Page 13 of Pray for Scars
My eyes narrow on it, and he, reluctantly, lets his hand hang down by his side.
“Your father has a gift for you. In his office.”
I want to vomit.
I don’t say anything, just walk past him, knocking into his shoulder as I do. He might have a gun but here, he’s got no power.
My father isDominusof the 6.
Master.
As his son, I take the same title with the Unsaints.
I walk through the sanctuary, with its red-carpeted floors and stiff wooden pews. Ahead is the altar, a huge black cross hung on the back wall, as if this is a place for God.
Only if God likes blood and sex and sacrifice as much as the 6 do.
Maybe he does.
I wouldn’t know.
I’ve sure as fuck never heard from him.
I push open the door at the back of the sanctuary, head down the narrow, stone hallway, my footsteps echoing with every step.
I wonder if my father’s heart ever races when he hears me coming. If his palms ever break out into a sweat like mine do when I get near him.
I wonder if he thinks his son is a demon just like him.
If he does, he has no fucking idea.
I’m nothing like him.
I’m much worse.
But then I roll my shoulders back, take a breath and head into my father’s office and I see a girl on her knees, her hands zip tied in front of her—my father nowhere to be found—and I think maybe I’m wrong.
Maybe I’m not so bad.
But when she opens her mouth with a smile in her eyes, and I feel my dick stir at the sight of her, I realize that’s a fucking joke.
My father wanted me to be as cruel as he is.
And as I thread my fingers through the girl’s hair, tilt her head back and run my thumb along her bottom lip, I know he got exactly what he wanted.
* * *
“Where’d you find her?”I ask my father when he comes into his office, settling in the leather chair behind his desk without a glance my way.
Gustavo took the girl out, slicing through her zip ties. She’s not a prisoner here. Not exactly.
She...works here. For now.
“Where I find all the good ones,” he answers me, straightening his tie and shrugging. He clasps his hands on the dark wooden surface of his desk, finally meeting my gaze, frowning at my attire. “Moscow.” He dips his chin, indicating the chair across from his desk that I’m standing beside. “Sit.”
I flex my jaw, clench my hands into fists. But then I do it. I sit, rest my elbows on my knees, rub my palms together.
“How was she?” he asks me with a slight smile, brows raised. His forehead doesn’t move though, doesn’t wrinkle. The 6 are above many things: the law. Human decency. Morality. But they’re not above Botox.
