Page 16 of Love Bleeds Red
He waited for the line to slow, then ordered a burger and a milkshake… and refused to let me give him free stuff. I swear, if he could have jumped over the counter to help me he would have. He went back to his booth and I got super busy again, but it was really nice knowing he was there. Every time I glanced over between taking orders, he’d catch my eye and smile. Not ina weird way, just... I don’t know. Like he was happy to see me? Which is probably me reading too much into it but whatever.
Then around seven, these two guys came in, college-aged, clearly drunk, probably pre-gaming before going out to the bars. They were dicks from the start. Complaining about the line loudly, being so obnoxious. Then they finally got in front of me and said stuff like “make sure it’s cooked this time” or “no soggy fucking fries.” I felt my body tensing up, but I was like it’s okay, they’ll leave soon. Then I told them it was going to be twenty-three dollars and the one guy got so loud. “Twenty-three bucks for this shit? That’s fucking robbery! You’d have to show your tits and ass for me to pay that for a fucking burger.”
My face got so hot but I just forced a bigger smile and told them I could grab a manager. I hate confrontation, especially at work where I have to smile and nod and can’t even attempt to stick up for myself.
But then Leon was just... there. I didn’t even see him coming. He didn’t make a big scene or anything. He just put his hand on the counter, and in this calm but kind of scary voice said something like, “I think you gentlemen owe the lady an apology. And perhaps a more generous tip for her excellent service during what’s clearly a busy evening.”
The way he said it... God. It wasn’t loud or aggressive, but his voice was like “you better not try anything with me.” They actually apologized and left a fifteen dollar tip on their order.
After they left, I just stared at him, like I short-circuited. Maybe I mumbled something like “You didn’t have to do that,” but he just shrugged and said “Yes, I did.” Then he went back to his booth like nothing happened.
I kept thinking about it for the rest of my shift. How he didn’t hesitate for a second to come to my side. How he made those guys actually feel bad about being jerks instead of just telling them to leave.
I’ve never had someone do that for me before. Jasper would have probably started a fight, and Damon would have given them a death stare until they left on their own or maybe fought them too. I never know what mood he’ll be in. But Leon... he handled it like an adult. Like someone who actually cared about
CHAPTER SIX
BAILEY - BEFORE
Traces of Anton’sblood still fleck my skin. Under my nails, along my arms, up my legs. I memorize the burgundy stains as King finally comes, focusing on them instead of the brutal way he uses me from behind. It’s not the first time, but I’ll never get used to this.
King.That’s what he tells us to call him. The narcissist bastard thinks he wears a crown. It’s nothing but self-importance and violence that keeps his little band of assholes in line.
Maybe it’s been days since they dragged us from the van. Maybe weeks. Time becomes a blurred haze from the drugs they force on us and the deprivation of the outside world. Blackout curtains on every window hide any sense of day or night. All I know is the way he uses me feels never-ending.
If I keep my eyes on my nails, on Anton’s blood, I’ll remember not to scream, not to run, because next time it won’t be his blood—it will be mine pooling beneath me. That doesn’t stop the tears from streaming down my face, soaking into the rough wooden desk. It doesn’t end the whispered pleas fromescaping my lips—calling for my mom, my dad, Jasper, Leon. Names that already feel like they’re from another life.
The house, I’ve come to learn, is a temporary space while King makes permanent arrangements for each of us. Information circulates among us girls like contraband, passed in hushed tones during bathroom trips or when the men guarding us pass out drunk.
“He said one week.”
“I heard two.”
“He found a buyer.”
“There’s a party soon.”
“I think he has my sister somewhere.”
Each time I hear something new, I can’t help but let hope slip further and further away.
He’s just finished with me again. His cologne cloys at my nose and clings to my skin, mixed with the sour, thick musk of sweat. There’s pain radiating throughout my body, but more than that, shame burns deep. I feel hollow, dirty, raw. With every brutal thrust, he cleaves pieces of my soul. Every slap, every cruel bite of thick fingers into my flesh drains my dignity, leaving me as empty as a discarded husk.
He yanks my hair to pull me upright and my body follows his commands by muscle memory alone. My scalp screams from all the times he’s ripped me across the room by my hair. I bite back the hurt, but I have to brace my arms against the wooden desk he has me pinned against, wetting my hands in my own sweat and tears.
“That’s my good pet,” he says, smoothing his palm over my knotted hair with all the tenderness of a rabid animal. “You’ve earned a meal today.”
My hollow stomach groans as if on cue. I can’t remember the last time I had a real meal, something more than the packaged granola bars and packs of crackers they’ve thrown at us. Evenafter licking the packaging clean, my hunger pangs are so visceral, they’re one of the only things reminding me I’m alive.
He finishes buckling his leather belt, the same one he used to bind my hands the first time. Then he grabs my chin, forcing my face upward until I’m looking directly into his eyes. They’re the darkest blue, so cold and devoid of emotion, I wonder if he’s even human. “I just told you you’re getting a reward, pet. What do you say?”
For a moment, I think about spitting in his face. It would feel so good to defy him, even with just a small act. Consequences be damned. Instead, my tongue darts over my cracked lips, tasting blood, and I give him the response that’ll keep me alive another day. “Thank you.”
His hand moves lower, caressing the front of my neck, fingers splayed across my throat while he coos something in Russian—the language has become a trigger for my fight or flight response. Then his grip tightens, cutting off my air as he brings his face no more than an inch from mine. The stubble on his jaw scrapes my skin as he speaks. “Remember who owns you, girl, and be grateful it’s me in here and not my men downstairs. They’re dying for a taste.” As the final word leaves his lips, he cups my pussy roughly with his free hand, making a sickly groan that vibrates his chest.
I struggle for breath, my hands instinctively clawing at his cracked knuckles. Black creeps into the corners of my vision and I know this is it. This is where I die. Half naked in some monster’s crumbling mansion, miles from everyone I love.
He must see that I’m on the edge of consciousness, because he finally releases me, letting me slump against the desk.
