“Thank you.”
She cups my head in her hands, her thumbs gently brushing against my cheeks. “Don’t let any of this define you, pet. I know it’s hard; I know it hurts. But ye must live, alright? Don’t close yourself off to a new feelin’. Dante’s a good guy.”
“But I don’t know him.” A lump forms in my throat. “He doesn’t know me. We’ll just end up—”
“He’s not yer father, alright?” she whispers, her voice even softer. “Not everyone is like him. Trust me, there’s good people out there. Ye deserve happiness, love. At least one of my daughters should get a chance.”
“Mum—”
“Trust him. And if you can’t trust him yet, trust me. I know what I’m sayin’.”
Notes:
6. Kind: Child/Kid.