Page 95 of Twisted Proposal

My lungs burned as it got harder and harder to breathe and it felt like the red walls were closing in on me. The room was getting smaller, and it started to spin as my stomach rolled. Bile rose in my throat, bitter and acidic.

He couldn't have.

He wouldn't.

Of course he would.

All he saw me as was a pawn.

Nothing more than an insignificant little doll he could position as he saw fit.

He was just like my father, like every other man who thought that they could do whatever they wanted and my role was to just say "yes, sir."

No. I wasn't going back to that. I wasn't going back to having no choices, no opinions, and just being the husk meant to cook, clean, and breed that my father intended when he saw fit to sell me off to one of his associates who needed a wife.

I didn't care if he killed me.

It would not happen.

I was no one's pet, no one's doll.

With a deep breath, I opened my eyes and looked at Artem, letting him see the pain, the frustration, the determination in my eyes. "You had no right." My voice came out ragged, flayed raw with emotion.

"I had every right," he said as simply as if he'd decided the toppings on a pizza without consulting me. His casual dismissal of my life, my choices, hit me like a physical blow.

"No, you didn't. That was my education. My classes, my degree. It was my only chance at success. You had no right to—" My chest heaved with each word, sweat dampening my hairline despite the chill that ran through me.

"My money," he said with a simple shrug, as if that was all that mattered. "My influence.”

It felt like a slap to the face, and I guessed to a man like Artem, his money and position were all that mattered.

Power and the bottom line trumped everything else.

"And don't pretend to mourn that bastard,” Artem continued, his eyes hardening. “He was trying to break you down until you'd do anything to pass his class. I just made sure he can't do that to anyone else."

The taste of copper flooded my mouth as I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from screaming, to keep the tears back.

I turned on my heel, taking a few steps over the polished hardwood floor until something in the bookcase caught my eye. A glint of sunlight on a multifaceted crystal decanter filled with clear liquid.

I didn't even think about it. I just reached out like I was going to pick up one of the books and look at the title. Instead, I wrapped my hand around that decanter, lifting it up and throwing it across the room straight at his head. The weight of it felt gloriously solid in my hand before it left my fingertips.

It was lighter than I had thought, though, so it hit the wall just above his head and shattered. The crash echoed thunderously through the room, glass shards sparkling in the sunlight like deadly diamonds.

"Do you feel better now?" he asked, never letting his calm expression slip.

But I saw it— the slight tightening around his eyes, the almost imperceptible clench of his jaw. His breathing had quickened, his broad chest rising and falling with each controlled breath.

"No," I said. "But next time I won't miss."

I grabbed one of the matching glasses and threw it at him.

My aim was true, but he ducked out of the way, the crystal exploding against the bookshelf behind him. Three glasses left. The sound of shattering glass was music to my ears.

"This is your last warning," he said, anger leaching into his words.

"Or what? What more could you possibly take from me? You've already taken everything I care about. You get to decide where I live, you get to decide if I go to school or not, what I can study, whose lives you end.

"And did you stop there? No. You even isolated me from having any friends. And you fuck me whenever you feel like it; consent doesn't seem to fucking matter. So what else can you possibly take from me?"