Page 27 of Cursebound

“Pietro!” I make eye contact, trying to establish some kind of connection. “What the fuck’s going on? Why am I here like this?”

He looks at me briefly, then shakes his head and looks away. Every line in his body is rigid. Whatever this is, he hates it. But as ever, he’ll be Tomasso’s good little nipote and do as he’s told.

“You are ready?” Tomasso’s glare suggests he damn well better be. But ready for what? My brain scrambles to figure it all out before it’s too late.

“Please, Grandfather.” Pietro grabs at his arm. “There must be another way. Don’t make me do this!”

Whatever love he has for my brother, it is nowhere in sight. As usual, he will do what he thinks is right for the Vecchissime, for the Capellis. For himself, the bastard. He shakes off my brother’s grip and runs his fingers through his snowy white hair.

“Pietro! Help me! Get me up, get me out of here… I’m your sister. I love you—you know that!”

Tomasso gives me one cursory look of contempt before he says to Martin, “Shut her up. And keep her still. Don’t damage her.”

He leaves the room without a backward glance, and Martin is quick to act. He backhands me once across the face, so hard my lip splits and I taste blood. He leans over me and snarls. “Shut the fuck up, you spoiled bitch, or I’ll knock you out. You don’t need to be conscious for this party.”

Going to the bottom of the bed, he takes hold of my dress. He roughly shoves it all the way up to my waist, then grabs my panties. I can’t feel his touch, I’m still numb, but I look on in slowly dawning horror as he drags them down and off. My legs are pulled apart, exposing me completely. I try to fight him, to protect myself, but my limbs are not under my control. I can see them, but I can’t move them. He takes his time, running his greedy eyes over my body and grinning.

When he’s done, he turns to my brother. “All set, Boss. Have at it.”

“No…” Panic forces itself up from my racing heart to my sore throat as I realize what he means. At the sudden and horrific knowledge that my own brother is about to rape me.

“No, you can’t… Pietro, don’t let him make you into a monster! Please, don’t!”

Again, he refuses to meet my eyes. My baby brother is a coward. He has always been a coward. Losing our parents so young likely had an effect, and shutting him out when he was grieving and needed me couldn’t have helped. And being raised by the vile creature we call our grandfather left him with no will of his own. Whatever fondness he has for me is overshadowed by what Tomasso tells him to do.

I see our grandfather’s twisted logic at work here: How better to increase the chances of creating the next Capelli Seer than by mating two Capellis together? For all his surface sophistication, the man is no better than a monster.

I try again to move, to fight, to do anything I can to stop this madness. I fail and lie there trembling and terrified, fear and anguish finally overpowering me. My scream is loud and desperate and causes Pietro to jump, an almost comically disappointed look on his face. What did he expect? That I was going to be happy about this?

It takes Martin a split second to reach me, to shove something firmly into my mouth. I gag and choke on my saliva. He has forced my panties between my lips. Before I can spit them out, he slaps a piece of duct tape over my mouth as well.

I have nothing left but my eyes, and I use them to plead with Pietro as he approaches me. Tears roll down his cheeks, but that doesn’t stop him from unzipping his fly and pulling out his fully erect penis. I haven’t seen him naked since he was a young child, and I don’t want to see it now.

“I’m sorry, Rosa.” He stumbles forward and kneels on the bed between my thighs. “I don’t want to do this—you must believe me.” He fumbles with his cock, and no matter how much he says he doesn’t want to do it, he’s still ready to go. I shake my head from side to side, my own tears flowing freely, and stare at him. At my baby brother. At the man who is going to fuck me against my will.

I refuse to look away. I won’t make this easy for him. If he’s going to do this, he is going to be haunted by the memory of my face every damn day for the rest of his pathetic life.

I sob, and my impromptu gag threatens to choke me. For a moment, I wish it would.

Pietro moves closer, his body racked with sobs, and I close my eyes. I was wrong. I can’t watch this happen. I can’t see this done to me—not by him. I need to shut down and go somewhere safe in my mind.

The mattress shifts beneath me, and Pietro lets out a sudden yelp of shock.

My eyes shoot open as he flies across the room. He crashes into the wall, slides down to the floor in a heap of limbs. His eyelids flutter, and he’s out.

There’s a blur of movement so fast I can’t track it, followed by an explosion of blood and gore where Martin was standing. The guard’s head teeters on his shoulders and rolls to the ground, tendrils of flesh oozing over the carpet. His body collapses a second later.

Shouts come from around the house, accompanied by a shrill alarm.

I still cannot move. I can barely breathe. I have no clue what is happening. But then he’s here on the bed next to me, tearing at the tape that covers my lips and pulling my panties out of my mouth. He isn’t gentle, and I’ve lost some skin, but I really couldn’t care less. Some wounds will heal; others would not.

He cradles me in his arms like a child, and I am dizzy with relief, crying and shaking against his chest, unable to control my body or my mind. But I’m safe now, no matter how broken I feel.

I allow myself a few moments of respite, a few seconds of pure joy at being held by him. When I am recovered enough to pull back, I see that he is covered in blood, but I’m sure it’s not his. To get this far, he must have left a trail of death and destruction behind him. Tomasso keeps at least five guards in the house with him at all times.

Luca scans my face, smooths my hair back, and kisses me so ferociously that I will now be covered in blood as well. Another thing I don’t care about. My heart sings at the sight of him, a sudden burst of right amid a whole day of wrong.

A stream of Italian comes from his mouth, only some of which I catch. “Are you okay?” He runs his hands over my body and checks for signs of injury before pulling me close. “Are you hurt?”