Page 3 of Sire
No, she looks straight ahead, and if looks could kill, every man in this room would be dead.
These girls and young women are being sold, and I’m buying them.
Settle down.
Don’t worry.
I won’t lay a hand on them, and neither will my brothers, posing as other buyers in the room. They’re making us sit in a circle of chairs around the girls.
This fucker, the seller, a hedge fund manager by day, rented a swanky house in Palm Beach, and he has us sitting like we’re getting ready to dine. Like we’re about to make an evil meal of these innocent girls.
So, the Lord wants me to use the gun strapped to my ankle and hidden under my jeans to kill the seller.
The sloppy pat-down I got at the door missed my Glock.
Amateurs.
But the Devil in me knows if I kill this fucker now, we won’t bust his entire network, and that’s what we want.
“What’s your name, sweetie?” Some old, sick fuck addicted to self-tanner reaches for the youngest girl.
She sobs, and I growl, “Yeah, she’s mine, too.”
“You can’t have them all,” he whines.
“Like you can stop me, mother fucker?”
I’m not dressed like a forty-something pastor; I’m dressed like a twenty-something dealer. Guess I look like one, too. Ink on my face. Neck. Hands. My entire body. Most people can’t see past my menacing exterior to my tortured soul inside, and fuck yes, that’s how I want it.
“No.” My brother Axel glares at me. “I’m taking three of them.”
“Fuck you.” Grant, my other brother, acts along. “I’m not going home empty-handed. I want two.”
“I’m taking the blondes.” Nash, who’s like our brother, fights his rage. He’s a father to a daughter, and this shit is eating him alive, but he plays the part. “All three of them.”
That leaves the youngest girl … and this one.
This iron angel belongs to me.
“You know the price, gentlemen.” The seller enters the circle. “The bidding starts at a million each.”
“You said a hundredKeach.” The old orange man whines again, “That’s not a good deal.”
They go back and forth, and it doesn’t matter. My brothers and I came to get these girls. To get them the fuck out of here and the help they need.
Our brother Jace and our mom are waiting in a van five miles away. They’ll take these girls and get them somewhere safe.
This is what we do, and we don’t fuck around. In fifteen minutes, we’ve bought them all, and they’re starting to leave. My brothers won’t blow their cover.
But this last one?
The Iron Angel?
“I’ve grown quite fond of her.” The seller caresses her long raven curls. “She’s special. Such a rare little bird. Right, Wren?” He grabs her breast, and I clench my jaw as he sneers, “She’ll fight back, and that makes it sweeter.”
He throws her down on the marble floor. Crashing on her backside, she muffles her cry, her tattoos revealed.
Stigmata tattoos.
