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My thigh twitches. The syringe. He stabbed me with a syringe. That’s the last thing I remember. He’s dangerous. I felt it when we were talking in the courtyard. Something was off, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. He stole money. From whom, I have no idea. What did he mean by my body for his freedom? Is he planning to sell me? Oh, God. He is. He’s going to sell me to pay off his debt. What the fuck?
Tears well up in my eyes, and my heart squeezes so hard it’s painful. I’m never going to see Daddy again. Or Kieran. Or Paisley. They won’t know what happened to me.
No. I can’t let that happen. I won’t let it happen. I’m not a victim. He’s hurt me enough already. My mind spins. I’m lying across the smooth leather seats in the back of his car. Trees pass by quickly, and the road is curvy. We’re not in the city. Where is he taking me? If I jump from the car, will I survive with how fast we’re going? Probably not. I need to get him to slow down.
Unsure if I’m restrained somehow or whether I can actually move since everything is numb, I try to wiggle my toes. When they move inside my shoe, I let out a breath and roll my ankles. Then I bend my knees slightly and lift my hands. Everything feels heavy, but I’m not paralyzed. It’s taking more effort to move than I’d like but the adrenaline is overriding that. This is do or die.
Taking one more look around me in the hope that my purse is back here, I’m quickly disappointed when it’s nowhere to be found. My phone. Bash put a tracker on my phone. Maybe he’s already tracking me. I can’t count on that, though. My father isn’t stupid. It’s possible he tossed my phone already. I have to save myself.
Several minutes pass while I try to formulate a plan. My mind is foggy still, and I keep fighting the urge to drift off to sleep again. Finally, when I think I know what I’m going to do, I start to stir and let out a low groan.
The noise is loud enough that my father turns to look back at me, his face red and sweaty, his eyes narrowed but his pupils blown wide.
“Dad? What’s going on?” I ask, forcing myself to sound weak. It’s not too hard to do.
“What the fuck? You shouldn’t be awake already.” His voice is evil, laced with pure hatred.
Running my hand over my stomach, I cough. “I’m going to throw up.”
It’s at this very moment I’m so glad my father loves his Porsche more than me because he swerves and slams on the brakes. I reach out and grab the door handle, ready to bolt when it opens, but nothing happens. He turned on the childproof locks. Shit. Shit. Shit.
“I’m going to throw up,” I say between forced coughs.
He jumps out of the car and runs around to the passenger side, then yanks open the back door. Before I can move on my own, he grabs me by the hair and drags me out. I scream and claw at his hands. Fiery pain rips through my skull.
I stumble over my feet but stay upright as he pulls me a few feet away.
“Hurry the fuck up and vomit, bitch. We’re already late as it is. The Red Dragons aren’t known for their patience, and they’ve waited long enough for your ass,” he growls.
Red Dragons?
With his firm hold on my hair, I can’t run. I force myself to cough several times while bending at the hips slightly like I’m about to throw up. Something hard presses against one of my butt cheeks.
My heart lurches. The lipstick knife. I never put it in my purse. It’s still in my pocket. The pain searing through my head fades, and my focus sharpens. I have to do this. It doesn’t matter that he’s my own flesh and blood. He’s evil, and if I don’t get away from him, I’m going to die.
Continuing my coughing fit, I bring my hands to my hips and ignore the jerk of his hand on my hair while I slide my fingers toward my back pocket.
“Are you going to throw up or not? If you vomit in my car, I’ll kill you,” he yells, yanking on my hair again.
“You’re hurting me,” I cry as I slide the tube from my pocket and one-handedly slide the cap off.
“Shut up, bitch!”
I brace myself and swing the knife forward until it sinks into his thigh. He howls and lets go of my hair. I don’t waste a second before I start running, but I only make it a few steps before he catches me, yanking my head back by my hair again.
My arms flail, but I start stabbing again. Over and over. Even when he releases me, I keep stabbing.
“You’re not going to hurt me anymore! I. Am. Not. A. Victim!” I scream, slashing a new spot with each word.
He falls to the ground, using his hands to try to block me, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop. He’s hurt me one too many times. It’s my turn to hurt him. I drop to my knees and keep swinging. When he stops moving, I let out a sob. My shoulders drop, and it’s like a weight’s been lifted. I killed my father. I killed my father! Go me. Maybe I am cut out for the mafia life.
I’m panting as I look around. We’re in the middle of nowhere. Not a single car has driven by. At least not that I’ve seen. I was a little busy killing my jackass father.
Bash. I need Bash. I need my Daddy. The man who will never hurt me. Who will love me unconditionally.
My hands are coated in blood. Splatters of crimson have soaked into my shirt. Looking down at my little lipstick knife, I let out a heavy breath. I always knew lipstick could change a girl’s life for the better.
A glimmer of black shines inside my father’s open suit jacket when the sun peeks out from the dark clouds. His phone. Hands shaking, I grab it from the inner pocket and try to unlock it. Shit. It’s passcode protected. Glancing at his face, I raise an eyebrow and turn the screen toward him. When that doesn’t do anything, I look down at his chubby hand resting on the gravel.
