Merciless: Arranged Marriage Romance Read online

  There’s no glint in this photo though, she’s smiling, holding the dog in her arms while she looks down at it.

  So she wasn’t planning on coming back, then.

  I turn it over and unclip the back of the frame, taking the photo out and throwing the rest of it on the stones at our feet.

  “Give me it back,” she demands, pulling at my arm and telling me everything I needed to know about the sentimental value of this photo.

  I was going to let her keep it after I’d made her suffer a little, but her face and the way she’s looking at me is pissing me off.

  “Do you have copies of this?” I ask her.

  “No. Now give me it back!” She’s almost screaming this time, her face screwed up.

  “No.” I bet no one has ever said the word no to her in her whole blessed life. “Jody, pass me a lighter, mate.”

  He starts smiling, shaking his head but opening his jacket and producing a lighter from the inside of his pocket, anyway. “Tommy, you’re sick.”

  I’m not sick, I am fucking angry though.

  “You’re going to burn it?” Her lip is petted and I think she’s about to stomp her foot any second now, like that petulant little girl I met all those years ago.

  I shake my head at her, smiling. “I’m not going to burn it, princess. You’re going to burn it.”

  Her eyes widen but she recovers quickly. “Take yourself to fuck.”

  I push her up against the side of the car again.

  “You’re going to take this lighter and you’re going to burn it, or I’m going to rip that jacket off your back and march you back up to that party,” I tell her. I don’t shout because I don’t need to.

  I watch her neck move as she swallows. She’s shivering, she needs to be warm in the car but instead she’s standing outside in the cold, shaking her head. “No. Now give me it back.” Her eyes are pleading and her voice breaks right at the end.

  My jacket swamps her, making her look small. The water’s got her mascara running down her eyes, and right now she looks like she’s about to break down.

  Maybe I’m taking this too far?

  But I quickly brush that thought away. Who cares about a photo of a fucking dog? I’m about to take her right back home and she can see the fucking dog in the flesh.

  And it’s not about the dog. It’s about teaching her a lesson. It’s about letting her know she can’t fuck with me and get away with it.

  “You’re testing my patience. Get it done and we can all go home and get back to celebrating your birthday.”

  She snorts at my remark, and just like that, in the space of a heartbeat, the mask of innocence and hurt she’s been wearing drops. It’s as if I’d been imagining it a second ago.

  “One,” I say, taking a step towards her and resting my hand, with the photo, on the roof of the car. She searches my face, trying to see if I’m bluffing. I’m not fucking bluffing this time.

  “Two.” My other hand comes up, effectively boxing her in against the car and I grab a hold of the neck of the jacket. One sharp tug and I’ll have it off her arms before she can blink. Her eyes flit around now, moving from me, to my friends, to the illuminated building in the distance. Her thoughts play across her face, as obvious as if she was speaking them aloud. Will he do it? He won’t do it. What if he does it?

  “Thr—”

  “Fine,” she says, her tone indignant. She holds her hand out for the lighter, never taking her watery eyes off me. I think they’re green, but it’s hard to tell in this light. I don’t think I’ve ever noticed that until now.

  She takes the lighter in her hand and then hesitates when I hold out the photo. It takes me a second to realize she doesn’t want to let the jacket slip open.

  “No one cares about your fucking tits, Michelle. Now get it done.”

  Her eyes flick away for a second and I can tell my words hit her where it hurts. The worst thing you can do to an attention seeker is remind them that you don’t give a fuck.

  She quickly focuses back on me and lowers her chin, acting all defiant now that I’ve stopped counting. “What exactly does this prove?”

  I look at her lips, parted slightly and still trembling from the cold. They’d be nice enough lips if they weren’t turning blue. Why won’t she just take a telling? She’d be in the car halfway home by now if she would just cut the bravado.

  “What it proves, princess, is that when I tell you to do something, you do it. It proves that stupidity doesn’t go unpunished. It proves that I own you, and everything you own is now mine. And right now, I’m telling you to take a lighter to my photo.”

  She reaches out and snatches the photo from me, letting her jacket fall open to reveal a few black tattoos on her ribcage. I think it’s writing, but it’s small and I don’t want to stare at her to see what it says after making the point that I’m not interested. I knew her arms were covered in them but I didn’t know she had them elsewhere.

  Neither of us have moved from our position against the car, so she holds the lighter between us, closer to me than it is to her, as if she’s telling me to back up. I don’t.

  Sparking the flint, she holds the lighter under the photo and waits for a moment until it catches, before letting it fall to the ground in flames beside us. She looks up at me and throws me a “happy now?” face.

  Happy enough. “Good girl. Now get your arse in the car.”

  She wraps the jacket around her and ducks under my arm, slipping into the back seat. I shut the door behind her, standing on the burnt photo to extinguish the flames. “Ryan.” I throw Jody back his lighter. “Go back inside and tell my da’ I’m away.”

  “No bother, mate.” He nods and heads back over to the main building.

  “Right, lets bail,” I tell the rest of them, walking around the car to the other side.

  I grab Shelly’s bag and open up the boot, noticing that the floor is loose, like it’s not been put down right after changing the wheel. I fanny about for a while, trying to push it back into place but it won’t go down, so instead I rip it up and find the culprit.

  There’s a fucking shoebox where the spare wheel should be. Ripping off the bashed lid reveals what is — at least — more than a few thousand in rolled up banknotes.

  Where has she been getting the money from?

  No one who’s not dealing has that much in cash.

  I take the box out and fix the floor, throwing her bag in and closing the boot.

  “Shift over,” I tell her, gesturing for her to move into the middle. She shuffles over the leather seats, still keeping her arms wrapped tight around her body. “Stubsy, get that heating up full blast.”

  I feel her beside me shaking from the cold, and I look over to see her long hair still dripping down her face and neck, soaking the collar on the jacket.

  I put the seat belt around her tiny frame, shrunken by the jacket, and buckle her in. She doesn’t even look at me, or move her arms, but she’ll be thanking me later when she feels the way Stuart drives.

  He pulls the car away and stones kick up behind the wheels. She clocks on to the shoebox on my knee, but looks away when she catches me watching her. I can sense she wants to ask me, but she’s too proud to do that.

  I wait and see if she’s going to pluck up the courage. She’s always been mouthy. But it seems she’s not in the mood tonight.

  Leaning in close to her ear, I whisper, “I’ve not decided what I’m going to do with this, yet.”

  Her eyes are locked on the road in front of us, but I see her jaw clench as the orange lights and shadows speed across her face.

  She clears her throat and when she replies, she doesn’t whisper like I did — she fucking announces it to the car. “Doesn’t surprise me. You lot would steal my eyeballs and come back for the fucking sockets.”

  There’s my girl.

  Stubsy is in the front with Stuart, and he’s the first one to start howling at her. The other two follow suit, and I just smile and look out of the window.<
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  She can think what she wants, it doesn’t bother me, she wouldn’t be the first and she won’t be the last. I don’t want to take it from her, I don’t know where she got it but I do know that much cash doesn’t come without either sacrifice or consequence.

  How can I hand it back to her, though?

  She’d use it against me. She’d use it to run again.

  “Wouldn’t steal your eyeballs, darlin, you’ll be needing them to watch my face when I fuck you for the first time.” I smile as she turns and narrows her eyes on me. I focus on her lips, the bottom one trembling slightly. “Your tongue though? I’d cut that right out your mouth and come back for your teeth.”

  Chapter 6

  MICHELLE

  Not only is he cruel and twisted, I’ve just worked out that he is vile too.

  I’m so cold, I feel like I’ll never be warm again. Even with the heating on, it’s doing nothing to take the shivers away. I’ve heard the expression “chilled to the bone” a few times in my life, and this is the first time I’ve ever felt it.

  I’m lodged between Tommy and Jody, their bodies touching me at either side, their aftershaves fighting with each other. Since I’m currently wearing Tommy, he’s winning. But the jacket, the one that felt so warm when I first put it on, isn’t doing much to warm me now. And neither is the two hard bodies wedging me in to the leather seat.

  All I can think about is getting home and sitting in a piping hot bath. It’s like mental torture, but it’s stopping me from thinking about worse thoughts… like my defeat.

  We finally arrive at my house. My pretty little chocolate box that I was so sure I’d never see again.

  Stubsy doesn’t turn the engine off — he just takes my front door key off the ring and passes it to Tommy. He opens the door and jumps out the car, sticking his hand back in, expecting me to grab a hold of it.

  Fuck him.

  I shift over the seats and put my sore feet down on the gravel, trying hard to hide the wince of pain as I stand up. Tommy leans in to the car. “Bring her car back in the morning, alright? I’ll message you when I’m up.”

  I’m about to argue that they’re not taking my car, but then he slams the door and heads to my house, and I have bigger problems than the grand theft auto scene going on behind me.

  He can’t be serious. Surely he is not serious. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

  He stops walking and turns to face me while I hear my car speeding away. “I’m walking towards your front door. The real question is, why aren’t you?”

  My eyes narrow at him. Why is he always so fucking wide? “Because I want nothing to do with you.”

  He chuckles as he turns around and continues on towards the door. “Well, you’re just going to have to get used to it, princess, ‘cause I’m not going anywhere.”

  The front door opens and light pours out of the entrance hall. Warm light. Heat. I put one foot out in front of me and the tears are back pricking my eyes as the gravel shifts under me and pain radiates from my sole. A moan escapes, just a small one that I couldn’t stop, and I try for the other foot.

  While the thought of the bath was mental torture, this is physical torture. Tommy stands at the door, one hand resting on the doorframe and watches me, an amused smile on his face.

  “You having fun there, prick?” I shout.

  He laughs and shakes his head. “Just ask for my help and I’ll carry you over the threshold. It can be a practice run.”

  Ugh. “Ram your help up your arse.”

  I’m hobbling and I hate the fact that he’s watching me, especially because he’s clearly finding it so hilarious. I wrap the jacket tighter around me and tip-toe quickly the rest of the way, trying to block out the pain and just get there as fast as possible.

  When I reach the front step, I spin around and scrape the soles of my feet on the edge of it, trying to get off all the grit and stones that are imprinted on the skin. As soon as it’s done, I storm past him, still in agony, and intend to go straight up the stairs.

  But Dollar has other ideas.

  She comes bounding along the hall, almost crashing right into me and I bend over to clap her, quickly realizing that I’m probably giving Tommy another eyeful.

  “I’m going in the shower,” I tell him, straightening and not bothering to turn around. I hear the front door close behind me as I head up the stairs to my bedroom.

  My own little cage in the chocolate box house.

  It’s familiar, it’s decorated nicely to my mother’s tastes, all silver and white and fairy lights wrapped around the extra-high bed. It’s pretty, but a cage plated in silver is still just a cage. And I feel it tonight more than ever, with the worst jailor of all lurking down the stairs.

  Once I’m safely inside the en-suite, I shrug the jacket off my shoulders and turn the shower on the highest setting, so the steam will start heating the room.

  I catch sight of myself in the mirror and stop to take a closer look. I look like I’ve been dragged through a hedge, backwards. Mascara is smeared over my cheeks from arsehole to breakfast time, and foundation is clumped around my nose and at the sides of my ears. I look like a hot mess. Or I suppose a cold mess would be more fitting. Grabbing a face wipe, I quickly sort myself out before jumping in the shower.

  My skin is so cold that I have to turn the heat right down to stop it from feeling scalding. I don’t wash myself, or shave my legs, or do anything other than stand there, moving from side to side and trying to get some warmth back into my body.

  Only when the feeling starts to return to my fingers and toes do I attempt to wash the reservoir muck out of my hair.

  When I’m done, I wrap myself in a fluffy white robe. With the exception of my feet, I’m starting to feel better, physically at least. Mentally, I’m an absolute liability, so I try not to let myself think too long about the situation.

  I’ll do that later. Not when Tommy is just down the stairs. With Dollar. Shit, Dollar. I should have let her out to the back garden for the toilet before I came up, but in my rush to get warm I didn’t even think.

  I wrap my hair in a towel and head back down the stairs, but not before finding some thick bed socks and putting them on.

  When I get to the hall, I notice the back door is already open. I go through to the kitchen and look out the window to see Tommy crouching down on the patio, wrestling with Dollar in a game of tuggy.

  Why hasn’t she just mauled him?

  Clearly, the dog has no fucking loyalties.

  I click the kettle on to boil and stand against the counter, waiting. I’m getting the milk out of the fridge when Tommy pops his head around the door.

  “That you making the tea, darlin? Mine is milky, and stick a wee bit sugar in it,” he says, blowing me a kiss.

  “How about I stick a wee bit bleach in it?” I ask him, while I pass the door and get the milk out.

  He just laughs it off and goes back to playing with the dog.

  I don’t want to make him a cup of tea. I want him to get the fuck out of my house. But not doing it would just come across as petty, and I hate that. I don’t want him to think he has any sort of effect on me. I’m stronger than him, that’s always been my attitude. Even when I stopped being taller, and I stopped being faster. I can always be stronger.

  I get another cup out of the cupboard and add a tea bag and a spoonful of sugar.

  “There’s your tea, prick,” I shout from the kitchen, toward the back door.

  He’s walking through it a second later, Dollar hot on his heels, looking up at him like she’s made a new best friend. Traitor.

  He bends down and claps her, letting her lick the side of his face. “Where’s the biscuits, darlin?”

  I roll my eyes at him, putting the tea down so I can lock the back door. “Make yourself at home, why don’t you?”

  “Well, be thankful I’m not making you stick a pizza in the oven for me — it’s your fault I missed the buffet after all. My stomach thinks my throat
’s been cut here,” he says, standing up and heading for his tea while Dollar follows him across the kitchen, tail wagging.

  I go to the biscuit jar and pull it forward on the counter, taking the lid off and slamming it down — probably a little too forcefully. “Knock yourself out. I’m going to bed.”

  “You warmed up now?” He doesn’t look at me when he asks, he’s too busy raking through the jar.

  I feel better than I did when I got out the car, but inside I’m still chilled. “I’ll be fine when I get into bed.”

  He shrugs, ripping open a Kitkat. “Suit yourself. Sweet dreams.”

  I head back up the stairs to my bedroom and get under the duvet, keeping my housecoat and socks on. I’m now wishing I hadn’t completely wiped my phone, because scrolling through a newsfeed before bed is kinda a ritual for me, although I’ve never actually realized it until now. With nothing else to do, I sip on my tea and try to think of how I’m going to get myself out of this mess.

  I tried running, and that’s failed spectacularly. I could try again, of course, but now they know that’s my intention, I’ll be watched constantly. Tommy won’t leave until my parents get home, and then it’ll be up to them. It wouldn’t surprise me if they set up a rota and gave each other shifts. And even if a chance as good as tonight does come up, Tommy has my money. I have a credit card in my dad’s name, but I’m pretty sure the limit on cash withdrawals is two or three-hundred pounds a day, and that would be traceable. I need thousands. I saved thousands.

  So I rule out the option of running for now.

  I ponder possible Plan Bs. I could try to get Tommy on my side. Practice being nice to him, see if I can make him sympathetic. He hates me, or at least he has a serious dislike for me. That’s the only reason I can think of for why he’d want to go through with it, as some twisted way of punishing me. Maybe if I could stop him disliking me so much, he wouldn’t feel the need to satisfy his cruel desire for putting me in my place. Hmm.

  The other thing I could do would be the complete opposite. I could make his life a living hell. If he can hate me so much already just for postponing a wedding at the age of sixteen, then imagine what he would do if I actually fought fire with fire? I’ll make him dread the thought of walking me down the aisle. I’ll make him suffer. I’ll make him see that I can be cruel, too.