Once again, Lucifer manages to dissuade anyone from touching me without even having to say a word. He merely inhales and poor Sammy shrinks beneath his gaze and quickly hastens two steps back.
I’m not stupid enough to mistake his actions for protection. He’s merely guarding his investment. I’m a pretty little toy he doesn’t want tarnished too badly. Vinny wouldn’t want metoobroken after all.
The thought gives me the strength to step around Lucifer, implying that I’ll follow without having to be forced. Sammy audibly sighs while Mack simply...watches. His smile never wavers, but there’s no ounce of joy in it. The man simply likes flexing his teeth, the same way a wolf does in the face of an opponent. He doesn’t take Lucifer’s lack of reaction as an insult.
He accepts it as a challenge.
For whatever reason, he doesn’t follow me when I head toward the back of the bar with Sammy leading the way. Whether he’s welcome to or not, Lucifer falls into step behind me, and I hate this part of me that feeds off his presence.
Alone, Lynn would shrink inside herself, trapped with all of these unfamiliar men. She’d hate where their eyes leered as she crept past them, unsteady in her boots. Her heart would race, and she’d entertain—for a minute—that returning to Vinny wasn’t the worst possible fate a woman could face.
Arno and his brutes were drunk on revenge. These men are driven by another thought that makes my skin crawl once I identify it.Greed.
I keep my gaze trained on Sammy’s brown curls, but I can smell the others. I hear them.
“Pretty little bitch.”
“Looks like she can take a hit. I wonder how many.”
“Hot piece of ass.”
It’s only when Lucifer takes a step closer to me that they fall silent. His heat burns through my back. His breath rustles the hair at the nape of my neck. It’s like he’s breathing his scent onto my skin—marking me in a way that even these animals are forced to respect. Does he do it out of duty to our private bargain?
Or merely because he likes exerting his authority over men who would be foolish to challenge him?
It’s an amusing thought to consider as Sammy finally comes to a stop before a wooden door decorated with strips of police caution tape.
“Ladies first,” he says while opening the door, revealing the small room beyond it.
I’m surprised to find that it’s organized like a makeshift clinic. There’s a black recliner in the center and a row of counters against the wall, cluttered with trays of syringes and vials. So maybe less of a clinic and more like...a druggie’s paradise.
“I can t-take it from here,” Sammy says when Lucifer starts to follow me inside the room.
“Yeah, he’s got it,” another man seconds. Tall and imposing, he comes from nowhere to guard the door, conveniently inserting a foot in between me and Lucifer.
“Come on, Dante,” Mack playfully scolds from across the room. “Leave the women to their business.”
He’s outnumbered. I can sense his frustration in a single grunt that sends loose strands of my hair flying, but I suspect I’m theonly one who notices. The next second, he’s gone, heading toward Mack and Arno. The lack of his presence is like a Band-Aid being forcefully ripped from a wound. I don’t know if I miss it or if I’m relieved by its loss.
At least, now, I can bleed in peace.
“Step right up,” Sammy says with a nervous laugh.
I tear my gaze from Lucifer’s retreating form and cross over the threshold. He gestures toward the recliner, and I settle onto the edge of it while the door shuts with the one thug on the other side of it.
Sammy eyes me carefully, clicking his tongue. “Let’s get a look at that ear.” He reaches for the hair on my right side and then hesitates as if silently asking for permission. I nod, and he withdraws the strands, groaning when he sees the wound up close. “Jesus! Did they let a fucking butcher take it off with a hacksaw?” He shakes his head at such a poor method of torture. “Sloppy. Just fucking sloppy.”
Muttering under his breath, he turns to the counter. There’s a long mirror hanging on the wall above it, and I studiously observe his hands as they flit over the scattered materials.
“It’s a bit too old to do much, I’m afraid,” he says. “Otherwise, I’d attempt stitches. I can clean it for you, at least.” He glances over at me and winks. “I wasn’t kidding about the gangrene.”
From behind him, my reflection stares back. The haunted shell seems a little more animated now. There’s a harder line to her jaw that wasn’t there before. She’s on edge. She’s anxious. The man before her keeps sneaking glances at a vial of liquid when he thinks she isn’t looking.
“I should clean it with some peroxide, I guess.” He approaches me with only a bottle of alcohol in his hand and a wad of gauze.
Gritting my teeth, I force myself not to react as he methodically cleans what’s left of my ear. The burning sting goads my eyes into watering, and I can’t suppress a wince when he presses too hard.
“Oops!” He drops a bloodied bit of gauze to the floor, and I automatically lean down to grab it—but he expects the motion. His fingers are already waiting to seize my wrist, holding tight while he jabs a needle fished from his pocket into my vein.
