Page 59 of Love Bleeds Red
Should I run? Could I make it anywhere? That’s a simple answer—no. At least not yet. I need to be smart, figure out where I am and what they want from me.
I eye the butter knife on the table. Its curved silver handle polished to a shine. It wouldn’t do much in the way of protection, but it’s better than nothing. I slide it in the only place I can think of, the elastic of my bra.
Muffled voices make their way across the room, followed by footsteps. I sit frozen, too afraid to turn my head toward the sound. My hands curl around the fabric of my dress, wringing it into a ball, something to calm myself.
“There she is,” a deep voice croons. It’s somewhat familiar, but I can’t place it. The accent though—English. Just like Ms. Harrington. Similar to Leon’s but not the same.
I force myself to turn toward the voice, ignoring the pain of my chest constricting. The man who meets my gaze is tall and distinguished, probably in his fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair perfectly styled and wearing an expensive-looking navy suit. It’s his smile that I recognize first, and then his eyes. The same eyes that peered into mine a few nights ago.
“You,” I whisper. His last words come back to me. “Do be a good girl until I see you again, yeah?”
“Lovely to see you again, Bailey.” He moves to the head of the table with fluid grace, pulling out his chair. “I do hope you slept well. Ms. Harrington tells me you were quite tired when you arrived.”
Arrived.Like I came here willingly.
I don’t know what to say. I guess it didn’t matter whether my new captor was a complete stranger, or someone I’ve encountered before. Nothing changes. It’s still a shock though.
“Sir has spoken to you,” Ms. Harrington seethes. “You will respond.”
He laughs, it’s warm and friendly, but I already know better. “It’s fine, Greta. Please, go enjoy breakfast in the garden. I see the sun peeking through the clouds.”
Her face softens, and she nods, immediately obeying.
“I’m sorry for Ms. Harrington. She’s a bit of a stickler for the rules, but my most trusted employee,” he says, reaching for the kettle. “Did you sleep well?”
“I—uh—yes, I did.” The words feel strange on my tongue. After months of King’s unpredictable violence, this man’s calm politeness is somehow more terrifying.
Something shifts in the practiced smile, but he continues making his cup of tea. “Sir,” he says.
“I’m sorry?” I ask.
“You’ll refer to me as Sir. I’m sure Ms. Harrington already briefed you?”
Here comes the shift. Exactly what I’ve been waiting for. Harsh words, or even violence.
“Yes, she did. I’m sorry,” I say. He pauses, teacup halfway to his lips so I add, “Sir. I’m sorry, Sir.”
He laughs again, as if I’d just told him a silly joke. “Excellent. Now, Bailey, please help yourself.” He gestures to the decadent spread on the table. “My cook, Mr. Turner, really outdid himself today. I told him it was a special occasion.”
I stare at the pastries and fresh fruit, my stomach growling despite my nerves. When was the last time I saw food this beautiful? This... normal?
My hand shakes as I reach for a croissant in front of me. Sir sucks air through his teeth and I jerk my hand back to my side. “I’m not one to give nutrition advice, but do you think a croissant is appropriate for maintaining your figure? It’s your choice, of course.” His eyes stray to the fruit bowl.
“Yes, you’re right.” I quickly add, “Sir.”
I reach for a small cluster of grapes instead, keeping my movements slow and careful. He makes a pleased humming sound and picks up the very croissant I’d been reaching for, tearing off a buttery, flaky piece with a satisfied grin.
“Wise choice,” he says, chewing slowly. “Though I must say, you’re missing out. Mr. Turner’s croissants are truly exceptional.” He takes another bite, and I watch the golden crumbs fall onto his pristine white plate. My stomach clenches with hunger, but also something darker. A simmering rage threatening to bubble to the surface.
I push it down deep, and pop a grape into my mouth. Slowly chewing while looking down at my empty plate.
“Tell me,” he continues while spreading softened butter on another piece of croissant, “what do you think of your accommodations? The cottage has been used by my family for generations. Whenever we needed to shut out the world, a sanctuary of sorts. I haven’t found a place in the world more quiet.”
His knife clinks as he rests it on the edge of his plate, and he stares at me, waiting for a response.
“It’s very nice, Sir.”
“I’m pleased you approve. Comfort is quite important for what I hope to accomplish.” He takes a small bite and studies me again. “You see, Bailey, you’re going to find that things operate quite differently under my care than what you’ve previously experienced.”
