5

I stood up and didn't turn to see her anymore.

 "Follow me," was what I said.

 It was to be expected that she wouldn't refuse, so I didn't need to look back to make sure of that, I just walked around the table, calmly walking past where my men were and advancing to where the employees of the place looked at each other waiting for an order.

 "Sr. Torres," one of them said quickly, noticing that he was approaching me, making a slight bow of respect, he looked momentarily at the person who was coming up behind me and then looked at me again. “Please follow me. I will lead you to the room reserved for you.”

 Rossi Giraldo.

 I swallowed. This man had decided to have a night of passion with me. And it was already too late to refuse. Because no, I wasn't excited in the least to know that I was going to be with someone who wasn't entirely human, well— I didn't have physical and repeatable proof of what I had seen when I was on the table dancing, but every time I was convinced more than it would have been wiser to have stayed at home that night. 

 I went up the stairs, following his step, he looked as imposing from behind as he looked from the front, from behind you could see the width of his shoulders more pronounced, the color of his hair like petroleum, the skin of her pale hands, neck and face, pale skin like mine.

 We both advanced in silence until we reached the second floor. Perhaps that would have led me to wonder why he didn't ask for a reservation on the top floor, where there were more costly suites, but no, I didn't want to form unnecessary questions, because it was no longer the place that mattered, but the way in which this man he might want to take me as his for the night.

 I swallowed again, forcefully, while I felt tiny drops of sweat appear on the skin of my forehead, my temples, on the palms of my hands. My heart was pounding between my ribs and not because I was happy, I was actually anxious, anxious, terrified, almost on the verge of collapsing or having a panic attack.

 Only once in my life had I been with a man like him, and that was when I was abused, it was that time when someone with those same eyes took me against my will, without asking me, without asking my permission, without obtaining my consent. Someone who changed my life completely.

 That is why there, walking behind him, I was imagining a thousand ways to escape from that place, but after thinking and thinking, in a frighteningly fast way, I came back to the conclusion that it was practically impossible. Beings like him ran faster than a mere mortal human, and when they got angry, they caused deadly disasters around them, obviously I would be the first affected in a fit of rage on their part.

 "It is this room, sir," the host said, standing to one side of the door as he opened it. “It does not have the best view, but it is one of the best on this floor, with luxuries that are at its level. Although if he wants, I can direct him to a suite on the top floor.”

 "No, I'm fine," Dorian replied. “I'll be fine here, you can retire.”

 “Yes sir. If you want something else, just call, we will be attentive to any order.”

 The young and thin host withdrew from the place, passing by me without turning to see me. I continued in silence, slowly reliving all my traumas, reliving in my mind that night, reliving that abuse that had fatal consequences.

 It wasn't easy being there with him, but he had to pretend that everything was going normal and without any indication that it might turn out to be a problem.

 "Come in," he said, stepping aside.

 I was the first to enter, without noticing the luxuries that room might have, I just waited for whatever had to happen, anything that happened quickly, that he would get tired immediately, that he would get bored of me and send me out. Out of the room and then fell asleep.

 It was ridiculous how minutes ago I had been excited, happy to be the lady-in-waiting of a mobster, someone who could leave me a good tip. And now I was in a room, with him, listening to him shut the bedroom door, making me feel cornered and not at all happy.

 I slowly approached the bed and noticed a brown folder that was on it, I didn't say anything, obviously. I thought that maybe it was a confidentiality document, but I preferred to wait for him to clarify what it was.

 Then I carefully turned around, even afraid to meet his eyes again, that's why I avoided his face. And indeed, he approached the bed and bent to take the folder in his thick, vein-marked hands.

 He offered it to me and I hesitated a bit, looking at his eyes for a second and then at the folder.

 I said in my mind: remember, Rossi, you shouldn't deny anything, just do what he asks you to do.

 I took the folder carefully.

 "Open it," he commanded, and that's what I did, but all I looked at were letters and more letters, there were at least twenty sheets of printed paper that were in the folder, I didn't understand anything. “It's a marriage proposal.”

 Ok. That really left me in shock, I blinked, confused and raised my lashes to see him.

 “Marriage?” I repeated, imagining that he was just playing a joke on me.

 And that, if so, he would have this to have some rather strange sense of humor.

 "That's right," he answered, without enthusiasm, but firm and with the face of being sure of what he was asking for. “You just have to sign it.”

 Saying that, he began to take a pen from the inside pocket of one of the lapels of his Korean coat, which he offered me and which I took doubtfully.

 "What do these papers say?" I asked, afraid of making him angry. “Why— why me?”

 "I don't like wasting time, just sign and that's it," he replied, uneasily pushing back the lapels of his coat to place his hands on his hips and look away. “It's nothing bad, take it as a job offer.”

 I did not find at that precise moment what to answer, my heart kept shaking inside my chest. I looked again at the folder and the sheets in front of me.

 Then something prompted me to speak again.

 "Can I— refuse for now?" I paused. “It's just that—” I looked at the papers again. “I don't understand what all this is about.” The fear was that said those words for me, which I immediately regretted.

 He rolled his eyes and moved his face a little towards me, serious, unruffled.

 "Of course, you can," he replied quietly.

 However, he did something that was a complete contradiction to what he had said. He stared at me and— his eyes changed again, being those green with perpendicular pupils.

 That was evidently a threat to me; I half-opened my lips and took a little air into my lungs, then feeling my breathing paralyzed. I had no immediate solution but to lower my face and proceed to sign the marriage contract. This man could end my life right there if I were to upset him.

 I watched him take the folder from my hands and turn over a few pages, showing me another one that was underneath.

 "Sign this one too," he ordered, and I didn't answer, I just obeyed.

 And I did it not only because I was afraid of dying, but because someone at home was waiting for me to return in the morning, someone's life could depend on my presence. Someone very important to me could be in danger with my absence. So, for now, I had to stay alive.

 I finished signing and he took the folder in his domain again, when I looked into his eyes again I realized that he now had normal eyes, with irises like those of an ordinary person.

 “Good. Now you are my wife. You will have to come to live with me, in my house.” He said that and the fear increased inside me. I— I couldn't go with him, not without hiring someone to take temporary care of— And little Thomas can come with you.”

 Another burst of terror went through my system.

 "How— do you know— about—? How do you know that I—?" I was already beginning to feel the threat of respiratory arrest.

 “Did you think there could be another reason to marry you, other than the existence of a biological child between us?”

 “Son?” I repeated, forcing myself to breathe evenly, and shook my head. “I'm sorry Mr. But you are confusing things. I don't know how he found out I have a kid at home, because no one at work knows. I shook my head. “But Thomas is not his son. “He— my son is— the product of abuse.”

 I said the last word without looking him in the eye, I said it with my head down and feeling how my tears began to moisten my eyes until they spilled onto my cheeks. I felt a big lump in my throat, because I hated having to remember how I got pregnant by someone without realizing it— without remembering his face.

 "So you don't think Thomas is my son," he surmised calmly, as more and more I felt as if my world was beginning to collapse around me. He took a step toward me, making me take a step back as well. “And why do Thomas' eyes change color? Have you ever thought about it? Surely you have already noticed other physical changes in him and how his behavior is compared to other children his age. He paused and I looked at his face while he showed me that he knew much more than I could imagine he knew. “Thomas is the son of an alpha wolf, it is something undeniable. But his father has arrived, I have finally found him. And I must be the one to guide him during his growth.”

 I felt spittle choking in my throat, panic taking over my legs, my arms, my chest, my face. It was a terrifying feeling. I had no idea how he knew about the change in the color of my son's eyes, his angry outbursts, or the transmutations that he used to see from time to time or at certain times of the month.

 I shook my head.

 "No— not my son." Please.

 He took another step toward me, slowly. So when he wanted to back away I ended up sticking my bare back against the wall. This man was never interested in taking me to bed when he requested my time, but in making me sign a contract that didn't suit me, his intentions were darker than I imagined at first.

 More tears were shed, the man in front of me, although he looked like a normal human, in my eyes he was nothing more than a beast, than my worst nightmare. Because if he really was the father of my child, then he was the one who abused me six years ago. In front of me he was having a man who—

 "I'm not going to hurt you," he spoke calmly, looking at my expression with a face of very little empathy.

I snorted, giving a small wry laugh through my tears, looking away.

 "You've already hurt me, Dorian Torres." I frowned and turned to look at him, arming myself with courage, containing my anger and indignation. “You already destroyed me once. You forced me to get pregnant.”

 "That's true," he agreed, as if he didn't mean to apologize for it.

 "You—"

 "I did no such thing," he interrupted calmly, but although his eyes didn't change color, I saw a glint in his blackness that seemed to show me that he was about to get angry. “I didn't abuse you in the way you think. And I'm sure you don't remember anything from that night. Because I took care of that, I chose you out of many that time and today I don't regret it. Later you will understand how the procedure was to make you pregnant with me. The important thing is that now I'm here, I've come back for you, and for my son. You must then fulfill the role of wife that corresponds to you.”

 He sentenced me with those deadly words laced with calm and assurance, making me feel as if my life time was now on a short countdown.