Shakily, she crawls toward me. “I am. I’m still a teenager. Before all this, I watched Netflix and obsessed over my hair and loved to shop.”
“Stop.”
“I took more selfies than was humanly possible. I spent a lot of time thinking about my dead mother. Missing her. I was just a lonely girl who was sad.”
“Stop.”
“Did Blaire like school? I hated it. I always wanted to be free because at my house, it felt like a prison.”
“Stop saying her name!”
“I bet we would’ve been great friends. Someone like her would have spent the night with someone like me.” She crawls closer, sobbing. “We’d stay up late talking about boys and watching movies. We’d eat M&Ms and drink too much soda. What was her favorite candy?”
I close my eyes.
M&Ms.
Not peanut. Plain.
“Please stop,” I beg, my voice hoarse.
Her palms cover my knees. “Was it M&Ms?”
I nod, refusing to open my eyes.
“Can we get some, Daddy?”
Blaire. Blaire. Blaire.
I remember looking over at her in the passenger seat as she happily ate her candy and rambled on about her school day. Blaire wanted to be an artist. Drew all over everything with pencils and sharpies. Hearts and flowers and doodles. She’d pour a bunch of M&Ms on the table and absently eat them while she would sketch.
“I’m scared, Daddy.”
Oh, fuck.
“Please help me, Daddy.”
Deep in the recesses of my mind, I know it’s not Blaire begging for help, but try telling my heart that. I pull my girl into my arms and cradle her to me. Her hair is greasy and dirty. Another man’s cum—fucking Putnam—remains on her thighs. She stinks of body odor and vomit. Fuck, she’s so skinny. And cold.
“Daddy,” she sobs. “I’m cold and scared and hungry.”
“Shhh,” I whisper, stroking her hair. “I’ve got you now. I’m going to take care of you.”
Not Blaire. Not Blaire. Not Blaire.
Everything is murky and confusing. Maybe it’s due to the Jack or maybe it’s the huge crack splintering right down the center of my mind. All I know is the girl in my arms needs to be taken care of. She needs me.
“I’m going to make everything okay,” I vow, kissing her dirty strands of hair. “I promise, baby girl.”
“I know, Daddy.”
Everything spins when I stand with her in my arms. Her legs go around my waist and her arms hook around my neck. She clings to me like a toddler would. It makes my heart fucking bleed. I yank up the blanket from the mattress and wrap it around her. As we walk out of the slaughterhouse, I hug her tight and try my damnedest to keep her warm. The trek back to the house is cold and windy.
The moment I fling open the back door, voices hush to silence. My hackles are raised and I’m ready to fight any motherfucker who stands in my way.
“Bermuda,” I bark out. “Make my girl some food and bring it to my room.”
“What the fuck,” Dragon rumbles.
I shoot him a scathing glare that has him rising and cracking his neck. Katana stands, placing his body in front of him.
“Prez,” Filter starts, but I stop him with a shake of my head.
“She needs to eat and bathe and be warmed the fuck up,” I explain, my words coming out choppy and angry. “Who the fuck wants to argue with me?”
Filter and Halo exchange a look and then Filter holds his hands up in surrender.
“Do what you gotta do, Prez. We got your back,” Filter assures me.
Some of the guys mutter angrily, but I ignore them all. I carry her up to my room and into the bathroom. With her still clinging to me, I start a hot bath. She whimpers when I try to peel her away from me.
“Want bubbles?” I ask, patting her back.
She nods. “Please, Daddy.”
Not Blaire. Not Blaire. Not Blaire.
But she feels like mine.
Gently, I manage to pull her from me and make her stand on her own two feet. I add in some bubbles that are under the sink. More of Stormy’s weird girly shit she leaves all over the house that I am suddenly thankful for.
Soon, the bathroom smells like lavender.
“Get in,” I instruct, motioning for the steamy bathtub.
She drops the blanket and gingerly steps into the hot water. She hisses and whines but then settles in the water. With the bubbles rising around her in the large tub, she seems so small. Her dark hair hangs in her face as she stares down at the water.
“Do you want me to bathe you, baby girl?”
Hadley
Holy shit. It worked. I knew poking at him about his daughter was chancy considering how much it still haunts him, but it worked. He felt sorry for me. Somehow projected her onto me. Now he wants to save her.
Survival is the only thing on my mind at this point. If it means playing the part of Blaire, I will. Anything to make him treat me like a human rather than a prisoner. It was as though he flipped a switch. Went from being a psychopath to a father. I don’t care why or how it happened, just that it did.
He kneels down beside the bath and sets down a bar of soap, two bottles of what must be shampoo and conditioner, and a washcloth. He grabs the cloth and dunks it under the water that’s slowly rising. I groan when he runs it over my cold back, chasing away the chill. The heat feels good on my aching muscles. Gently, he washes my back and shoulders and then my face and neck. It’s done so efficiently like one would bathe a child. I don’t fight him or try to seduce him. I simply let him clean the horrors of the past two months off me. His hand dives between my thighs and he removes any lasting remnants of Magna, making me sigh a breath of relief. Once he’s finished, he motions for the water.
“Dunk your hair so I can wash it.”
I do as I’m told and then sit back up. He squirts some shampoo into my dirty hair and then massages it into my scalp. His gentleness breaks something inside me. I start to cry because I just want someone to care for me like this all the time. I hate my life and the people in it. It’s nothing but heartache and pain. This, right now, feels anything but painful. It feels right.
“Shhh,” he croons, “don’t cry, sweetheart.”
“You’re being so nice and gentle. I don’t want it to go away.”
He grips my jaw, tilting my head up to look at him. “It’s not going away.”
Tears flood down my cheeks and I nod, though I don’t believe him. He surprises me when he leans forward and kisses my nose.
“Let’s get you finished up here.”
The rest of the bath goes by quickly and soon he’s wrapping me up in a giant towel. He scoops me into his arms, but I touch his cheek, halting him.
“Can I please brush my teeth? I can still taste the puke.”
He frowns, his dark eyes filled with pain. “Of course.”
The counter he sets me on is cold and I shiver. He grabs a toothbrush and puts toothpaste on it. He watches like a hawk as I scrub my teeth clean. Once I’m done, he carries me into his room and sets me on the edge of the bed. He scrounges in some drawers before finding sweats and a hoodie. I let him pull the towel away and then dress me.
“Warm yet?” he asks, his brows knitting together in concern.