What day was it? What time was it?

I'm losing my mind. Though my body is now awakened, my eyes remained close. I don't want to see anything that will remind me of exactly where I am.

"God, you better fucking get me out of here," I mutter.

"You're cursing at God?"

I open my eyes to see Arlan in front of me, my eyes adjusting. He has lit two single candles on the floor for some light, as the rest of the room was even darker than earlier. That means it was only a few hours since I first discovered it was here; Maybe two, three AM.

His words immediately make me feel bad. I know I shouldn't have said what I did, but I hadn't meant to curse God himself. The word was just a mere tool of anger; Because I'm absolutely fucking angry. If God is real, and sees how great and kind of a person I've always been, why would he put me in a Hellish situation like this where I may innocently die?

Or maybe it has nothing to do with God Himself. Maybe God can't control evil beings on Earth like Arlan. Now I felt bad again.

But seeing Arlan in front of me, now I was angry again. And my limbs are achy and sore as I squirm a bit. My discomfort seems to satisfy Arlan, I can see it in the way his eyes glow, so I stop.

"Why would it matter?" I finally mutter. "He obviously doesn't hear me."

Arlan's eyes rake up and down my restrained body, my ankles and wrists coiled up in rope.

"I'll never get tired of seeing you all tied up, my pretty little Dove," He rasps, only adorned in black sweatpants.

I try to stretch my pained back but didn't have much room, so I relent, slumping in defeat.

"It's not comfortable," My voice is small but thick with sleep. "Is there a bed here?"

A low chuckle rumbles from his chest. "You're so cute," Is all he offers.

My eyes glance to the hot food on the platter he is holding. It doesn't smell good.

"Hungry?" He implores, noticing my eyes. I quickly avert them from the plate and look to him, wanting to show no weakness. "You've been drugged and asleep for a few days and now its almost three am. You should eat."

My gut drops to my toes in a weighted thud. A low whimper leaves me.

"A few days?" I echo quietly in horror.

"Oh, relax, baby doll, hm," Arlan cooes, coming forward and cupping my cheek. I coldly shiver in disgust, my stomach feeling sick. "Relax."

There has to be some sort of escape door somewhere.

"I have to use the bathroom," I lied, pleading eyes glaring at him.

"Nice try," He muttered.

"I'm serious, do you want me to pee all over the floor? You can come with me and watch if you want."

"You're not moving," He finalized, watching over me like a territorial dog.

"Why'd you do it? Take me, tie me up? W-why'd you drug me?" I whimpered.

Arlan's head slightly tilted.

"Would you have come here on your own? No," He answers his own question. "I needed to take matters into my own hands and inject you."

"You could've taken me to your house and proposed to me there," I whined. "Why drug me and tie me up? Where even is this place?"

"You should eat," He replies.

I lift my arm to push him hand away, only to be reminded I'm restrained in rope. I whimper as hot tears emerge in my raw eyes. I look away, my hair falling over my face. It's just too much.

"Go away," I whine quietly.

"Stop the precious tears, please, babe?" Arlan brushes thumb gently under a rolling tear, gently taking hold of the underside of my jaw and turning me to face him.

I hang my head, my hair curtaining my face as I sniffle.

"Don't be scared, baby girl. You haven't even seen what I've made you. I think it'll cheer you up. It's a Russian specialty. I made it just for you."

I whimper even louder, remembering I'm in motherfucking Russia.

"Arlan," My voice is a fevered, choppy cry. "I'm genuinely scared, I wanna go home," I beg. "I-I can't be this far away."

"No, baby, you just need to eat."

"No," I try to whine only to be quickly cut off.

"You're a little dizzy, is all. Won't you take a look at what I've made? I've made it just for you."

I only wail louder.

"Arlan, I'm serious. I have a h-huge fear of being far from," I gasp lightly when the food is placed on my lap, the plate is hot on my bare skin and I wince, looking up at him.

"Look," He says simply, smiling at me, gesturing towards the plate.

The smile is too gentle. It's eerie. Glancing at the dish I see twisted noodles in a beige looking paste. It isn't appealing. I peer back up at Arlan for some sort of explanation.

"Beef stroganoff," He says.

My gut flips as I feel feverishly sick.

"A dish stemming for mid nineteenth century Russia, in a smetana sauce with sautéed beef served."

The blood of my face drains as I stare blankly at him.

The soulless depths of his jade eyes held little emotion but the tiniest, satisfied amusement. I was sickened, twisting my head away. He released a cackle from under his breath at my loathing stare.

"Oh, my apologies, Aurora. I'm sorry."

Is he sorry for putting cooked, dead animal on my lap? How sincere.

"I didn't grab you a fork," Arlan finished.

My attention is back to him as I gawk.

"Sincerely, fully and entirely, fuck you," I spat, never more disgusted in my life. My stomach was gutted. "I will never eat this. Get this the fuck off my lap, now." I hissed, trying to kick it off but having no access to my roped legs. I tried to jolt my thighs up, but it barely moved the plate.

"No," Arlan's words were crisp and clipped.

I shot him a loathing glare, piercing it into him as hard as I could. Piercing all the hatred I had for him into my irises so he could clearly see it.

"Get it fucking off!" I shriek, demanding.

"You're going to eat this, or you're going to eat nothing and starve," He ground out.

I scoffed in disbelief, laughing humorlessly.

"You're not going to starve me," I state. "And I'm not going to eat fucking meat, you bastard. I know what you're trying to do. You'll say something like, 'I'll give you other food if you sign the marriage contract'. This is all a manipulation tactic. Don't you think I know you by now?" I spat in disgust.

"I repeat, you can eat this, or starve."

I won't let him scare me.

"Then what wife will you have?" I spat venomously, digging my nose into my shoulder to avoid the smell.

"One on fluids, deprived of real food."

"Fluids?" I repeated incredulously, facing him. "Arlan, get fucking real. You're not going to do that to me. You're bluffing, and you're pathetic. I know you well enough to see right through you. You put this meat in my lap to jump scare me, it's a manipulation tactic, a ploy, so I'd give in and marry you. It's not going to work. If anything, you made this worse for yourself. If even possible," I scoffed.

"No, I didn't," He insisted, getting heated.

"Then take a fork and feed it to me," I challenged him boldly.

If this wasn't just an act to scare me, he'd take a fork and put it in my mouth. His feet remained grounded to the floor.

"Come on, I'm all tied up, I can't do anything about it. You want me to eat the meat so bad? Put it between my lips," I encouraged, emboldened.

Arlan's anger visibly flared. His crushed red lips tightly grimaced in a flat line, hands balling into fists. In truth, my heart was rapidly palpitating against my neck. I hoped my suspicions were true, that he was all bark, no bite. Because earnestly I did not want a precious animal's body in my mouth or digestive system. It would absolutely emotionally wreck me; My heart would be destroyed.

Arlan's eyes bore into mine, soulless and dark. I couldn't expect anything but pure and sheer evil from him, so maybe he would just stuff the disgusting beef in my mouth. He probably killed the animal himself. I wouldn't be surprised, he had no regard for any living being besides his own. I couldn't put it past him to commit a crime so horrible. And let alone commit a crime, but feel not an ounce of guilt or sadness afterwards. He felt no humanity ever, that was clear.

Even if he did feed it to me, I would compel myself to give zero reaction. No tears, no muffled screams. I would be completely contained and deny him any satisfaction. He wouldn't get the upper hand or ability to instill fear in me. He wanted to threaten me with meat? He'll see just how much it doesn't affect me. Take that, Arlan, and shove it up your obscenely enormous ego.

"Is that what you want?" He challenged.

"I want to go to sleep," I responded honestly.

"That's not what I was asking."

"Actually, it is," I narrowed my eyes at him.

His brow ticked in annoyance, jaw flexing. His eyes exuded a brewing storm ones that indicated he might just grab the food and stuff it down my throat. I remained conscious of the level of my breathing so my chest would not give away how nervous I was. He'd have no indication of the fear I held inside and only the facade of my outward confidence. Usually it was he who was smirking and cocky and full of attitude. It was when he peaked with anger that I knew he could tell he was in the wrong. Keep going, Aurora. Stand your ground. Don't back down in this moment, prove yourself.

He all at once came towards me and I flinched. His knuckles gripped the plate and he tore it from my lap, lips pursed.

"Well, I want your rest to be impeccable so you make the best decision tomorrow, Dove," He spat, voice rigid with anger.

Coward. I knew it he wasn't going to do it. He was a stupid dog, all bark and entirely zero bite. What a loser.

He turned his back on me, beginning to walk away.

"So go to bed, then," He snarled.

His steps resounded in the echoing, empty space and I exhaled through my nostrils. Relief bloomed in my chest and head once the smell and presence of the meat was gone. I was grateful that it never entered my mouth, I couldn't imagine going back on the animals like that. How dare he even try to get that in my mouth. My bones buzzed with hatred for this monster.

My eyes slit together watching the cruel man advance towards the door. Of course he'd made a meat dish. Like a fucking bastard.

"I've made my decision," I growl, defiant and angry.

Arlan's feet all but halt in his tracks, freezing to the ground. Remaining still, about twenty feet away from me, his back to me. Arlan is wordless. My breathing picks up, shallow and rapid. Sweat coats the inner parts of my palms.

"Oh?" He questions. "And what would that be?"

I gulped, exhaling shakily.

"The tattoo. And I'll do it now. I want to go back to America tomorrow morning."

Arlan didn't move, not for at least ten seconds. For each of those seconds, I feared what his response to be. I anticipated him throwing the plate to the ground and flinched involuntarily -but the sound of piercing glass did not appear. I anticipated a slew of crude insults, some threats, maybe for him to even go back on the ultimatum and refuse me the tattoo. Only silence ensued.

Then, he bent to the ground. Carefully, he lay the tray on the floor, and stood back up. His back still faced me, his shoulder muscles flexing defensively. I gulped through the tightness of my throat, squirming slightly in my seat. My stomach snaked and coiled in knots of anxiety.

"You do realize that it's two forty five in the morning, right?" He clarified in a dark lull.

Further silence ensued; I waited for him to continue, refraining from speaking. Just breathing shallowly. His voice picks up on the empty walls.

"Nate is sleeping. If he wakes up and tattoos you now, in pure exhaustion, your permanent body ink is going to look even worse. For eternity. And you don't even know what I've picked."

"So be it," I retort before I can stop myself.

I try to steady and quiet my shallow breathing and not let Arlan get in my head.

Without a second thought, Arlan disappeared towards the dark corner of the room where the door was. Throwing it open, it slams quick and loud, making me jump.

He's going in. He's waking Nate. Nate's going to tattoo you.

Fucking breathe, Aurora. It's better than marrying the bastard. You'd be signing your life away. You can wear long sleeves or long pants, you won't ever even see it. The pain won't be that bad. Half of America has tattoos, you can get through it. You've gotten shots before. It doesn't hurt that bad. This probably hurt less than a shot, or equal amount of pain. Nothing is worse than a lifetime of being Arlan's wife.

But where would the tattoo be? If it was right on the bone, could I bare that pain? What if Arlan decided to give me an entire sleeve in one setting? What would it be? A strew of crude words? Would he brand the word 'whore' on me?

Whatever it is, you can get it covered up to something else. It's better than signing a document that contractually and legally binds you to an abuser. Think about how much harder it will be to escape if authorities see he is your husband.

Disgusting. I can't even think of Arlan and 'husband' in the same sentence. He was undeserving of that title. A husband was meant to provide love, security and safety to a wife. Arlan didn't know those words. A husband was supposed to ensure a lifetime of happiness and peace of mind, never worry or stress or fear.

My mind began wandering...

Were my parents married? Probably not, if they gave me away.

The door opened once more, breaking me from my rain of thoughts.

Through my hazy, exhausted vision, I eyed Arlan as he entered with Nate, a squeaking nose appearing. It was the wheels of his tattoo stand as he reeled it into the room. What felt like half an hour was merely seconds.

Great. That took all of ten seconds for Nate to agree to. He doesn't care. He was probably readily willing to jump out of bed and do it. Maybe he thinks it's all funny, maybe it's entertaining to him. My eyes watered. I tried to ignore the crushing feeling of betrayal and remain neutral and impassive. I lived a life once without Nate on my side, I could do it again. Just get the tattoo, and go home. Get the tattoo, and go home. Get the tattoo-

"We're starting," Nate coldly spoke, taking grip of my right arm to hold it steady. I gasped when his glove covered hand touched my skin, looking up at him. I hadn't realized he was already in front of me. I gulped, willing myself to give him an emotionless stare.

So it's going on my arm.

It was hard to register this new Nate. I had become so comfortable and trusting of him. He was a blanket of secure and a deep breath that loosened my anxiety. He let me sleep in his bed to have a night of sanity, he drove me home from the bonfire and the fall back. He listened when I vented and gradually opened up on his own too. He told me he wanted more for himself, how important his academics were, how much he hated Arlan and loathed being in the mafia.

Most of all, he ensured that he had a plan to help me escape. He let me and Elise believe he was a trustworthy tool in getting out of our kidnappings. It was the only thought that got me through Arlan's abuse and punishments. It had risen my hope and spirits high. Only to plummet down and crash and burn to ashes on the ground. Now all that remained was the smoke of the aftermath, and my loathing for him ever promising anything.

Nate turned my arm over so my hand was palm-up. My eyes fluttered closed as I tried to deeply inhale. I jolted in surprise when he applied a cold substance, my eyes bugging open.

"It's just an antiseptic," He muttered lowly, spreading it to my wrist.

Nate's bitter, mumbling and grumbling voice was one I sincerely did not miss. It brought me back to the long forgotten and moved past time where he loathed me. We had gotten past that only for him to now not give two shits about helping ruin my life.

"How reassuring," I muttered back. Though my tone was bitter or sassy, I was truly just sad and mortified of my fate.

The tattoo was going on the inside of my right wrist. Would that hurt? I had no Earthly idea. I told myself it wouldn't hurt, to put the fear rushing through my mind at ease.

I watched the process, gulping. While I didn't want to see the needle or any blood that would appear, I didn't want to see Arlan's face. He was probably smirking, or holding laughter. I didn't want to see his sick enjoyment. A thin layer of petroleum jelly was followed, applied all over my inner wrist. My eyes were trained on Nate's black gloves, then I peered at his face. His smooth, chestnut hair was long over his eyes. Eyes that looked evidently tired with sleep. I exhaled shakily.

"So what is it? The design," I questioned.

Neither boy answered. Great.

I supposed a tattoo wasn't a big deal. It was a permanent commitment that affects the rest of your life, but so are so many other things. The school you decide to study at, the pet you get to take care of, the food you eat. These are permanent things that affect our lives forever; Surely these affected our livelihoods more than mere ink on our skin, right? So it wasn't a big deal. It completely wasn't a big deal. Right?

"I'm going to trace it," Nate spoke.

My trepid heartbeat accelerated. I gulped, my stomach twisting anxiously.

"Yeah, fine," I breathed, giving him the okay.

It was an odd and foreign feeling, watching him begin. At first, I couldn't quite tell what exactly he was drawing...writing...symbolizing? It was hard to tell. So I just closed my eyes.

It seemed like several minutes passed and Nate still wasn't done drawing it. How fucking big was it going to be?

It didn't matter. I didn't care. Who cares about getting a stupid tattoo when it saves you from a forced marriage? Not me.

The irksome feeling of the tracing had finally ended, and I exhaled, relieved. The feeling was so invasive on my delicate skin; I needed the break and was relieved to get one. I wondered how people sat through long tattoo shadings, and then my mind drifted to why people got tattoos to begin with. None of the boys I'd ever pictured myself dating had ones. For example, Beck. Sweet Beck was demure, so friendly and soft looking, honey glazed and freckles like droplets of juice from fresh orange slices. Warm eyes like steamed, creamy hot chocolate. A trusting, safe smile. What I would do to see that smile, to have that smile for a lifetime. I conjured up an image of Beck and I in our own apartment, with our own puppy. We were dashing outside in terrential downpour, a newspaper covering our heads as we giggled. Then, as we quickly entered our apartment, we giggled at how drenched we were before ordering takeout. After changing into warm clothes, I'd flop on the couch, and he'd bring up the food while our dog hoped in my lap. I'd rest my head on Beck's shoulder, cozy and warm-

"We're starting," Nate stated.

Cold waves of nausea entered me as I broke from my daydreams. My eyes darted to Nate. Time felt surreal. I realized I had to peer down to see what the tattoo would be, the one that would be on my wrist for the rest of my life.

My eyes bugged out past my sockets. I choked out a noise of despair. Terror rose in me. Of course that's what Arlan choose.