Honest

nineteen

My heart beats in my ears.

"Giuseppe—”

His eyes are rimmed with something I see in the mirror. A deadness that loves to see others suffer.

“Desiree,” He purrs. “How about we go to bed. Leave dinner, huh?”

He takes my hand, pulling me into the bedroom.

“I won't give you what you want,” I whisper. “I don't want to be with you.”

He smiles. “Then I'll just keep hurting you until you do. Mentally. Physically. Emotionally. I will break you down, until all you care about is me.”

Ba-dum. Ba-dum.

All this, to see if I have fire?

No! That can't be—

“Pay attention to me," He coos, putting his hands on my waist. I feel the heat of his hand through the fabric of my shirt.

“I want to leave," I whisper.

“I thought you were going to burn my world down, kitty?"

I swallow. No. If I give him what he wants he'll just keeping come back, like an infection, eating away at me, until I'm nothing left.

But if I don't...

If I bid my time, and make every decision count—if I strike him with my full force—he can't come back.

I'd have to do it right the first time.

No one can help me here. Daddy can't save me from him.

And I can't give him what he wants. I have to succumb. I have to cave.

I have to break.

And then...then I strike.

So I let him undress me. I let him do what he wants. I wince, and I cry, and pretend I'm in pain.

This is the way to rid myself of him. In the few short weeks I've known him he's proven to be a plague.

“Is this your strategy? Wait me out?" he asks, his fingertips brushing my shoulders.

I shrug him off.

“You won't let me go? I gave you what you want—”

“You think it's your p***y I'm after? Magically as it is,” He smirks, brushing his fingertips down the curve of my side. "There's plenty just like it.”

I close my eyes. It's just a waiting game. That's all. Just a waiting ga—

“Do you think you can out wait me? Do you think I'll pull my punches?” he whispers in my ear.

“Do you think I have a shred of decency? Because I don't. Not now. It's not in my best interest.”

I ignore him. He sighs, reaching over me, he raises my leg, slipping his hand between my thighs. He lets it sit there.

“It's okay, Desiree. We'll figure it out, dear.”

“Why are you so obsessed with me," I hiss.

He chuckles. “Because you're so perfect. So f*****g perfect Desiree. And who's fault is that? Huh? Mine?”

He's a lunatic.

That's it.

“We can go shopping for clothes tommorow. Because you're not leaving.”

I clench my jaw. Don't let your temper best you, Desi. If you go off on him now, it'll feed his obsession, and show your hand.

Just wait. Just wait.

“Let's see how far you're willing to stoop to avoid me, baby.”