He nods slowly, licking his spilt lip. “I fell.”
“Doing what?”
His eyes turn guarded. “I just fell.”
Right. He’s too scared to say anything. Pushing him won’t help me.
“Did you come here with your parents?”
The young kid snorts. “I don’t have parents.” He glances once to Dillon and then me. “Can you hurry this up? I have to go.”
He’s already had surgery with a few pins holding the pieces together. He was put down here for a wrap. I could do it, but the proper procedure was to have a resident.
Gesturing to Dillon, I say, “He’ll get you settled. But we’re going to cut the shirt.”
He rolls his eyes at the idiocy and whips the shirt over his head, wincing as he goes. Once his arm is free, I see it. His branding.
On his shoulder blade is a crudely inked cross. It’s deep, too thick in some parts and too thin in others, and the lines are blown by a heavy hand. It’s not a proper tattoo, most likely done in the basement surrounded by hushed whispers and secrets.
It’s Bruno’s mark.All the girls he owns have the same tattoo at the club. It’s ownership—because those girls, this child, are only property to him.
Gently, I trace it and the boy freezes. I’ve seen this mark before, up close. I just can’t remember where.
It’s the mark Roman will put on me, if he gets me.
Gulping, I ask, “Do you have a tattoo?”
The boy doesn’t look at me. “Yes.”
“What’s it mean?”
He glances up, eyes full of pain. It twists my heart, breaks my composure, and my hand falls to the shoulder, blocking the tattoo. “It’s alright. We’ll take care of you.”
I leave Dillon, intent to look at the kid’s intake form. If there are people listed, I’ll be sure to have them banned.
“Wife.”
Freezing, my body jolts as if electrocuted. Lifting my chin, shoulders back, I glare into the smug face of Roman Bruno the Second.
Wife. I snort, trying to move around him. If anyone were to call me that—it wouldn’t be this asshole. When Roman says it, I want to pick my eyes out and drive wooden stakes into my ears. If Hayes ever said it?—
I stop. Would it be so bad if he did?
“I’m not yourwife.”
“You will be soon enough,” he retorts. I fight back the urge to rake my nails into his face like a pissed off cat. “It’s good you have a hobby. When we marry, I may let you treat the house. I have a lot of bodies that need tending to.”
I barely have time to swallow back the bile. Fixing up bodies—bodies he breaks over and over again—in that house of horrors reminds me too much of Pops. Of the lessons in the torture rooms. The cold hard steel of the autopsy tables. The screams—the pleas.
No.
“Get out.” I glare, pushing my glasses up my nose. “You don’t belong here.”
“A husband can’t come visit hiswife?” He grabs my hand, dislocating my wrist in retaliation. I forget, Roman doesn’t like when women disrespect him.
Cold eyes glare at my fist as I exhale the pain. “Where did you get this ring?”
I try to tug away, but Roman’s grip is strong—stronger than I would have guessed. He’s a slimy creep, but he’s made from the same criminal underworld that bore my sister. That bore Hayes.
