Page 29 of Love Bleeds Red
“I shouldn’t have opened my big fucking mouth.” He shoves back from the table and knocks his fist against it… Not hard, but enough to get our attention. “If Yuri asks, you didn’t fucking hear anything from me. Got it?”
His eyes are locked onto Cat’s, but it’s me who nods, barely whispering, “Got it.”
Erik hurries from the room like his ass is on fire, leaving the four of us staring at each other in stunned silence. The warm, syrupy comfort of moments before has evaporated, replaced by the cold reality that whatever temporary reprieve we’d found in pancakes and morning chatter was just that—temporary.
Cat’s fork clatters against her plate. “What the hell was that about?”
But I already know. Deep in my bones, I know. Whatever Erik found out this morning, whatever made him look at me like I’m already a ghost, it’s bad. Really bad.
Lydia clears her throat. “I’ll do the dishes.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
LEON - PRESENT DAY
The rideback to Mum’s that evening feels surreal. While I weave through traffic, my mind whirls with this new information. I knew my father was a grade-A bastard, but working closely with Orlov?
What the fuck?
As I pass by familiar landmarks, memories spring up like corpses that won’t stay buried, their skeletal hands reaching for me. There’s the park where Mum would push me on the swings while we waited for him to show. My fragile heart full of hope as she pushed me higher and higher, chattering on about clouds in the shape of animals, or what new movie was playing at the cinema. I’d barely listen, too busy checking the gate every few minutes, certain this time would be different. This time he’d show, and I’d tell him all about my high marks in school. He’d smile down at me, finally proud.
Years of rejection became nothing but a hollow ache in my chest. He never showed and I finally stopped waiting.
I idle at a light in front of the corner shop where Mum used to buy me sweets after we waited long enough. We could neverafford it, but she couldn’t bear to see me upset. She’d skip meals if it meant spending that extra money brought a smile to my face.
I’d get to pick whatever I wanted, even the sticky taffy that would rot my teeth or the fancy chocolate bars in the foil wrapping, and we’d sit on the bench outside sharing them while she told me that some people just didn’t know how to love properly, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t worth loving. She’d pull me into her side and stroke my hair while I let myself cry over a man who was never worth a single tear.
I was lucky to have Mum, and Nana, and Pops. They were my rocks in a childhood marked by disappointment and broken promises. They picked up the pieces, assuring that his absence had nothing to do with me, even when I was convinced otherwise. What kind of father looks at his son and decides he’s not worth the effort?
Now I know the answer to that question. The kind who associates himself with someone like Orlov.
I park the bike with shaking hands. Without the hum of the engine, my thoughts grow louder, more demanding, and my jaw clenches to the point of pain. The receptionist’s words replay on loop.“Mr. Orlov... and that diplomat who comes with him sometimes. Very posh, very cold... Colter.”
Mum greets me at the door before I can reach for my keys. Her face lights up when she sees me, but as I step inside, her smile drops.
“What’s wrong, love? You don’t look well.”
I want to unload, to tell her everything. About Bailey, about what Alfred’s involved in, about the hell I’ve been living in for the past year and a half. Instead, I let her wrap me in one of her fierce hugs. I can’t put my burdens on her, she’s gone through enough, and for reasons I can’t understand, she still holds Alfred on a pedestal, even after all this time.
“I’m fine. Just a long day, is all,” I murmur into her shoulder, breathing the familiar scent of her rose hair oil.
She pulls back to study my face. Mine is a mirror of hers, full lips, down-turned like a reverse bow, identical noses, straight with a subtle upturn at the tip, dark expressive brows, prominent cheekbones. The only exception are my eyes. Those I inherited fromhim. “Tea?”
“Please,” I say.
I put my helmet away, grab my sketchpad and pencil from the small black backpack I carry on me at all times, and follow Mum into the kitchen. She goes about her ritual, filling the kettle, setting tea bags into mugs, arranging biscuits on the handprint plate I painted in primary. The normalcy of it warms my chest. This is the sort of thing I’ve missed. The same type of thing Bailey had with her family before she was ripped away.
“So,” Mum says, settling across from me at the small table, “tell me about this business that brought you home.”
I can’t help but chuckle despite my dark mood. “You’re almost as nosey as Nana and Pops.”
“Well, I learned from the best,” she muses.
I flip to a blank page in my sketchbook, and without a conscious thought, start sketching Bailey’s eyes. Mum bites into a biscuit, keeping her gaze trained on my downcast face. I don’t want to drag her into this, but I know I need to give her something or I won’t hear the end of it.
“There’s someone,” I say quietly, focusing on the curve of Bailey’s cheekbone coming to life. “Someone important to me who’s... missing.”
Through my periphery, I see her hand pause halfway to her mouth before she calmly places her half-eaten biscuit back on the plate. I force myself to look up from the sketch, needing to gauge her reaction.
