Page 72 of Love Bleeds Red
I hesitate, and of course, Sir notices immediately. He pulls the book from my hands so sharply that the edge of a page slices my index finger. It stings and blood wells up, but I clench my fist in my lap, forcing myself to ignore it.
“Yes, Sir. A change would be lovely.”
Polly walks in, carrying a tea tray. Sir doesn’t even look at her as she places it on the table and prepares him a cup. Her hands tremble—yet another sign that something isn’t right.
In the three months since we met, we’ve developed a careful system. Nothing too dangerous or outwardly obvious, but small gestures of solidarity. A reassuring touch when Ms. Harrington isn’t looking. An extra roll of bread smuggled into my cottage. The constant promise that I’m not completely alone. She’s not always here and she won’t ever answer me when I ask her where she’s been, but when she is here, I feel relieved.
“That will be all, Polly,” Sir says, accepting the teacup. “Bailey, you may serve yourself.”
“Thank you, Sir.” My eyes follow Polly to the doorway, where she lingers, waiting for orders. I decide to chance a question—not just for me, but for both of us. “Where will we be going, Sir?”
“London. I have some business associates I’d like you to meet.” He smiles warmly, like he’s offering me a gift. “Consider it part of your education.”
Business associates.These six months, I’ve learned that Sir’s business involves things I don’t want to think about too deeply. The hushed phone calls. The men who occasionally visit the estate. The way Polly sometimes returns from serving them with a vacant look in her eyes. It’s obvious he’s involved with King and the rest of them, but I wish I could find out the capacity.
“Thank you, Sir.”
“And since you’ve behaved extra well, I’ll let Polly accompany us. She’s proven to be quite helpful to Ms. Harrington of late and you’ll need someone to assist you.”
I wish I could feel happy that I won’t be alone in whatever this is, but I’d rather not bring Polly into it. She’s gone through enough. Seeing something happen to another friend would break me.
She nods, letting me know she’s heard, and she accepts what’s to come. But as I stare into my teacup, anxiety consumes me, clenching my chest, sending tingling into my limbs. What can I do though? I’m not strong enough. Not smart enough. Notenoughof anything that matters to change his mind. While Sir moves on to boasting about his latest business dinner, I send a silent plea to the universe to save us from our fate.
The London townhouseis nothing like the estate. They both scream luxury and old money, but this place lacks theidyllic warmth of the country home. I doubt it ever belonged to a family at all. It’s all polished concrete and glass, contemporary art and sculptures that look more like weapons than decorations, stark white walls and black leather furniture. Sterile and cold. A perfect reflection of who Sir really is.
He separates Polly and I right away, leading me into a small bedroom, and ordering Polly to prepare for the evening while he makes some calls. The moment the door gets locked behind me, that suffocating weight bears down on my chest. Alone again. I check the window first, but it’s locked and barred with a view of the small back garden covered in a dusting of snow that will melt by the evening. Not a soul in sight. There’s nothing for me to do but curl into a ball and close my eyes. This is all too familiar. Thoughts of Cat, Jasmine, Elise, and Lydia play in my mind as I fall into a restless sleep.
I’m woken by Polly tapping my shoulder. Only I don’t recognize her at first out of her usual uniform, wearing a sleek black dress with her brown hair down and pin-straight instead of being pulled tightly back. “I need to fix your hair,” she says gently.
I sit up, taking in my surroundings before remembering where we are. “What’s going on?”
“Come into the loo,” she whispers. “Maybe he won’t hear us over running water.”
I nod and follow her into the small bathroom. She pulls out a brush and curling iron along with some hair products. “What did he make you do?” I ask quietly.
“Just a bit of cleaning.” I roll my lip between my teeth and tilt my head in question. “Truly. I’m fine, Bailey.”
“Well, what’s going on then? Why are we here? Why are you dressed up?”
She gestures for me to quiet down before turning on the tap. “Now we should be able to speak plainly. But turn, I need to do something with your hair or he’ll bludgeon me.”
“What?” I ask, appalled. “He said that?”
She smirks so I give her a light slap on the wrist. “No, but he’s done things just as terrible.”
“What do you mean?”
She ignores my question and starts brushing my hair gently at first, but as the minutes tick by her movements become more urgent. “Listen,” she whispers. “I’ve been here once before and it wasn’t good. The men that are coming… just don’t fight them, alright? Don’t give them a reason to hurt you.”
I shove my hands under my thighs to keep them from shaking. “What men? Do you have names?”
Before she can answer, brash voices make their way through the door over the sound of the running water. Polly drops the brush on the counter at the noise and her hands come to rest on my shoulders. “Don’t forget what I said,” she whispers. “Please.”
Sir enters without knocking. “Ladies, it’s time to greet my guests.”
The sittingroom is hazy with cigar smoke and full of male voices speaking in accented English and Russian. They all seem like they’re in a contest to see who can speak first, and loudest. My body instantly tenses from hearing them speak Russian, painful memories flooding back to the forefront of my mind.
Sir guides me forward with a possessive hand on my lower back. The men go quiet, staring up at me like I’m a prize at an auction.
