by Sophie Stern
“I…I…”
“Find her,” Farwol commands, and I hear his men burst into my father’s bedroom. This is it. I’m next. They’re going to find me and take me to him. I scoot back further under the bed. All thoughts of being brave flee as I wonder what’s going to happen to me.
Maybe they won’t look under here.
Maybe they won’t see me.
Maybe…
But then the door to my room opens and they walk inside. I see two pairs of muddy boots enter and move to the center of the bedroom.
“She’s not ‘ere,” one of the men says.
They didn’t look under the bed.
I’m safe.
They didn’t find me.
I breathe a sigh of relief, but when I do, my breath kicks up a little flutter of dust from the bedroom floor and before I can stop myself, I let out the loudest sneeze of my life.
“Never mind!” The man says, reaching under the bed. “Found her.”
Chapter 2
I wiggle and thrash my body around as the man pulls me from beneath the bed, but he’s much stronger than I am.
“Feisty little thing,” the man says. He hauls me to my feet and whirls me around, pinning my arms between my back and his chest. I’m stuck now. He wraps a thick, muscular arm over my stomach, yanking me tightly against him. “Don’t move, sweetheart,” he says. “You wouldn’t want to get hurt.”
“Fuck you,” I spit.
“And she’s ill-mannered,” the second man says. The two men guide me roughly out of my bedroom and in the main room where my father is standing beside the biggest, tallest, handsomest man I have ever seen in my life.
It must be Forwal.
It has to be.
He’s taller than I expected; his head almost reaches the ceiling. His shoulders are broad and he’s wearing a snug-fitting shirt that shows off his muscles. The shirt is tucked into a pair of pants that are also too tight and I close my eyes before I have a chance to truly finish looking at him.
This is the man who is ruining my father’s life.
This is the man who is about to ruin my life.
I can’t be attracted to him. That’s wrong. It’s so, so wrong. I can’t be turned on by the way these men are treating me roughly, by the way they’re forcing me to do their bidding. In fairytales, the princesses are always innocent and sweet. They’re never bad or dirty. They never have unclean thoughts about men. They never have dark desires.
Not like me.
“Please,” my father says. “Leave her alone. I’ll do anything you want. Anything!”
“I’m afraid that your word is no longer any good,” Forwal says. I hear him take a step toward me. “Considering the promises you made me just three months ago. You may promises to pay that you have failed to keep, Alerion.”
“I’ll do better,” my father says. “I just need more time.”
“Time is something I will not give you,” Forwal moves closer. I can hear him, smell him. I think if I reach out, I’ll be able to touch him, but my arms are still pinned behind me. With my eyes squeezed shut, all of my other senses are heightened, and I’m very aware of how my body must look at this moment.
My breasts are pushed outward: an offering, an invitation. My lips are pursed together, but judging by the growing dampness between my legs, I’d guess they look sultry: not angry. My breathing is heavy and rushed, which further pushes my breasts out. They’re heaving and heavy. I’m not even wearing a corset. I know Forwal can see all of me, but the thought doesn’t humiliate me the way it should.
“What is your name, girl?” He says. The thought of refusing to answer his question doesn’t pass through my mind.
“Evelyn,” I whisper. “But I’m called Eve.”
“Well, Evelyn,” he says, ignoring my nickname. “You’ll be coming with me. Say goodbye to your father now. You won’t be seeing him again.”
“No!” My father cries out, but the man behind me suddenly releases me and pushes me forward. I open my eyes in time to stop myself from careening into my papa.
“Say goodbye,” Forwal repeats.
“Goodbye, Papa,” I whisper, hugging my father tightly. I plant a chaste kiss on his cheek, which is already wet with tears.
“I’m sorry, Eve,” he says.
“It’s okay, Papa.”
“I’ll find a way to get you back, Eve.”
“I’ll be fine, Papa.”
“That’s enough,” Forwal says. He doesn’t offer to let me gather any of my clothes or belongings. He doesn’t give me anymore time. He simply motions for me to follow him out the front door and somehow, I manage to force myself to move. Somehow, I manage to go with him.
There’s a large carriage outside with a driver sitting out front. Two horses are connected to the carriage. There are another two horses with saddles and baggage. I suppose those are for Forwal’s goons.
“Get in the carriage,” Forwal commands, and once again, I obey him wordlessly. I should turn around and look at my childhood home. I should turn around and try to get one last glimpse of my father. I should turn around and whisper goodbye to the place I was born, the place I was raised, but I don’t. Instead, I climb into the carriage and sit down. Then I place my hands in my lap.
Forwal says something to his men before joining me. I can’t make out the words and I’m not truly listening. My life is going to be different now. My life has changed. Everything is going to be new and strange.
I’m not sure how I’m supposed to feel.
Forwal climbs into the carriage and closes the door. I expect him to sit across from me, but he doesn’t. Instead, he sits directly next to me on the bench. He scoots over until our hips are touching and he places one of his hands on my thigh.
I don’t flinch.
I should flinch.
A proper girl would flinch.
That’s what a good girl would do.
I’m not really a good girl.
The thought floats through my mind quickly before I banish it, along with all my other secret dreams and fantasies. Those are the things I keep locked away, the things no one must ever know about. Those are the things I must hold close to my heart. Those are the secrets I must never share.
Forwal doesn’t speak. Instead, he simply sits with his hand on my thigh, reminding me silently that I am his now. He can do with me as he wishes. If he wants to lock me in a dungeon, he can. If he wants to make me his servant, he can. If he wants to toss me in a bedroom and play with me, he can. He can do his bidding.
There is nothing I can do to stop him.
I should feel sadder. I should feel fear. I should feel so many things that I don’t, and I wonder what could possibly be wrong with me. Most women would be crying, begging for their lives. Most women would be asking their captor not to touch them, not to hurt them, but I’m not doing that.
I’m not begging because I don’t want him to take his hand away.
I don’t want him not to touch me.
The carriage jerks to a start and Farwol keeps his hand in place as we ride into the night. I don’t know where we’re going.
And I don’t know what’s going to happen to me.
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Take Your Time
Want more contemporary romance from Sophie Stern? Check out this sample of TAKE YOUR TIME: a contemporary ménage romance.
I take the long way home because after ending my relationship with my parents, I need a freaking break. Driving through the mountains is the perfect way to unwind and chill out before I go back to the real world. At least, that's what I think until I'm caught in a freak snowstorm and find myself stranded in the mountains.
I'm lost without cell service and there's no help coming.
I'm lost without a family.
And that's when the lumberjacks come to my rescue. At least, they LOOK like lumberjacks. Keagan and Eli are strong, fit, and brave. They're everything I want and everything I don't n
eed right now.
My life is messed up enough as it is without throwing a menage relationship into the mix.
But I can't help what I want.
And something tells me they want me, too.
Turn the page to read the first two chapters OR visit Amazon to get your copy now!
1
Melody
Family reunions are the worst.
They’re literally, absolutely, completely the worst.
I didn’t even want to go to mine, but my mother offered me a free guilt-trip, and I accepted. That’s the problem with me: guilt wins me over. Every time. It’s like a sickness or a disease. I always say I’m going to stand up for myself, but in the end, I’m weak. In the end, I’d rather not rock the boat, especially when it comes to family. I don’t know why I still think this way, why I’m still stuck in this mode of thinking because they’ve never been there for me.
I’ve always been on my own and somehow, I’ve managed to do all right for myself. I have a decent job and I make decent money. I have an apartment and a car. My student loans are paid off. Somehow, none of that matters when you enter the world of a family reunion, though.
Somehow, what matters then is when I’m going to have a baby or when I’m going to get married or when I’m going to buy a house. Somehow, what matters is that I’m still a little overweight and not nearly as thin as my younger sister, Mandy. What matters at family reunions is that I have too many piercings and not enough modesty.
What matters is that I don’t fit in.
And I never have.
“It’s not that I’m telling you to lose weight,” my mother says, picking up a carrot and waving it around. “It’s just that I think you’ll be happier.”
“I’m happy the way I am, Mom,” I insist. She glares at me when I reach for the cookie on my plate, and I don’t pick it up. Instead, I act like I was reaching for a piece of celery, and she nods in approval as I start to munch on that, instead. Inside, I hate the way I’m giving in to her. I might talk a big game, but I’m avoiding things I want to eat because I don’t want her to complain or fuss at me.
“She’ll never get a man looking like that,” Uncle Henry says, walking by the picnic table where I’m sitting with my mother. He shakes his head as he makes his way over to Aunt Eloise, who is much too thin for her height.
My entire family is much too thin, I’ve decided. I’m the only normal one. That must be it. They all have body issues and self-esteem issues and they definitely all have eating disorders. Why else would they all be so gangly and scrawny?
It’s not me.
There’s nothing wrong with me.
I repeat this silently to myself, over and over. There’s nothing wrong with me. I’m fine the way I am. I don’t know if I really believe this anymore, though. As much as I hate to admit it, I’m starting to question whether I really am fine.
Maybe they’re right.
Maybe there is something wrong with me.
Maybe there’s a reason all of my friends are getting married and I, at 29 years old, am not. Maybe there’s a reason the rest of the world really has settled down and I seem to be content with my same old job, with my same old life. Maybe there’s a reason for all of it. I don’t know.
I can’t think straight anymore.
Suddenly, I realize I’m close to tears and if there’s one thing I promised myself I would never do, it’s let my family know just how deeply their words really affect me.
“Excuse me,” I say, getting up from the table.
“It’s almost time for games,” my mother says, wrinkling her nose, as if the idea of me missing a game is just too much for her to handle.
“I need to use the restroom,” I say. I need to be polite right now, proper. I need to have good manners even though no one else seems to have them.
My mother presses her lips tightly together in a thin line and glares at me. Usually, she gives me this look and I cave. We don’t live together. I don’t even see her that often: maybe just twice a month. It doesn’t matter, though. She glares and I obey. It’s what I’ve always done. I’ve always been this huge pushover, but right now, I don’t want to be.
I stand and climb back over the attached bench, then head toward the restrooms.
“Well, I never! That ungrateful-” I block out the sound of my mother’s voice and make my way toward the bathrooms. I just need a few minutes to get myself together, a few minutes to calm down and unwind, and then I can go back to being the daughter. Then I can go back to being the well-mannered overweight dork nobody likes. Yeah.
What a life, right?
The tears are already streaming down my cheeks when I reach the bathrooms. I push open the door and go into a stall to cry. Somehow, I manage to do this silently. Good. I don’t want to draw any more attention to myself than I already have. The last thing I need is for someone to judge me further. The last thing I need is for someone to know how much their words really hurt me.
Suddenly, the door to the bathroom squeaks open and I hear giggling and laughter.
It’s Mandy, my little sister, and two of our cousins. I will myself to be silent until they leave, will myself to be invisible for just a little while. Just a little while and then I can sneak out of here, go back to the party, and socialize for another hour or two.
We only have these get-togethers once a year. All of the cousins and aunts and uncles from all over Colorado meet up and share an afternoon picnic. My mother promises it’s a chance to “catch up,” but that just means it’s a chance for people to gossip and figure out who’s doing the best for themselves.
Every year for as long as I can remember, I’ve hated the family picnic.
It’s never been fun for me and as far as I can tell, it’s not fun for anyone else, either. So why do we do this? Why do we get together and have this charade? Why do we get together and pretend we all like each other?
Obviously, we don’t.
“Can you believe what she was wearing?” Adele asks, and I cringe. They’re going to be talking about me, of course. What else is there to gossip about? No one else has screwed up majorly this year. No one got arrested or lost their job. The only fuck-up is me: the fat girl.
“So hideous,” Mandy says, and Janet laughs.
“She thinks she looks good,” Janet says.
“She doesn’t.” Mandy’s voice is harsh, shrill, and suddenly, I wonder why I’m here. Why did I even come? Do I really have a family obligation to be here? Do I really have an obligation to be around people who hate my guts?
“I feel bad for you,” Adele says. “She’s your sister, you know. Her looks reflect on you.”
I’m almost 30 years old and I’m hiding in the bathroom because my family hates me. I’m at an event that I chose to come to, and I’m hiding in the bathroom.
There is something seriously wrong here, and the realization is a little bit freeing, to be honest.
Suddenly, I understand I shouldn’t have come.
Suddenly, I realize no one would have missed me.
Suddenly, I realize it’s time to cut ties with my family and move on.
It’s time to be strong.
It’s time to be brave.
It’s time to be a fucking adult.
I push the stall door open and walk over to the group of women gathered at the sink. They looked surprised to see me. Mandy has the decency to blush briefly, but Adele and Janet just stare at me.
“Melody,” Mandy says. “We, uh, didn’t know you were in here.”
“Obviously,” I say, then I give her a chance to say something for herself, but she doesn’t. Mandy doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t deny what she said, she doesn’t apologize, and she doesn’t make up anything to ease the tension in the room.
She just stares at me, and I realize I don’t know her at all.
I never did.
“You know what, Mandy? Adele was right.”
“Um, she was?” Mandy looks confused.
“I
feel bad for you, too,” I say, and Adele suddenly grins, but the smirk doesn’t last for long because I keep talking. “Yeah, I feel bad that you’re such a shallow person you have to put others down to feel good about yourself. What is this? Third grade?”
“Hey,” Janet inserts herself into the conversation. “That’s not nice.”
“Oh, you want to talk about ‘nice’? Is that what you want to do? Sure. We can do that. Let’s talk about how nice it is that your husband cheats on you with Adele when you’re not around. Let’s talk about how he was arrested for drunk driving three weeks ago. Oh, or we could talk about the fact that you’re still unemployed because no one wants to hire an employee who steals.”
“Melody!” Mandy tries to shush me. She looks around wildly, like someone is going to hear. “That’s not polite.”
“No, it’s not polite, Mandy. It’s not polite that Adele is a cheater. It’s not polite that she thinks it’s okay to mess around with her cousin’s husband. It’s not polite that you’ve known about it all year and never said anything. It’s not polite that you’ve slept with him, too.”
“WHAT?” Janet shrieks and starts hitting Mandy before I’ve even left the bathroom. I should feel bad about everything I just said, but I don’t. For the first time I can remember, I stood up for myself, and it feels really good. It feels great.
I head out of the bathroom and walk straight to my car. I don’t bother looking over at the park pavilion or peeking at who is gathered there. I don’t want to say goodbye to my parents or aunts or uncles. I don’t plan on speaking to them again.
After today, they can consider the relationships severed. I don’t know why I didn’t do this before. I don’t know why I wasn’t brave before. I don’t know why I didn’t stand up for myself before.
The truth is that not talking with them isn’t going to change my life in any way. I’ll still go to work. I’ll still pay my bills. I’ll still study in my free time and I’ll still hang out with my friends. The difference is that I won’t feel guilty when my mother sees me eat food. I won’t feel bad about myself when my father wants to know why I don’t have a husband. I won’t be comparing myself to my little sister.
