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Squeezing my eyes shut, I wonder what’s going to happen next. Ian will fuck me, and he’ll come, and then what? Will he disappear again until tomorrow? Will we actually have a wedding? Will it be big or small or-

My thoughts are interrupted because he nudges his cock at my entrance. He doesn’t go crazy and shove it in or anything like that. Instead, he pushes slowly, giving me time to open for him.

“Breathe, flower,” he tells me.

He’s going to fuck my pussy. Not my ass. I can definitely handle this. I take a deep breath, just for him, just because he asked, and then he slides into me.

“You’re wet.”

“Well, I came,” I whisper.

“You came hard.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him that it’s the hardest I’ve ever come, but there’s a part of me that fears this will sound romantic. I don’t really want Ian getting the wrong idea about me. He doesn’t need to start thinking that I’m into him or that I’m going to get some sort of crush on him.

He might be getting ready to marry me, but it’s not for love.

It’s for revenge.

So, I squeeze my eyes shut and I bite my tongue as my future husband starts to fuck me. He takes his time, scraping his fingernails over my skin, forcing his dick deeper and deeper into me, and then he comes. Ian groans and shudders, filling me with his semen. When he steps away, I can still feet how wet I am. Now it’s from both of us. My pussy is filled. My thighs are sticky.

He rolls me over so I’m looking up at the ceiling. Reaching for my nipples, he tugs, pulling me up. I scramble to move so it doesn’t hurt, and once I’m sitting there facing him, he cups my face. His hands are soft against my skin. He doesn’t have rough, calloused hands like he’s an outdoorsy sort of man. That’s not him. That’sneverbeen him.

“You were good for me tonight,” he says. “I know you like to be a bad girl, Rose, but you were good.” I swallow hard, looking at him. A bad girl? I don’t say anything for a minute. Is that true? Do I like to be bad? Maybe a little. Doesn’t everyone?

I hate it when Ian says things like this because it’s in these moments where I don’t know whether he’s right or wrong. It’s in these moments where I fear that I might be losing myself a little more each time we’re together.

And it’s in these moments that I wonder whether I’m ever going to find my way out of the rabbit hole again.

Before Ian waltzed into that party my dad held, my life was very straightforward and very succinct. To the point. Everything was carefully organized and neat and tidy and fantastic. Now, though, things are different.

“Thank you, Mr. Salucci,” I finally say. He nods and takes a step back. He jerks his head toward the bathroom he pulled me out of earlier.

“Go take a shower. Clean up the tub and the bathroom. You made a mess earlier.”

When he pulled me out of the tub, he means. I peer past him to the bathroom and I can see that, yes, there are still bubbles and suds on the floor. When I look back up at Ian, though, he doesn’t seem angry or irritated. Despite his harsh words, I’m starting to get the feeling that he might actually like me a little bit.

And so, with this knowledge, I decide to risk a few more questions. Ian has just come. He’s sated for now. The beast that roars inside of him, dwelling there angry, is calm. If there was ever a good chance to ask him these questions, it’s now.

“Mr. Salucci,” I say. He’s still standing there in front of me. My legs are on either side of his. I curl my legs so they’re wrapped around his own. If he’s surprised at this intimate gesture, he doesn’t say anything.

“Rose.”

“Do you think...well, it seems like I’m going to be here for a very long time. Right?”

“Right.”

“I know that things were different...before.” I swallow hard. Fuck. Why is this so hard to say? “Before you let me know about the dance studio, about my dad owning it, I didn’t know. I had no clue just how much control he really had.”

Ian looks at me carefully. He’s staring at me like he’s trying to figure out what I’m getting at. He waits, not speaking. I know perfectly well from watching detective shows late at night that this is something the cops usually do to get people to talk. They outwait people. If they can wait long enough, then a person will usually blab, spilling their guts entirely.

This method proves to be particularly effective on girls who aren’t used to silence.

To being ignored.

But I am.

I am used to those things.