Blurry lines and a moving object greet me when I wake up. I blink, trying to make out my surroundings and figure out where I am. It doesn't look like my room, and it doesn't look like Milan's either. My throat tightens as my breathing becomes rapid and shallow. My fingers fist weakly on the blankets as I stare at the ceiling.

I know where I am now, and I'm beginning to question my sanity. Why on earth would I come back here? Milan must be worried sick about me, and I've just dropped myself right into Petre's hands like a nicely wrapped Christmas present with a glittery bow on top.

Speak of the devil... Petre is the moving object I couldn't make out before. He looks like he just came from a workout. He's shirtless, and his face is slightly red. His hair is wet with sweat or possibly water, and it's plastered to his forehead in thick strands.

"Like what you see?" he demands, walking over with a wolfish smile.

I look away, tears pooling in my eyes. If Petre wasn't so cold hearted and perverted, he might've come across as though he was joking. I might've joked back. Once upon a time, I wouldn't have. But since living with Milan's family, my perspectives have changed. However, despite the nice smile, beautiful eyes, and the muscular physique, Petre's as rotten as they get.

Maybe you should give him a chance. He claims to love your mother. He claimed that she was important. Maybe he really does just want a family.

I shake my head to clear the thoughts. Those were thoughts that the old me thought. I don't believe her anymore. That's not me. I don't see the good in everyone no matter what. Granted, I still see a possibility of redemption, but with some people, like Petre, there is no hope. He doesn't want redemption. He's happy with his sick, twisted ways.

He comes closer and lays a hand on my arm. I flinch and tremble under his touch. Biting my lip, I fight back the tears just like I always have. I made the choice to come back. Maybe it was stupid, but I made it. It was the best way to protect Milan. He doesn't deserve involvement in my messed up family, and that's all that I can bring. This is the best way to keep him safe.

"Look at me," he whispers roughly.

I shake my head, closing my eyes.

"Don't make me force you to obey," he croons, his voice still syrupy despite the threat.

Struggling not to whimper, I look at him. My eyes are damp, but I refuse to let the tears fall. I can't let them fall. Not in front of him. If I seem weak, he'll be encouraged by it. He'll think he can go as far as he wants simply because I won't fight it. He's probably right considering how I've responded to him, and I didn't exactly fight when the boys at school tried to force themselves on me.

"I'm very, very happy that you came back. Your mother doesn't know you're here yet, and we're going to keep it that way for a bit, okay?" he murmurs, stroking my cheek.

I bite my lip, but when he looks at my mouth hungrily, I stop. "Why?" I ask softly.

"Because I need to make sure she's stable. She's working on being better, and I told her that if she got everything back together, you'd come home. I wouldn't want her to think that going back to her old ways is acceptable now that you're back. Don't you agree with me on this?"

It does make sense. On this, I agree with him, but how do I know that he's not hiding me for another reason? His eyes are roaming over my form, and I look down at myself, swallowing back a sob. "Yes," I whisper.

He laughs and brushes my hair away from my neck. "That's a good girl. You'll have everything you can possibly want. I'll make sure of it. All you have to do is stay up here. During the day, your mother's in rehab, so you can go to school. She's usually out working at a little diner down the street after that, and she won't be home until around seven. You can get back in time. I'll pick you up and drop you off, of course. I heard from your mother that the kids don't treat you well. Someone made a formal complaint, and I don't want that happening anymore. No one gets to treat you like that."

"My mother did worse, and you intend worse than even my mother's abuse." I flinch as his hand moves down my arm to my hand.

He weaves our fingers together and sighs. "You won't think that way for long. I promise."

"I don't believe you..." I mumble as a tear slips down my cheek. "And what about my friend?"

"Your friend? That boy?" he huffs, pulling me closer so that my chest brushes his. "He's dead to you now. Do you understand? If I find out that you're still speaking to him or hanging out with him, I will make sure his family pays for it. I protect what's mine, love, and he has no claim to you."

"He kept me from dying when my own mother turned me out into below zero weather for the night because she found out he'd been there. He protected me that day in the kitchen. If he hadn't been there, I guarantee you would've had your way with me, and I wouldn't have been able to stop you," I snap, finally losing it. "You can't keep me isolated from my only friend."

"I can, and I will. If you continue to protest, I'll tell the school that I'm putting you into a private school, and you'll go to the school that I fund." He smiles. "They provide superb education. Meanwhile, now that I have an heir, I'm going to begin training you to take over my business when I retire."

I still, my eyes widening. "What?"

"You're going to learn everything there is to know about running my business. When I retire in five to ten years, you will take over."

"But... What if I don't want to?"

"Too bad. There are a lot of things you won't want to do in this house, sweetheart, but you'll do them anyway," he says, smiling. As if to prove his point, he slides his hands down to my hips and pulls me off the bed, forcing me to stand flush against him.

I grab his wrists, trying to move his hands, but he keeps them there and refuses to move them.

"If I were you, I'd stop before I get angry and choose to go further," he warns with a smirk.

I stop and glare at him. "You can't do this. Stop touching me."

"Or what?" he asks, squeezing my hips in warning.

"Or I'll report you for sexual assault," I snap.

"You've grown quite feisty. That's okay; I like you better that way. I probably ought to remind you that the charges were dropped last time. Insubstantial evidence. Somehow, the proof the police thought they had wasn't solid enough. It'll happen again."

Pressing my palms to his bare chest, I try to push him away. "You only have a week before I turn eighteen. When I do, I'll be gone if you do this. If you really care about my mom, then stop right now. If I'm given a good reason in this coming week, then maybe I'll stay. I might even be willing to take over your business. But I won't if you keep up this disgusting behavior, and I won't if I'm being abused."

"When exactly did you grow a backbone?" Petre murmurs, leaning closer.

I lean back, still trying to hold him off. "When I realized what was important to me in life, I knew I'd need some backbone to go for it. I love my mother to death, but she's not going to get better if I just let her walk all over me. I'm here to protect the people I care about, and I'm here because I love her, but the approach I took before is dead. I'm done with that. So I'll only tell you one more time. Get your hands off me."

He doesn't. Instead, he presses his lips to my ear and whispers, "You're here to protect the boy?"

I stiffen. "I didn't say that."

"No. But I can read between the lines, darling."

"Well, you read wrong..." I shiver as his breath fans over my neck.

"Nope. I didn't. If you really wanted to protect him, you'd go along with whatever I said or wanted. No matter what it is. And let's be clear, shall we? Your mother is a means to an end. A way to keep up appearances. I'm surprised she's cleaning up her act, but when she's no longer useful, I'll just get rid of her."

"And when will that be?" I inquire, stilling against him.

"Why... It'll be whenever I can get a ring on your finger without looking like a pedophile."

"How old are you, anyway?" I ask, disgusted.

"Oh... Around twenty-nine. Thirty in a few days."

"You'll always look like a creep for marrying someone who's more than ten years your junior. Why'd you marry my mother when she's ten years your senior, anyway? Didn't people talk?"

"No one talks in this town if I don't want them to... Money buys everything I need, Meri."

"It can't buy me," I whisper. Tears slip down my cheeks as I think about how he's using my mother.

"Oh, don't cry now. I didn't intend that, love. Your mother's happy with the money. I can afford to keep her happy and fairly wealthy after the divorce."

"Does she love you?" I ask.

"Excuse me?" He pulls back just a bit to look down at me.

"Does she love you?" My gaze switches down to my hands, which are still pressed against his skin.

"I really don't know. She says she does. But why does that matter right now? She's not here. It's just us."

"You sick jerk," I snap, my voice cracking. "How could you do this to her? She hasn't said 'I love you' to anyone in seven years. You're the first she's actually said it to, and you think she'll be okay with a divorce? She won't. It's going to break her into pieces."

"I doubt that. When the honeymoon phase wears off, she'll see that it's not what it seemed to be. Once she does, it'll be easy to get rid of her."

"The let down alone would be enough to push her over the edge," I whisper. "You know why she's like she is, Petre?"

He shakes his head, indifferent. "Should I care?"

"Yes, because the reason why is exactly what you're planning. She loved a man very, very dearly. He didn't love her the same way. When she no longer had what he wanted, he left. He blamed me, her, everything but himself. And he left her broken. You'll do the same, but it'll be worse because she's already unstable. You'll make her insane. You can't do that to her. Anything but that, Petre."

"Anything?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

I swallow hard, knowing that it's foolish to agree. But for my mother's sake, I will. I can't just stand by while this madman destroys what little sanity and love she has left. "What will I have to do if I say yes?" I fight the urge to clench my fingers into fists. The desire to punch someone rips through me suddenly for the first time in my life. I want to mess up that beautiful face for hiding such a horrible interior from the world.

"Be mine," he mumbles with a lazy grin.

"I'm not eighteen yet," I whisper, trying to find some way to avoid it.

"I'll wait. But when you are eighteen, I want you to be mine. I want it willingly given, though. It's not fun otherwise."

He sounds like a little kid whining about his puppy that ran off. Only in this case, he's trying to make me a possession. I guess I already am in his book. I just need to confirm it. "If I'm already considered a possession, who cares if I consent or not?" I ask, gritting my teeth.

"I do. You're not the same as any other possession. If I have your body but not your heart, it's meaningless. All those other things you're thinking of... The times you're remembering... I just wanted your attention."

"Well, you got it, but not in a good way. If you think you can sweet talk..."

"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I never should've done the things I did. I want to make it up to you, but I'm not going to lie to you about what I want either."

"So I should just forget the things you've already done and let you have whatever you want from me?"

"I'm not going to use you and throw you out."

"Like you're doing to my mother?" I laugh harshly. "Yeah, right... Old habits die hard, Petre. How about this? Once I'm eighteen, I'm leaving. I'm leaving for good, and so you have no reason to abandon my poor mother."

"Don't... Don't leave," he says, a dark undercurrent running through his voice.

"Or what?" I ask.

"I'll leave her anyway. It won't matter what you do, Meri. I never loved her; I just married her because it was the only way. Dating her wasn't enough for her, and she said I'd never see either of you again if I didn't propose. She said she was tired of having her heart yanked around on a string."

"Well, so am I!" I surprise myself by yelling.

Petre looks startled too. He goes quiet, and his grip on me slackens.

I take the opportunity to wiggle out of his grip and shove him away. Losing my balance in the process, I stumble back and sit down on the bed. Muted whimpers claw their way out of me, and I can't even hold back the tears anymore.

Petre looks at me with a guilty look and tries to approach. I throw a pillow at him. "Stay away from me!" I scream at him. "Just go..."

"Meri..." his voice is soft and pleading.

"No," I hiss, clutching a second pillow to my chest. "Just get out. I'm never, ever going to agree to let you touch me innocently let alone intimately. If you're going to leave my mother no matter what, then no. No, no, no... Never."

He stares at me, wide-eyed.

I've never screamed at anyone like this, and I didn't really intend to with Petre. But I can't take it anymore. He can't hurt me, apologize, and expect everything to be roses and rainbows. It's not okay. He's too old for me, and I'm too young for him. My mother is happy with him, and I hate him. I can't watch him ruin her life too.

I break down in gut-wrenching sobs as I tighten my hold on the pillow. "Get out." My whole body is trembling with rage, pain, and confusion.

After one more long moment of confused silence, Petre bows his head and heads to the door. "I'll come back later. I really am sorry, Meri." He opens the door and walks out, shutting it behind him and locking it.

As soon as he's gone, I stretch out on the bed in my thin nightgown and bury my face in the pillows. They smell like laundry detergent and jasmine. Pain wells up in my heart. The pillows in my bedroom at Milan's smell like the vanilla perfume Milan gave me as a present when I first moved in. I'd been hurting then too, and he said to think of him whenever I smelled it. He said to imagine happy things and not to be sad because it made him sad to see me hurting.

The gesture was so sweet that I'd smiled and felt better instantly.

Now it hurts. It reminds me of everything I've given up, and it reminds me that nothing is okay right now. I suck in a lungful of air and sigh as I stop crying. Tears still flit down my cheeks and onto the pillow or into my hair, but the sobbing has stopped. I have a headache from crying so hard, but it's nothing in comparison to the dull ache in my chest.

I feel hollow. Everything feels empty and broken. My heart slips back into its casing where I hid it before. I feel myself reverting back to the stage of not caring. I'm worn out from yelling and crying, and at this point, I don't think I'd even bother protesting if Petre came back. I'd hate myself later, but for now, I'm too tired to care.

I miss you, Milan... I think, wishing he could hear me. Please... Please save me... I'm so sorry I made such a stupid choice.