Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 60198 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 301(@200wpm)___ 241(@250wpm)___ 201(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60198 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 301(@200wpm)___ 241(@250wpm)___ 201(@300wpm)
“I’m not going to marry the man you want me to marry, and I’m not going to do what he wants. I’m going to do what I’ve always done, Mom. I’m going to do what I fucking want to do, and nothing else.”
She smiles at me, unconcerned. “You’re not going to have a choice, honey. Rainer knows you’re an obstacle, and this is the only way to get you out of the way. I don’t want you getting hurt.”
“If you don’t want me getting hurt, you shouldn’t be doing this to me. I’m going to get hurt, Mom. I’m not single. I’m taken. I’m not free to be married. If you try to make me hook up with some other man, he’s going to end up…”
I was going to say dead, but hell, maybe that’s the solution to this problem. Maybe we get him good and dead. Fucker. If he’s willing to go along with this plan, he’s a bad person. If he can’t get a woman on his own, he’s probably a weakling.
“Alright. Fine. You don’t want me to fight this. I won’t,” I say.
She smiles, satisfied. She doesn’t know me as well as she’d like to, which means she doesn’t know I’m not capitulating completely. Or maybe she does. Fuck. Maybe she’s just happy to have won one of the many little battles that will have to be won along the way to getting me to agree to this absolute insanity.
“Put the dress in the closet on, brush your hair, and try a little of the makeup in the bathroom.” She looks me up and down. “I want you presentable. You’re a pretty girl. Just like I was.”
“You’re still pretty, Mom.”
I don’t mean to compliment her, but it comes out automatically, just some kind of vestigial social nicety. She smiles when she hears it, though. But as soon as she smiles, it goes away, like she caught herself feeling something and she doesn’t want to.
God. This is a completely fucked situation and I am genuinely not sure how to get out of it.
I guess I’m just going to have to go through it.
I look at myself in the bathroom mirror and I wonder what the fuck is going on.
For years, I used to imagine Mom coming back and saving us. Then, around the time I turned sixteen, I started to accept that was never going to happen. Now she’s here, and what’s going on is making me realize I might have been luckier than I realized to get to raise myself in the woods.
“Come down for breakfast when you’re done,” she says. “Patrick is excited to meet you.”
I’m not excited to meet him, but I put the dress on. It’s a white and blue dress with a bow at the waist. Prairie style. Designed to make me look sweet and innocent. There are shoes too. They don’t fit. Too small. I leave them off and pad downstairs.
I can hear the low murmur of conversation coming from a dining room.
I could run out the front door.
I try that, padding on bare feet and hoping nobody hears me. The conversation in the dining room continues unabated, but my mother has the hearing of a wolf even if she doesn’t want to admit that’s why she can hear it.
I reach the door and try the handle. It turns a fraction, and for a moment I feel a true surge of excitement. I’m going to escape…
A moment later, it hits the lock plate and I know I’m not going anywhere. Not without a brutal, bloody fight.
“If you’re ready to join us, you’re welcome,” my mother calls out.
I stride into the dining room, hoping my gait makes my dress look stupid. I don’t want to look appealing in any way, but I can see the way the bust of the garment is making my breasts look amazing. I know that, because both sets of male eyes in the room I enter settle squarely and intensely on them.
There’s an old man here. My mortal enemy. Rainer Katsoff. His silver hair and his bright blue eyes might be appealing to someone who doesn’t care about moral fortitude, which explains my mother’s attraction to him.
My problem is sitting next to him wearing a crisp white shirt. He stands up as I enter. He’s tall. About 6′3. Tall enough to be handsome to most women. I hate him immediately. He’s in this room, which means he’s fundamentally a coward doing his father’s bidding. As he stands, he reveals blue slacks and a black belt with a golden buckle. Nothing too flashy. Every inch of him reveals a general clinging to status quo and what looks good. The longer I look at him, the more I hate him.
“Patrick, this is my daughter, Ellie,” my mother says. “Ellie, come and sit down. You must be starving after an exciting evening.”