Carmine said it without an ounce of bitterness. She didn’t blame them for the choice they’d made. A venom neutral child was a blessing and a burden. The big, powerful families used them to make profitable alliances and the poor sold them off to better the lives of the rest of the family.
Even if a family wanted to keep them, it came with considerable risk. It was hard to keep that a secret, and once word was out, the danger that someone could snatch your child and sell them to the highest bidder, or even keep them for themselves until they reached maturity, was very high.
The crypt was the safest option for her parents, who were barely scraping by. She’d be protected there. She’d get an education. She’d be sold to someone who could provide for her when she came of age. It all made sense.
Carmine understood it, but that didn’t mean she’d go along with it.
Atticus turned his attention to her other foot. He looked like he was barely listening, but his dark tone said something else. “They wouldn’t help you if you asked?”
“That could get them killed. They could never pay the price of my upbringing back, and the crypt would see it as stealing if they didn’t.”
It didn’t matter that she’d worked in the morgue since she was fifteen. They accounted for every penny they’d ever spent on her. Every bottle of synth. Every scrap of clothing. Every drop of water for her showers. All of it went into the bride price.
She didn’t want anyone to get hurt on her behalf. Carmine planned to get herself out of this. No one else had to bother themselves.
There were only two ways to escape becoming a blood bride: either she had to run, or she had to defile herself.
Eyeing the vampire carefully drying her feet, she weighed her choices. If she had to pick, she preferred option A. But she’d take option B without a second thought. Sex sounded horrific, but it’d only take one time. She could endure just about anything once.
“I’m gonna make sure there isn’t anything trapped in your cuts before I bandage them up.” Atticus propped her heel on the thick muscle of his thigh. Snatching a small pen light from what she thought was a first aid kit, he aimed the beam at the sole and began to poke around.
Scowling again, he grabbed some disinfectant swabs. “I don’t see anything, but this is still gonna hurt. Sorry.”
Carmine curled her dirty fingernails into the blanket under her and bit down on her lips. Her body went rigid as the sting registered. It did hurt. It hurt alot.
But she didn’t make a sound. She didn’t flinch. If she did, she worried he’d stop making those soft, comforting noises as he worked. Littleshushsounds and softI know, I know, I’m sorry’s.No one had spoken that gently to her in decades.
When he finished her right foot, he smeared what looked like half a tube of disinfectant on the sole before he wrapped itin fancy rubber bandages. There must have been some sort of numbing agent in it, because the pain eased almost immediately.
“You did great,” he praised, raspy voice so very gentle. “And that was the worst foot, so you’re past the bad part. Once I get the other one wrapped up, let’s get you in the shower.”
A pang of self-consciousness struck her. Carmine had forgotten how dirty she was, but all at once she felt the dust caking her skin and hair, the filth clinging to the waxy layer of her makeup. She hated dirt and disorder. Everything needed to be clean, most especially herself.
Without thinking, she asked, “Do I look that bad?”
Atticus went very still. He didn’t look at her when he answered, “No. You’re beautiful. But you also hauled ass through the desert and then wrestled in the dirt for a while. You need to get clean so you can feel better.”
They were quiet for the time it took for him to dress her other foot. Finally, as Atticus stood up to drain the dirty water into the small sink, Carmine worked up the courage to ask, “What happens now?”
“Shower,” he grunted. “Then bed.”
Back to the trailer, then.Carmine worked hard to keep her face from showing her dismay. The trailer wasn’t horrible. It had air conditioning, a tiny bed, a toilet bolted to the wall, and the crate of synth. They’d thrown clothes and toiletries, too, so she didn’t show up on her groom’s doorstep smelly and disheveled. But that didn’t mean she wanted to go back.
Once she was in there, escape was impossible.
It was completely dark inside, and even vampire eyes needed some dim illumination to see with. When she was locked in the trailer, all she could do was listen to her own breathing, wonder if her eyes were truly open or closed, and think of all the ways she could die.
What if I run out of oxygen? What if the trailer is left somewhere? What if no one thinks to see what was inside?
She’d seen bodies baked by the sun, bloated and discolored by undisturbed decay, and much worse. What would she look like on the slab if no one found her in time?
Carmine liked small, dark spaces, but the trailer proved to be too much even for her.
Her gaze slid over Atticus’s broad back to eye the door. It would be stupid to run out into the sunlight. She lived her entire life indoors, so she had absolutely no tolerance for it. He was right that there was no shelter out there. Left to bake in the sun, it’d only take a few hours for her body to shut down, go into shock, and then quit altogether.
But if this was her only chance to escape before he threw her back in the trailer…
A callused hand gripped her jaw. Not hard, but firm enough to turn her head away from the door.
