Page 19 of Property of Necro
Rivulets of alcohol mixed with blood run down my skin.
“Fuck,” he snarls, grabbing a towel and wiping up the mess.
Not wanting to anger him or, worse, end up hurt, I sit on the counter like a mannequin and let him do whatever he wants. I try not to breathe.
When he’s through, Coffin chucks the towel into the shower.
“You good?” He frowns, lifting my arm to make sure he didn’t miss anything.
I nod dumbly, even though I don’t know what I am at this moment.
Coffin curses, then leaves. A moment later, he’sback, carrying a t-shirt. It’s one of those thin, white ones you find in four-packs at the store.
Not saying a word, the gruff biker forcefully removes Rot’s shirt from my body, tosses it into the trash bin, and replaces it with one of his. I feed my arms through the holes, and he tugs it down to my hips. My pierced nipples are visible through the thinner fabric, poking through like a porn star answering the door on set for the mailman. Not that I mind. Any shirt is better than no shirt, considering the stares I got at the table. If what Rot said was true, Coffin offering me anything is a step in the right direction. Though I don’t feel safe or comfortable in his presence.
Waves of frustration and anger surge off him as he plucks me off the vanity and sets me back on the floor. Once more, he secures my wrist in his large hand and drags me back the way we came, returning us to the dining room, where half the men are gone.
A big, bald guy with a baby face is now sitting at the table, close to Necro, who is stationed at the head. Everyone has a bowl of food in front of them except him. Rot now fills the chair I left. Coffin releases me and drops down beside him with a grunt.
The bald man waves me closer and points to a spot on the floor beside him and Necro, where a towel is balled up.
So now I can’t sit at a table, and I’m forced to be on the floor?
Like a dog…
Pressing my lips together, I nod at the bald man and comply, even if this is the most dehumanizing thing I’ve experienced since, well, Ted.
The man who bought me from my uncle after my unclehad already gotten his fill. I was too old by then. Too mature. He liked his girls young. Ted was his friend. He was one of the men who paid to sleep in my bed. Each night, a different one was there to take care of me. They did unspeakable things. Things I’m pretty sure my mind has repressed for the most part. Thankfully.
If only I were young enough to forget Ted.
He was forty when he bought me. I was his thirteen-year-old child bride. Yes, that’s a real thing—child brides. They still exist to this day. I was one of them. Ten out of ten would not recommend.
Curling my knees to my chest, I relax with my back against the table leg as the bikers around me carry on as if I’m invisible.
My stomach grumbles from hunger, but I go numb as I’m transported back there… mint and nicotine.
Ted.
My husband.
The man I’m still married to.
The man I ran from.
Duct tape securesmy wrists as I sit on the floor beside the kitchen table on the cracked linoleum, shivering.
“Open up, wifey.” Ted smiles, his mouth full of yellow teeth, pushing a spoonful of his body fluids to my lips. “Time to getyour fill.”
“Sola.”
Someone jostles my shoulder, and I jerk away, gasping. My heart leaps into my throat.
Frowning, then schooling his expression, the bald guy offers me a bowl with a spoon.
I look down at my wrists.
I’m not bound.
