“I mean, what are you, a machine? Why does it matter to you what I wear?”
“Because my wife will be a reflection of me. My tastes, my expectations, and my desires. If I don’t like your hair, I will arrange for it to be styled in the way I want it. Your clothes must reflect mine and your appearance, one I deserve. When you speak, you will be respectful and keep any comments to polite conversation, and you will eat and drink what I tell you to.”
“Fuck you, asshole. I’ll do what the fuck I want.”
I slap my hand hard against her mouth, and my eyes narrow to slits as I hiss, “If you curse, you will be punished. If you speak back to me, you will be reprimanded, and if I have any cause to be disappointed in you, you will regret it.”
Her eyes widen, but not with the usual terror I’m used to. They are filled with fury, and I take a moment to admire that.
She bites down hard on my hand, and I merely increase the pressure, relishing the pain as it slides through my body like a welcome friend.
I press her back against the leather and lean closer, my breath dusting her cheeks as I hiss, “Do not make an enemy of me, Tiffany. Do as I say, and we will get on just fine.”
The tears that fill her eyes are angry ones, and I stare as if mesmerized. She is stunning. Like a beautiful Botticelli. Unspoiled, innocent, virginal, and untouched. The perfect canvas on which to paint my blend of madness, and something stirs inside me. Possibility.
Her chest is heaving; I sense it under my thick coat, and her breath is hot against my fingers. How easy it would be to crush this butterfly, to destroy, imprison, and dance to my tune.
Many people believe me to be the quiet one in the family. Not aggressive, merely cold and calculating. Outward appearances are deceptive because carve back the skin and the monster reveals itself, because I have been balancing on the edge of madness for years.
Concluding for the millionth time that I should really engage a professional shrink, I release her and turn my attention back to the endless texts that flood my phone, happy in the knowledge that I made my point, and if Tiffany Zaferelli thinks she has the measure of me, she is more deluded than she looks.
CHAPTER 4
TIFFANY
Iam officially in hell. It appears that still waters run deep, and inside the beast is more of a rapid than still water. I saw the madness in his eyes as he glared into mine. A crazy blend of psychosis that he failed to hide.
His words revealed more. Control. It kind of suits him, I guess. OCD probably has his name written in the tagline because it’s obvious he likes perfection. There is nothing out of place in his world. Not a stray hair, a stain on his clothing, and even his manners are checked. Cold, calculating and unreadable. The perfect monster, I’m guessing, and I should be very afraid right now.
Why are the pretty ones mentally fucked? Trust my luck, because outside of his personality, his looks would win awards. I have never met or even seen such a fine specimen of mankind, which is even more confusing to me.
I’m warmer now, and it’s not because of his coat. The heat has intensified in the small space, and I doubt it’s due to the increased temperature. When he touched me, sparks flew. The way he glared into my eyes shocked me for all the wrong reasons. It turned me on, which reveals the convent is the place for me.
For some time, years in fact, I have struggled with sinful thoughts. They crept up on me before I even realized they were there. The dreams haunt me every night, and during the day I live with the shame. The curiosity the nightmares bring reminds me I shouldn’t be left alone. I need my sisters to keep me on the right path, and without them, I am flailing in a storm of my own creation.
I have never felt so alone and bite my lip to distract my mind from mental torture, replacing it with the physical kind instead.
To block out my situation, I close my eyes; the gentle movement of the car acting as a sleep inducer, and as I drift off to blissful oblivion, my mind returns to the place where the demons moan.
Tiffany.I jump and the doll falls from my hands as my breathing intensifies.
“There you are! What have you got there?”
Morgan’s cruel sneer causes my heart to race, and I stare down at the doll with trepidation.
“You freak.”
Morgan stops in front of me and stares with derision at the doll lying broken on the ground. The hair cut aside and spilling onto the marble floor.
Morgan swoops down and lifts the mangled object, and her cruel sneer causes my heart to beat a little faster.
My heart drops at the spark in her eye as she grips my wrist and pulls me along the corridor toward her bathroom.
I swallow the lump heavy in my throat as she thrusts me inside and hisses, “So you ruined the pretty doll I gave you. Actions have consequences, my darling, so let’s see how you like it.”
I am frozen with fear as she grips my hair in one hand and in the other, she proceeds to hack it off with the scissors. I daren’t struggle because this isn’t the first time she has proven her strength against me, and as my long hair falls on the tiles, Morgan sneers, “My little bad doll. What a shame I must punish you again. Such a bad girl who, it appears, will never learn.”
I stare in horror at my reflection in the mirror as my once long locks are jagged and mere wisps on my head. She has cut it short, like a boy, with no regard, and as she places her hands on my shoulders to admire her handiwork, her cruel sneer catches on my terror.
