Page 16 of Blood Owed (Blood Mafia 1)
The intercom clicks and static fills the line for a second. He’s a thinker.
Before he can say something else, I clear my throat. “As a matter of fact, I also graduated valedictorian from my high schoolandone of my essays on the impacts of childhood poverty on adults was published in Newsweek.”
I’m not lying. I framed the magazine and hung it in my bedroom.
“Perhaps I misspoke,” the voice drawls. His tone is so deep it burrows into the base of my spine and rests heavily against my nerves, pricking and prodding at me. “You might be smart, but you’re not very wise.”
“Semantics.” I shrug. “Why am I chained up? I’m just a human.”
“You like to fight.”
Oh, so his friend told him about that?
“Scared?”
My taunt is met with silence and the little bit of triumph I had begun to feel fades. After a few more minutes of nothing, the distinct sounds of a door being unlocked fills the tiny space.
I expect to see the blue-eyed asshole who knocked me out, not the green-eyed one who stopped my mugger. I eye him suspiciously, narrowing my gaze and pressing my lips together.
He’s still wearing the ridiculous suit with the Blood Mafia emblem. He’s also still incredibly striking in a rough and tumble sort of way. In the dim light, I can see the small scar in the middle of his right eyebrow and a jagged looking scar across his neck. If anything, they give him a dangerous sort of sex appeal.
It doesn’t affect me at all.
Maybe being good looking is a prerequisite for joining? Who am I kidding? I know the prerequisite and it has nothing to do with looks and everything to do with blood.
“Here.” He sets a five-gallon bucket in front of me.
I stare at the orange bucket. “You can’t be serious.”
Ever so slowly, the scarred eyebrow quirks, and he flashes his fangs at me when he smiles. “Trust me, I don’t find any of this funny.”
He’s not as much fun as the other guy.
My gaze drops to my restraints. “I’m going to need out of these.”
“Don’t fight me. I’m not as gentle as Grayson.”
So the funny one has a name.
“I make no promises.”
He glares at me when I bat my eyelashes. “Don’t test me, Demetria.”
I’m not surprised he knows my full name. By now, they probably know all there is to know about Demetria Barrera. It’s simple really. Abandoned by my mother at age five after my father died. Luckily for me, a nice couple wanted a sweet little girl to dote on. I made out like a bandit when it came to adoption. Mom and Dad are well off and gave me plenty of attention to soothe over the pain of losing my real parents. All I have left of them is a faded picture on a cork board in my apartment.
While I’ve been strolling down memory lane, he’s undone the chains around my ankles. I stretch my legs one at a time while he undoes my wrists. When the chains hit the back of the chair, I jump up and make a run for it. Or I try to.
The man grabs my arm and shoves me against the wall. His body presses firmly into mine, and I ignore the annoying clenching deep inside of me. I’m teetering on, nearly stumbling down, the line of full-blown psycho. I don’t need to add Stockholm Syndrome to the long list of things that are wrong with me.
His fingers bite into my skin as he holds my hands above my head. “I told you not to cause problems.”
“Umm, no, you saiddon’t fight meanddon’t test me,but you never said anything about causing problems.” I make my voice deep and husky when I mimic him.
“Do you want to know what would happen if you made it out of this room?”
His body is heavy against mine, and my chest is rising and falling rapidly. Adrenaline mixed with anxiety has made me a jittery mess.
“If you made it out of here, you’d be walking straight toward a cafeteria full of hungry vampires.”
