Braveheart a love story Page 3

  “Yes,” he said, his dead eyes scanning her body as he nodded slowly. “Yes, you deserve it.”

  “That’s right. I deserve it,” she whispered, her voice low and heavy but tinged with relief.

  Then, over her shoulder, she made eye contact with me. And for the rest of my life, I would remember the dread in her blue eyes. They weren’t vulnerable anymore, and they definitely weren’t hopeful. They were barely hanging on. She didn’t try to smile for me. In fact, her lips barely moved as she mouthed, “Get out.”

  “Yes,” said Mosier, adjusting the belt in his hands as he looked over my mother’s shoulder at me. “Leave, cenuşă. Christ will forgive you.”

  I didn’t need to understand the inscription on the plaque over the fireplace to finish the rest of his thought: . . . but I will never forget.

  I walked out of that study and closed the door behind me.

  My mother’s screams lasted for hours.

  The next day I was sent for early enrollment at the Blessed Virgin Academy.

  ***

  My bedroom in Mosier’s house has never really felt like my own space. It has just been a place to stay when I returned home from school for two months over the summer and for a few days at Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter.

  School is where I feel most comfortable, surrounded by the nuns and laywomen who teach us and live among us, and Father Joseph, who has been my spiritual guide and confessor since I arrived at the Blessed Virgin Academy five years ago. He is the father I never had, and I long to see him now—to ask for his guidance and prayers for my future. At dinner, I will ask Mosier if I can return to school tomorrow.

  I sit on the edge of the twin bed, which is covered with a pink and white toile comforter and has gauzy pink curtains tied back on either side of the headboard. It is a room fit for a princess, with white faux-fur carpeting, an overstuffed love seat in front of the white-tiled fireplace, and a shiny silver chandelier overhead. I loved it when I first arrived in Scarsdale but quickly grew to hate it. It feels like too much. Too fussy. Too ornate. Too expensive. How does one earn a room that costs as much as this one does?

  I managed to hide Gus’s card in my bra when Damon wasn’t looking, and now I withdraw it, examining it carefully and committing the information to memory. I’m good at memorizing things. I always have been.

  La Belle Époque Galerie ~ 5900 Shelburne Road ~ Shelburne, VT ~ 05482

  Augustus Egér and Jock Souris, Owners

  Jock. Hmm. I wonder who Jock is. Someone special or just a business partner?

  And Shelburne. Where is Shelburne, Vermont?

  I repeat the information over and over again inside my head, then flip over the card, grateful when it all comes seamlessly back to me. I rip the card into tiny shreds and throw the pieces into the white wicker trash can next to the powder-pink bedside table.

  And not a moment too soon.

  Knock, knock.

  A crisp double knock. It’s Mosier.

  I haven’t had time to process the way my stepfather touched me at the reading of my mother’s will, but I feel jumpy and scared when I think about it. The way Mosier looks at me—the way he touched me today—it feels wrong. All wrong.

  Knock, knock.

  Louder now. More insistent.

  Sitting on the side of my bed, I press my knees together under my skirt and call out, “Come in,” with an unsteady voice.

  The door opens and Mosier steps into the room.

  My fifty-one-year-old stepfather, who believes he’s my brother-in-law, is tall, dark, and muscular. The sleeves of his shiny, dark gray suit jacket strain over his upper arms, though his pants are tailored perfectly. This is by design, of course, to show the world his muscles, to dare lesser men to take a swing at him and regret it later.

  His hair, shaved to a half an inch and oiled, makes his head look like a glistening black bowling ball. It smells strongly of the product he uses, which is spicy and thick and has always turned my stomach.

  I don’t need to look at him to picture his face in my mind: he keeps a permanent five-o’clock shadow on his jaw, likely to cover the myriad pockmarks and scars that cover his skin. His eyes are dark brown, and his nose is crooked, likely from being broken multiple times and having never repaired well.

  One time, when Tig and I were standing across the living room from Mosier and his sons, she drew my attention to his lips and lashes. His lips are full and pouty, and his jet-black lashes are so long, they look almost fey.

  “It’s like he had a shot at being handsome once upon a time,” she’d noted in a bitter whisper, “before his black soul took over his face.”

  Since I’ve known Mosier, he’s always left the door cracked an inch when we were alone in a room together. The fact that he doesn’t today makes my heart race and my stomach flip over. I nervously stare down at my lap as he strides across the room in his dark suit to stand before me, a jarring island of dark masculinity in this fluffy pink sanctuary.

  His black shoes stop beneath my gaze, and they are so shiny, I can see my hazy reflection in them.

  “Cenuşă, look at me.”

  I fold my hands so they’ll stop shaking and look up at him.

  “Mmm,” he groans, tilting his head to the side and rubbing the black bristles on his jaw between his thumb and forefinger. “So beautiful.” He drops his hand and tilts his head to the other side, cajolingly. “Don’t you have a hello for me?”

  “H-hello, frate.”

  “Frate. Brother. Hmm,” he hums softly, narrowing his eyes at me. “Your sister is gone now. You can call me Mosier.”

  I gulp, unsure of what to say. Calling him frate was his idea. It’s what I’ve called him since the day we met. Why should we change it now?

  “Say it,” he commands. “Say my name. Say ‘Hello, Mosier.’”

  Why it feels wrong to say his name, I’m not sure, but he is staring down at me expectantly, so I whisper, “Hello, M-Mosier.”

  “Yes,” he says, his plump lips lifting to a grin as he lowers himself to his knees on the floor before me. “Cenuşă, cenuşă, cenuşă,” he moans softly, his mouth not far from my knees. “Beautiful cenuşă. My angel.”

  He hasn’t touched me, but everything in me rejects his close proximity and the tenderness in his voice when he draws out my nickname and calls me angel. He smells strongly of thick, spicy hair oil mixed with cigars, and it makes my stomach bubble up uncomfortably. I don’t like the way he is looking at me, and I don’t like the way he touched me under the table during the reading of my mother’s will. I didn’t like the noises I heard coming from the bedroom he shared with my mother, or the screams I heard—more than once—coming from his study. I don’t like it that my mother died of a drug overdose when I saw her two weeks ago for Easter and she seemed, well, not okay, maybe, but not on anything either.

  There is almost nothing I like about the man on his knees before me. I wish he would stand up, turn around, and leave. Why is the door closed? Why is he here? What does he want from me?

  My curiosity gets the better of me, and I look up at him, instantly sorry that I didn’t keep my gaze down. Behind his dark brown eyes, I don’t see kindness or compassion. I see insatiable want. I see ruthlessness. I see desire and demand.

  I can hear the beating of my heart in my ears.

  When he reaches out and places his hand on my left knee, I jerk it away.

  “Oh, cenuşă,” he says, clamping his hand on my kneecap and digging his fingers through the thin crepe and into my tender flesh, “your modesty does you credit.” He leans his dark head down and rests his cheek on my right knee, facing his hand. “But you will learn to welcome my touch.” Rotating his head just slightly, the movement forces my knees apart, and he presses his lips to the fabric covering my lower thigh. “Or not.”

  “What . . .” I am breathless, trying to figure out what is going on here. “W-what do you mean?”

  “Tell me, sweet cenuşă, have you studied the Book of Deuteronomy? A
t school?” He lifts his head but not his hand, which he slides higher, kneading the flesh of my thigh through the black crepe of my skirt. “In Deuteronomy, there is something called a levirate marriage. You have heard of it?”

  I am well versed in Scripture, but my mind is too jumbled to focus on the specific text he’s referring to.

  “I, um . . .”

  “It is an ancient law that says that if a man dies, his widow shall marry his brother.”

  “I . . . I remember now,” I gasp, desperate for him to remove his hand.

  “But I am not sexist, cenuşă. I believe it can work both ways.”

  I scramble to follow his meaning. “Both ways?”

  “If I lose my wife, should I be alone?”

  I suck in a deep breath, trying to focus on his words as his hand slides higher. It rests, hot and heavy, midway between my knee and the apex of my thighs.

  “I don’t . . . I don’t know,” I answer truthfully, feeling scared and confused.

  “I don’t think I should have to suffer loneliness. Do you?”

  “You could . . . you could find someone new to marry,” I whisper, his words starting to shape into an idea that I push against, that I am repulsed by. “When y-you’re ready.”

  “Why wouldn’t I be ready . . . now?” he asks, his voice low and mellow but underscored with an insistence that makes my stomach churn with dread.

  “Tig. My s-sister. She was . . . she was your wife. You loved her. You’ll n-need some . . . some time . . .”

  “Time?” he demands, his fingers clenching my flesh so hard that I wince. He must notice my reaction, because his fingers become gentler, petting me as though trying to soothe me. “You are so innocent.” His hand slides higher, rubbing my thigh insistently, his thumb closer and closer to a spot that the nuns and priests have forbidden us to think about, let alone touch—let alone let someone else touch. His eyes are mean when he looks up at me and asks, “Do you think I married your slut sister because I loved her? You cannot be that stupid.”

  I freeze, trapped in his intense stare.

  “My little cenuşă,” he says slowly, leaning down to press his lips to my right knee before looking back up at me, “I married her . . . for you.”

  The room spins, and my stomach, which has been upset all day, heaves, bile and acid burning the base of my throat.

  “F-for me?”

  “I wanted you the first time I saw you. But you were only thirteen . . .” His voice drifts off as his thumb circles and presses. “So fresh. So young. Beautiful. Pure. Do you know what I saw as you walked down Rodeo Drive next to your stupid, junkie sister? I saw someone I could mold into my own. Someone who would be everything I wanted in a woman. Pious. Modest. All mine.”

  This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening.

  “But . . . y-you . . . you were married to m-my . . . my . . .”

  “You’re not listening,” he says. “I married your whore sister for you. All for you, my little darling. A means to an end.” His chuckle is low-pitched and pleased, and I clench my jaw to conceal a shudder. “The Bible says it’s allowed. There is no need to feel shame. It won’t be a sin for us to fuck . . .”

  Fuck is a word I heard a great deal in my childhood when I lived with Tígin. But once she married Mosier, my mother stopped cursing, and such profanity has no place at school. Mosier and his boys curse regularly, of course, but the blunt crudeness of Mosier’s suggestion still shocks me, prompting a surprised gasp.

  “. . . as soon as we’re man and wife,” he finishes.

  As his thumb continues pressing against my inner thigh, his free hand drops from my knee to his crotch.

  Man and . . .? He wants . . . No! No, this is impossible. My lungs freeze, and I stare at him, lips agape, eyes wide, burning with tears and horror.

  “I have waited a long time to fuck you long and hard, my sweet cenuşă. And when the beautiful bleeding is finished, I will fuck you until sunup. And then I will come to you again. Every night. All night long.”

  He mumbles something about my being his child bride as the hand in his lap rubs insistently against the growing bulge in his pants. I shudder because his words are terrifying and his touch is revolting, and despite how crudely specific he’s being, I’m still trying to wrap my mind around exactly what he’s saying.

  My mother was buried this morning.

  Is he actually proposing marriage to me on the night of her funeral?

  I lift my head and meet his eyes. They are dark and dilated. Black-coffee brown surrounded by a thin ring of onyx. Drunk with desire.

  Ruthless want.

  “Frate, you can’t—”

  “Mosier!” he growls at me, the hand in his lap moving faster. “Get used to calling me Mosier!”

  “You can’t mean—”

  “Yes! I can,” he groans, his face bobbing slowly up and down. His other hand clasps my upper thigh and his thumb jabs into my womanhood. He slides it back and forth in rhythm with the hand he’s rubbing himself with, and I am beset with a terror, a repulsion so strong, I can’t help myself.

  My stomach heaves and I vomit, without warning, all over his head, his hand, and my lap.

  “Futu-ți pizda mă-tii!” he yells, jerking his hands away and falling backward into a sitting position, his face shocked and disgusted as my vomit seeps between the bristles of his hair and slides down the sides of his ugly face. “Futu-ți dumnezeii mă-tii!”

  The taste of puke in my mouth makes me throw up again, and I buck forward over and over again until there is a small pond of regurgitated food all over my lap, dress, shoes, and Mosier’s once-pristine, faux-fur princess carpeting. At this point, I am crying too, with vomit-laden saliva hanging in strings from my lips.

  I backhand my mouth slowly and look at Mosier, who is now standing. My eyes slide up his form, stopping briefly at the massive, terrifying protrusion at the front of his pants before skipping to his eyes.

  He lifts a finger and jabs it in my direction. “You will welcome my touch! You will beg for it!”

  Never.

  “Or you won’t,” he growls. “I don’t care either way. I own you, cenuşă. I bought you. Your body is mine! Your virginity is mine! Your pussy is mine! Your womb is mine, and I will pump it full of cum and fill it with son after son until you have built me a beautiful fucking empire, do you hear me?”

  Oh, God.

  He runs a hand through his hair, shaking out the puke from his ringed fingers with a sneer. “You and your junkie slut sister were a package deal. I bought her for you, you stupid cunt!”

  This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening.

  He leans forward and grabs my chin harshly, making me cry out with pain.

  His voice is low and lethal when he speaks to me, so close to my face, I can feel the heat of his breath on my skin. His dark, furious eyes stare into mine. “And when one month of decent Catholic mourning has passed . . . the day after your goddamned graduation . . . you will become my wife, cenuşă. Do you understand me? Mă înțelegi? And you will be the perfect, pious, obedient fucking wife that I have waited for, that I have paid for, that I fucking deserve.”

  “No,” I mewl softly, tears streaming down my cheeks as I try to escape his grasp.

  “Yes!” he cries, tightening his bruising grip on my slippery skin. “To be quite clear, sister: You will be mine to fuck . . . any way I want . . . for the rest of my goddamn life. That is your future, cenuşă. That is your destiny. That is the plan.”

  “Please,” I sob, dropping my chin to my chest when he releases it.

  “One month,” he bellows, then turns and leaves the room, slamming the door behind him.

  I fall back on the bed, drawing my knees up to my chest, and weep.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Ashley

  One month.

  One month.

  One month.

  Now his words at the will reading—Ashley will work for me, I have plans for her—make sense.


  My job? His wife. His . . . baby maker.

  Ana, one of the housemaids, comes up to take my soiled clothes and clean my carpet while I step into a steaming shower, resting my forehead against the tiled wall as I replay his words in my head: I married your whore sister for you . . . Someone I could mold into my own . . . Pious. Modest. All mine . . . I own you, cenuşă . . . Your womb is mine . . . You will be mine to fuck . . . any way I want . . . for the rest of my goddamn life.

  That is your future, cenuşă.

  That is your destiny.

  I vomit bile into my mouth and spit it out, watching the bright yellow mucus slide slowly down the wall to the shower floor, where it is swept down the drain. If only I could escape so easily.

  This was his plan all along. From the very beginning. To find a vulnerable woman with a young daughter or sister, and marry her . . . like some sort of perverted two-for-one deal. He planned this from the first day he saw us shopping together. Marrying my mother was a means to an end. And the end, apparently, is me.

  A sob rips from my throat as my shoulders shake with the force of my weeping.

  “Did you know?” I sob aloud, my pitiful voice drowned out by the rush of water. “My God, Tig . . . did you know?”

  Did she sell us both—willfully—into this life?

  Tígin wasn’t a good mother, but she was all I had, and I believed, in her own way, that she cared about me. How could she do this to us? How could she sell us to someone as ruthless as Mosier Răumann?

  Though I don’t know very much about Mosier’s business dealings, my interactions with him and observations of him and his life over the past five years have been enough to paint a picture of his character.

  His house—a massive brick estate in Westchester County, New York—is surrounded by a high black metal fence, and a force of six men, in alternating shifts, always guards the perimeter of the property. They carry handguns and walkie-talkies, and none of them are allowed to look at me. If and when they ever did, Mosier was swift to blacken their eyes or break their noses, as he did his own sons’ that day by the pool.