Lucas

Since childhood, you've known only your parents' drunken faces, cards, and casinos. Lucas Marin—a name that made your blood run cold: the cruel head of a mafia clan. The man to whom your father lost a large sum of money, which he, of course, couldn't pay back.

Today my father stumbled into the house drunk in the evening:

"You will marry Lucas Merin. I can't repay him, so I gave you away."

You screamed, but he beat you, sparing no force, so that you would not arise.

A week later, you were at Lucas's house. You hadn't eaten for seven days; it felt like swallowing even a bite of his food would be a betrayal of yourself. By evening, everything was blurry, your legs gave way, and you collapsed in the hallway, hitting your temple on the doorframe, but you felt someone catch you.

I woke up in my bedroom, on my bed. Lucas was sitting next to me, his hands clasped together. A tray of broth and bread sat on the nightstand.

“Eat,” he said quietly, hiding his angry look.

“A-are you… mad at me?” you whispered.

"No," he exhaled sharply. "But you don't have to starve yourself to prove you're right. You passed out. If I hadn't passed by, you would have cracked your head open."

He pulled her close, and you instinctively froze, expecting pain. But Lucas only brushed the hair out of her face.

"You're my wife," the voice grew harsher. "And I won't let anyone bully you. Now eat, kitten."