My eyes widen in confusion. Why would my father mention anything to them about me? I still don’t understand why they’re here.
“She’s fine; it ain’t like we’re going to be looking at her face, Miles. Besides, Elliott likes her,” the erratic one says, as he runs the pad of his thumb along his lower lip.
They’re both looking at me, sizing me up, staring me down like I’m a piece of meat. I don’t like it and suddenly I wish I was anywhere but here.
“Elliott’s right; her scent is intoxicating,” the man in the suit says, his voice cold and unnerving.Miles. The other guy called him Miles.
Elliott? Who the fuck is he? And how does he know what I smell like?
“She’s a good cook as well. Just wait until you have a taste of her casserole. River will make a good homemaker and nurturer. She’s been watching the neighborhood kids since she was just twelve.” My father pipes up as if he’s proud of me, like I’m a show pig or something.
“Dinner’s ready,” I tell them, my head low, knowing that my father will hate that I’m speaking out of turn. I don’t have to look up; I can feel his eyes burning holes through me.
My father moves to the chair at the head of the rectangular table, and Miles takes the spot at the opposite end. There are four chairs left. Two on either side of the table. None of them are an option of where I want to sit. I’d much rather be out of this house with my brother.
I hesitate, not knowing where to go or what to do. Sulfur surrounds me, invading my body, causing me to gasp for breath. A firm hand lands on my shoulder, gripping me firmly, causing me to whine under the pressure.
“Come on, Sweetmeat, you can sit on my lap,” then he winks. “I mean next to me.” His other hand slips along my lower back, gripping my hip tightly as he guides me toward the chair closest to Miles, lowering me into it as he takes the one beside me.
I’m trapped between these two men, ones who have my body thrumming with nervous energy. The room is suffocating with alpha big-knot energy, and I’m fighting to not cower beneath it.
“Ray,” Miles calls his name, almost as if in warning. “Don’t scare our little lamb.” He pauses as a sadistic smile forms on his face, his eyes twinkling with delight. “Yet.”
“Let’s eat. Dig in, men.”
Ray, since I know his name now, reaches out, takes hold of the serving spoon and dishes a heaping mound of the casserole onto his plate, before adding a smaller portion on mine. Normally I’d be pissed that someone would think that measly amount would feed me, but suddenly I’m not hungry.
I pick up my fork, picking at my food, stabbing a piece of chicken with the tines of the fork and chewing it. My golden hair falls down around my face, giving me a tiny barrier from the men in the room. One who will no doubt beat me once he’s given the opportunity and two who would eat me if given the chance.
I’m dying to ask why they’re here. They don’t look like the type who would hang around a drunk like my father. A man who gambles all his money away, begging on the street corner for change as if he were homeless. A sinking feeling in my gut says this isn’t going to end well for me.
My father clears his throat, his fork mid scratch across his plate.
“So, about the deal. Are the terms acceptable?” he asks, a slight quiver in his voice I’m not used to hearing. My father always reeks of dominance, but now he falters, cowering to the two men.
My eyes immediately dart to him, wide with unknowing fear.Deal? Acceptable terms?What is he talking about?
“Elbert.” It’s all Miles says. Just my father’s name as he glares at him as if he's thinking about how many ways he could rip his heart out and feast on it as if it were a prime piece of steak. “There’s a time and a place. Let’s enjoy this delicious meal before us made by your beautiful daughter.”
My father nods his head and continues to eat. But not before he steals a glare at me, one that tells me I’ll be paying for them correcting him later. My father always wants to be in control, and right now he’s not. In his eyes, these men are treating him lower than what he is, as if he were some weakling, beneath them.
The sound of a chair dragging across the floor, slow and deliberate—a low, gritty scrape that scratches at your nerves like fingernails on glass—pulls my attention from my father. It cuts through the room, through my bones, a warning skirting against my soul. I try not to flinch, but my breath catches anyway.
Then, he shifts closer.
Ray, the one that doesn’t quite seem to be fully there.
I can feel it, the air changing, thickening, his scent wrapping around me, claiming me. And then, his arm brushes againstmine. Just the faintest of pressure, but it’s there. His body is too close now, the heat of him pressing into my side like a cattle branding rod, claiming my space as if he was invited.
I freeze.
My skin pulls tight where he touches me, almost as if it’s trying to crawl away from him. My stomach coils, sharp and sick. Every instinct in me screams to move, to run, but my legs are like cement. The table, the men, all seem to press into me like a trap.
The dinner was as unexpected as the men. The scrape of the chair was bad.
This is worse.
He’s not touching me now, thankfully—but the absence of his contact is worse than the contact itself, because it means he could do it again, at any second.
