Page 57 of Fatal Sloth

Without hesitation, I leave the office, rushing upstairs towards our room. My pulse quickens with each step I take. Bursting into the room, I make a beeline for the closet, where I can hear Mia's muffled sobs, and my eyes immediately find her huddled, half-dressed in a ball of crinkled clothes, lying on the floor.

“Piccolina, what’s wrong?” I breathe, my voice thick with concern as I drop to my knees beside her. Gently, I gather her trembling form into my arms, pulling her close to me. The sight of her vulnerability pierces through me, tearing at my cold heart.

“It doesn't fit,” she says between sobs. "I couldn’t get the dress to zip up."

“I prefer undressing you, but I'll zip your dress up. Don't cry, Piccolina,” I whisper, pressing a gentle kiss to the crown of her head. A fragile smile tugs at the corners of her lips as I help her stand.

I feel Mia’s body tense as she turns around, allowing me access to the zipper. The air thickens with my frustration as Mia sucks in, and I attempt to move the zipper up, but it doesn't budge, and I feel Mia's shoulders slump forward with an audible sob escaping her lips. Abandoning the zipper, I grab both sides of the fabric and tear the dress down the seam, pulling it away from her delicate skin. The only sound that lingers is the echo of ripping fabric.

Mia gasps, her eyes widening as she takes in my impulsive action. The surprise on her face fades to warmth as she turns to face me, and our eyes meet. "I told you I prefer undressing you," I remark with a satisfied smile, tossing the torn remnants over my shoulder in an attempt to lighten the mood with a hint of humor.

Now that the dress is no longer an option, Mia will need a new one––one that won’t fuck with la piccola ballerina’s feelings. I don't hit women, but I could slap that plastic bitch for sending Mia a dress small enough to fit a twelve-year-old. Why do I have a feeling she did this on purpose?

Pezzo di merda.

Without taking my eyes away from Mia, I call for Marie, one of the very few I fully trust. When Marie knocks on my door a short while later, I hand her my black card, and direct her to select several dress options for Mia in various colors and sizes. Marie looks past me and notices Mia at the closet doorway, holding the shreds of the ruined dress to conceal her exposed body. They seem to have created a close bond since Mia’s been here, and if it were anyone else, I’d carve their eyes out of their fucking head for seeing her half-dressed, but Marie treats Mia like a daughter.

She walks toward Mia, asking a few quick questions about preferences before running out to salvage Mia’s wardrobe malfunction. Just before she leaves, she gently rubs my arm, a silent understanding that needs no words.

Just as Marie walks out of the room, Mia strides toward me, allowing the tattered remnants of the dress to fall to the floor. Her arms hook around my neck as I instinctively wrap mine around her waist, drawing her close.

"Thank you," she murmurs, her warm breath grazing my neck. I hold her tighter, my hand gently moving down the small of her back.

Since Mia has put on a few much-needed pounds, there's been a noticeable change in her demeanor. She started carrying herself with a newfound confidence, no longer afraid or timid to step into the kitchen and indulge in a meal. Nowadays, her portion sizes are anything but nonexistent. Now, she'll even go for seconds without hesitation.

I silently hope this doesn't cause a setback for her.

Sure, I may only know the surface-level details of her upbringing, but that doesn't matter to me. What matters is that she doesn't need to worry about maintaining a certain weight, not with me by her side. La piccola ballerina is sexy as hell at any weight, and I'll gladly worship every inch of her. Besides, I’m a big guy and need a woman with a bit of meat on her bones.

And so, I wrap my arms around her tightly, pressing a gentle kiss to the nape of her neck. "You're beautiful, Piccolina, and that dress didn't suit you."

But no matter what I say, I can tell she’s nervous about seeing her father and the Bride of Chucky today. The woman even sent a dress for Mia to wear—a knee-length dress with long sleeves in a color that makes me think of Pepto Bismol, an unappealing shade that wouldn’t flatter anyone, but I’m not telling Mia that.

It gave me great satisfaction to rip it off Mia, not just because I prefer her in less material, but because I know who sent it. I’m not too sure about the rules of parenting, but I thought you stopped dressing your kids before puberty, not in their twenties.

But what the hell do I know?

The change catches me off guard. When did I start feeling this way about her? I don’t think I can pinpoint the exact moment, but the mere thought of someone hurting Mia ignites a primal fury within me. It's like a wildfire, raging through my veins, ready to incinerate anyone who dares to hurt her. It’s like she's all I can think about, and I want to keep her protected.

Initially, I figured I just needed one taste, to bed her once and be done. But then I get one taste of her, and damn! Now, the only thing that can break my attention away from work is Mia herself.

Piccola ballerina is a temptress. Every time she's around, my dick jumps to attention. She's like a drug, one that I'm addicted to. No matter how hard I try to fight it, I know that I'll always come crawling back for another fix.

Call it cliché, but I'm completely under her spell, and I wouldn't have it any other way. I'll gladly surrender to her. In fact, I'll wear it like a badge of honor. Maybe I'll ink it into my skin next, a declaration of my devotion to keeping her safe and protected.

33

Mia

In the aftermath of the ordeal, I try to shake the feeling of being trapped. The memory of the suffocating fabric still clings to me. It serves as a reminder of the constant expectations and pressure that often come with any interactions with Dad and Karen. As I glance back at the discarded remnants of the dress on the floor, a shiver runs down my spine. But Sebastiano’s warm embrace gives me a sense of security that I desperately crave, giving me the courage to push through the lingering feeling of unease.

Feeling resolute, I gently step away from Sebastiano's hug. Moving to the dresser, I grab one of his shirts, finding comfort in its familiar smell as I pull it over my head.

Sebastiano never leaves the room; instead, he settles near the window, tapping away on his phone. It's comforting to know he's here, yet he gives me the space I need to collect myself. With each steady breath, I attempt to calm my racing heart. I take a moment to compose myself, my fingers trembling as I sweep my hair off my neck and away from my face.

Then, I turn to the mirror and begin applying makeup, hoping to conceal the puffiness around my eyes, but nothing can help the vulnerability I feel at this moment. Focusing on my makeup routine, I start by applying a light layer of foundation, carefully blending it to even out my complexion. A touch of blush adds a subtle flush to my cheeks, while a few coats of mascara bring definition to my lashes. Reaching for my trusty MAC Creme in Your Coffee lipstick, I glide the creamy shade across my lips, adding a hint of color and giving me a touch of confidence in my appearance.

Satisfied with the result, I set aside my makeup and shift my attention to my hair. Opting for a simple yet elegant look, I run a brush through my hair, creating soft waves to add body and cascade gracefully down my shoulders. It's a simple look that will go with any outfit Marie brings back.

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