Page 4 of Poisoned Vows

Lilliana

Istare down at the dress on the bed, wondering if I’m going to be sick.

Now that the moment is here, I’m not sure how I’m going to manage it. I’m on my own when it comes to getting ready, but my hands are shaking, and I feel so nauseated that I almost think I might have to lie down. My teeth are clenched together so hard that they hurt.

I heard my father’s conversation earlier. Eavesdropping is something that could earn me days without food or water, but I had a feeling that I’d bepresentedtonight—or very soon, at least. The appearance of the new dress in my closet, more expensive than anything else I own and elegantly seductive, seems to be too big of a coincidence, coupled with a private phone call. So I risked it. And what I heard made me want to run.

Not that I’d get out of the house. The doors are all barred from the outside with a separate iron grating, unlockable only by a key that my father keeps on him at all times. The only window that I could escape through, via the fire escape, is in the living room—and that one is barred and locked as well. If I were alone at home, and there was a fire, I’d fucking burn to death, or have to jump from a twelfth-story window.

I’ve often wanted to ask my father how he’d feel if his meal ticket burned up in a fire, all because he’s so intent on keeping me imprisoned. I’ve never had the nerve.

You can use her as you like.Those were the words that made my gut twist, the implications that made me feel as if I won’t be able to go through with it.

I don’t know why I thought there would be any other outcome. It’s not as if my father cares for my personal well-being. It’s been made very clear to me that the only thing that matters is that I please thepakhanenough to ensure he accepts my father’s offer. My own happiness and safety aren’t taken into consideration. So I don’t know why I would have thought that my father might caution him not to hurt me in any permanent way.

If that’s what pleases thepakhan, then that’s what will please my father.

I’ve always known I had to manage to survive this until the end. It just didn’t really sink in, I suppose, until right then.

I might not live through this. Hell, I might not live through tonight.

I know just how brutal these Bratva men can be. I’ve heard stories. And right now, as I stare down at the dress on the bed, a hundred violent scenarios are running through my head, each one worse than the last.

Just get dressed, Lilliana. That’s the future. This is the present, and if you make him wait, you’ll suffernow.

That’s the only thing that gets me moving. Iknowhow it feels to endure my father’s anger, and keeping him waiting today of all days wouldn’t be in my best interests.

The dress is pale blue, a few shades lighter than my eyes. It has a fitted bodice with a deep v that dips low, a few inches above my navel, the material tight enough to hold my breasts in place. The shoulders are a few fingers wide, held by silver rose-shaped clasps that can be flicked open easily, and the skirt is fitted to my shape, pooling around my feet and slit up to my thighs on either side. It’s a dress meant to showcase all my best assets, a dress meant to put me on display.

I have no choice but to wear it. It’s beautiful, but I feel bare in it, even though nothing is actually exposed beyond my cleavage and a long stretch of leg on either side. It’s not indecent, but it feels more so than something skimpier might have, because it draws the eye to everything a man could want to look at.

It doesn’t help that, per the instructions I was given, I’m wearing nothing underneath it. No bra, no panties. It’s the dress only, and beneath that, I’m bare.

I’m an offering, all of me made accessible to the man I’m being sacrificed to.

I try not to think about it as I go through the rest of the motions. Light makeup, curled hair left long and loose around my shoulders. A dab of rosy lipstick to accentuate my full lips. Thin liner, gold shadow, and mascara to make my eyes look wider. My nails have been done, my hair cut and highlighted. There’s nothing else that could be done to make me look any more beautiful. I’m supposed to feel honored by this, pampered and polished to be given over for my father’s elevation.

I feel disgusted. And tonight, I’ll have to try to hide that.

Or maybe I won’t. Maybe he won’t care.

My father is equally well-groomed when I meet him downstairs. He’s waiting by the door, hair combed back, in a pressed suit. His gaze rakes over me in a way that no father should ever look at his daughter, assessing how fuckable I am. How likely I am to make the Bratvapakhanget a hard-on he can’t ignore.

“Lovely,” he murmurs, circling me. “Absolute perfection.” And then, he faces me once again as he tips my face up into the light, examining my makeup. “As long as you keep your mouth shut until he requests otherwise, this night should go perfectly.”

Of course, he couldn’t compliment me without also cutting me down.It’s also a lie—I’ve been taught to be charming and well-spoken all my life, for this exact night. Although—I also have a sharp tongue, when I can’t force myself to control it any longer.

Tonight I’ll do my best to keep it under wraps. For my own sake, if nothing else.

There’s an Uber waiting outside for us. My father locks the door, his hand on my elbow as he steers me towards the waiting SUV—black with tinted windows—and it’s all I can do not to laugh. It’s the perfect allegory for my father’s entire life—something very much like what he wishes he could have, but a cheap imitation of it. Not a bulletproof SUV of his own to be driven around in, but something to let him imagine that one day he could have that.

I want to tell him that even if this all goes off flawlessly, he’ll never be anything but someone in service to more powerful men. That he’ll never be apakhan, not even a second-in-command. He’ll still be a lackey, even if he’s in the inner circle. And one day, his ambition will outstrip his machinations, and he’ll end up in pieces at the bottom of the Chicago river.

But I keep my tongue leashed. After all, I’d like for it still to be in my mouth when this is all over. And I wouldn’t put it past my father to give thepakhanideas about what kind of depraved things he could do to me while he enjoys me.

I breathe slowly, in and out, as I slide into the car. The interior is cool and smells of clean leather, and there’s a bottle of water in the back of the seat in front of me. I reach for it, and my father instantly snatches my hand away as the driver pulls away from the curb.

“I don’t know how long thepakhanwill keep us waiting,” he says in a low, harsh tone. “I won’t have you asking where you can piss in the meantime, and risk not being ready when he calls for us.”

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