Page 93 of Love Bleeds Red
“Just for a ride. Won’t be long.”
I grab my jacket and bag from the couch and slip outside. Their whispered voices follow me until I close the door behind me.
It must be close to 2 AM at this point, but the cool air awakens my tired eyes. I throw on my jacket and bag and climb onto my bike.
The engine roars to life beneath me, drowning out the chaos in my head for a blessed moment. I don’t have a destination in mind, I just need to move, to feel something other than this crushing weight in my chest. To clear my thoughts so I can think straight. I can’t go to sleep yet, not when every time my mind is idle I see Bailey’s terrified expression in that clearing.
The streets are nearly empty at this hour, just a few taxis and a couple of people out on the sidewalks. I’m able to ride faster, letting muscle memory guide me through London’s winding roads. I take turns without thinking, going on instinct alone. If I get lost at least I’ll have that to focus on.
My phone rings multiple times from my Bluetooth—Damon, Blake, Falin. I ignore the calls.
It’s only when I slow to a stop close to an hour later that I realize where I am.
Alfred’s London estate stands high before me, sitting at the top of a long driveway blocked by iron gates. The same C sigilgleams from the center, highlighting his last name. The name I wish I didn’t have.
Instead of the empty abandoned feeling I used to feel as a kid when I looked up at the house I was never welcomed into, now there’s only white hot rage burning through my veins.
The house is completely dark apart from the exterior security lights. If I wanted to, I could disable every protection he’s set up around his property—could get inside in mere minutes. But I know in my gut he’s not in there. He’s either still in the country, or has fled somewhere to hide. But still, I close my eyes and picture him in there anyway. Him pacing his study with its mahogany furniture, leather bound books, and crystal chandeliers. Making phone calls and holding meetings about people like they’re nothing but objects to be bought and sold. People with lives and families and loved ones. People like Bailey.
I white-knuckle the handlebars, and let a dark fantasy play out in my mind. Me dousing the place with accelerant. Striking a match. Tossing it against the heavy drapes or expensive rugs. Watching the place fill with smoke and flames. Smiling as those floor to ceiling windows explode outward, seeing his precious antiques and family portraits curl and blacken. The whole fucking home that’s nothing but another object that he’s collected burn until it’s a pile of ash.
As the images flicker through my mind, I know as satisfying as it would be, it wouldn’t be enough. Burning an empty house won’t give Bailey back the months he stole from her. It wouldn’t erase the way she flinched when I tried to touch her tonight, or reverse the look in her eyes when she said our relationship didn’t matter anymore.
Blake and Damon are right. If I’m going to destroy him I need to do it right. I need him to look me in the eyes, and see exactly who’s taking him down. And Bailey—she can be there to watch, to help, hell, even to make the killing blow herself.
I pull out my phone and stare at the contact I should have deleted years ago.Alfred Colterglows on the screen in cold white letters. My thumb hovers over the call button. It’s past 3 AM, but I don’t give a shit if I wake him up. In fact, I hope I rip him right out of whatever peaceful sleep he thinks he deserves.
Every ounce of rage that’s been simmering within me sharpens to a deadly point and before I can think better of it, I hit call.
The phone rings once. Twice. Then his voice is there, coming through my speakers.
“You’ve made quite the mess for me tonight.” The bastard sounds calm, like multiple dead bodies on his property is just another day’s work.
“You’re lucky you’re still breathing,” I seethe.
He’s quiet for a moment and I fucking hate it. I want him to laugh at me. To yell. To bait me into unleashing my anger. Instead, his voice slithers through the speaker, smooth and venomous.
“I’m disappointed in you, Leon. After all this time, I thought we came to an understanding. She was for you, you know. A present. Primed and ready to be by your side as you take your rightful place?—”
“You’re sick,” I cut him off, my voice shaking. “She’s not a fucking present. She’s a human being.”
“And why can’t she be both?”
I hop off my bike and pace the ground, not wanting to listen to him but knowing I need to hear his fucked up views.
“I’ve spent considerable time and resources preparing her for you. Do you have any idea what she was like when I found her? Broken. Traumatized. Worthless to anyone.”
His words hit me like a punch to the gut. “You didn’t find her, you bought her. There’s a difference you sick fuck.”
“No need to argue details. The point is, I took that damaged girl and turned her into something extraordinary. Educated her. Refined her. Made her worthy of the Colter name. Worthy of you.”
“What did you do to her?”
Now he laughs dismissively, like this is all one big joke.
“I civilized her. She was nothing but a common American whore when she arrived. Now she can hold proper conversation, carry herself with dignity, understand her place in the world. I did that for you, Leon. Everything I did was to give you the perfect companion.”
“Don’t you fucking?—”
