"Yes." Simple agreement that stole my momentum. "Too soft when it comes to you. Gabriel's right about that much—I love you Bunny."
"Because you're human." Gabriel's voice came closer. He'd stood, moved despite the bullet wound, and I could see him in my peripheral vision. Swaying but upright. "Weak to the same needs you exploit in others. Rather poetic, really."
Nathan's jaw clenched. "Stay back. And shut the fuck up."
"Or what? You'll shoot me again? While she's watching?" Gabriel laughed, the sound dark and liquid. "We both know how that ends. She'll tear you apart before you can squeeze the trigger."
It was true. I could feel it in my bones, the absolute certainty that I'd destroy anything that threatened Gabriel. Not because I loved him—love was too simple a word for what we had built. But because he was mine to protect now. My creator, my owner, my perfectly terrible constant.
1
Bartender
The ice clinked against glass like tiny bones breaking, and I couldn't help but smile at the sound. Everything was so pretty when you looked at it the right way—even the way whiskey caught the bar lights reminded me of liquid amber, like preserved butterflies or sunset through honey.
"What can I get you, sweetie?" I asked the man who'd just settled onto the cracked leather barstool, my voice pitched high and sweet as strawberry syrup. My pigtails bounced as I tilted my head, pink strands catching the neon beer signs that painted everything in rainbow hues.
He looked up from his phone—Samsung, older model, the kind that still had good encryption if you knew what you were doing—and his eyes did that thing. That up-and-down sweep that men thought was subtle but screamed louder than any words could. They always looked at the dress first. Tonight's was baby blue with white lace trim, hitting mid-thigh, paired withknee socks that had little clouds on them. Daddy would have loved it.
No. Gabriel would have selected it for specific psychological impact. But thinking his real name still felt like swallowing glass, so I kept it simple in my head. The man who'd taught me everything. The man who'd shown me what I really was. The man I was going to find.
"Bourbon," the customer said, voice rough with the kind of exhaustion that came from doing bad things to good people. Or maybe good things to bad people. It was so hard to tell the difference anymore. "Neat."
"Coming right up!" I practically sang, spinning on my white Mary Janes to reach for the bottle. Everything was a performance now, every movement calculated for maximum effect. Innocent. Harmless. Soft.
The phone in my apron pocket buzzed against my hip—the special phone, the one I'd taken from the house with all the red—and I felt that familiar thrill sparkle through my veins like champagne bubbles. Another contact. Another breadcrumb. Another step closer to understanding the beautiful machine that had created me.
Matt glanced over from where he was wiping down the other end of the bar, and I gave him my brightest smile. He'd been so understanding when I'd applied for the job two months ago, even though my references were fictional and my experience came from a life that felt like a dream someone else had lived. He was a good boss. He let me use the basement. He didn't ask about the stains.
"Here you go!" I set the bourbon down with careful precision, making sure to brush the customer's fingers with mine as I did. Just a touch. Just enough to gauge temperature, pulse, the way his skin felt against mine. Gabriel had taught meto read people through contact, and this one—oh, this one was interesting. "Rough day?"
"You could say that." He took a sip, and I watched his throat work. The anatomy of swallowing was fascinating when you really paid attention. All those muscles working in harmony, so vulnerable, so exposed. "You're new here."
"Started a few months ago! I just love meeting new people." I leaned against the bar, letting my dress ride up just a fraction. The knife strapped to my thigh stayed hidden, but knowing it was there made me feel warm and safe. "I'm Bunny."
Something flickered across his face. Recognition? Hope? That particular flavor of interest that meant he'd heard about girls like me? I catalogued it all while maintaining my sunshine smile.
"Bunny," he repeated, like he was tasting the word. "That's an... unusual name."
"My daddy gave it to me," I said, and the truth of it made my whole body hum with happiness. It didn't matter that Lilah was dead and buried beneath six months of careful construction. Bunny was real. Bunny was perfect. Bunny was exactly what she needed to be. "He said I was soft and sweet and needed protecting."
The man's pupils dilated. Bingo.
"Your father sounds... protective."
"Oh, he was everything to me." I refilled his glass without being asked, another lesson learned in blood and pleasure. Anticipate needs. Provide before demanded. Be indispensable. "Taught me everything I know about making people happy."
The conversation continued as I served other customers, but I kept him in my peripheral vision. The way he hunched over his phone, typing with his thumb while trying to shield the screen. The nervous tap of his foot that matched an elevatedheartbeat. The way he kept glancing at me when he thought I wasn't looking.
The special phone buzzed again. Two patterns this time. A response to an earlier inquiry I'd sent through channels that probably thought I was a buyer. It was amazing what people would tell you when they thought you were shopping for broken dolls.
At 10:47, Matt called last call. The crowd had thinned to just the dedicated drinkers and the man who couldn't stop staring at my pigtails. I cleaned glasses with mechanical precision, humming something soft and wordless that made me think of lullabies and lavender and the way blood looked under fluorescent lights.
"I should close out," the man said eventually, pulling out a wallet that bulged with more than just credit cards. "What do I owe you?"
"Twenty-three fifty!" I chirped, running his card with fingers that didn't shake anymore. Never shook. Good girls had steady hands and bright smiles and perfect posture even when their minds were calculating angles and vulnerabilities.
He signed the receipt and slid it back with a business card tucked underneath. Richard Matthems. Import/Export. A phone number with an international prefix.
