The Roots That Bleed (The Bloodroot Book 1), page 9
Snake is god-sent. He takes care of the Liohart assets better than I ever could. He’s also like a brother to me. We’re not blood-related, but we could as well be. He’s the only person except Irvin that can actually be trusted. But sometimes, I regret letting him manage our entire Lionhart fortune. Sometimes his practicality annoys the fuck out of me. One of those times is now.
“So what, you're saying I should buddy up with her? Is that the plan?" I ask, cringing. I'm not good with people, not at talking with them. Even though I get that I can't just be invisible in my own house, another part of me absolutely hates the idea.
In the background, I hear Irvin let out a contented sigh after sipping his whiskey. Soon he plops down next to Snake with an 'oomph', the bottle still in his hand.
“Work some of that magic of yours, Snakey, and put some cameras in her room, will ya?" he chimes in, his jacket creaking when he takes another swing. Oh, man.
“Already done," Snake replies, giving him a short glance before turning to look back at me again. “My plan is for us to compromise, and then maybe we’ll have a shot at escaping Harold. We need her for that."
Just at the mention of this name, my skin tightens, and I feel like a prisoner in my own body. My fingers move to touch my neck in the place where a tattoo represents exactly this feeling—a rope around the base of my neck. I got it when I was a brat, just a sixteen-year-old kid who hated his life, but fuck, if it isn’t still accurate...
“Right," I say slowly. Some of the anger inside me dissipates, and only misery is left in its wake. I feel the coiling in my stomach and the itching in my palms that seem to tell me that I’m starring in a play about a lost cause.
I glance to look at the girl with a sour taste on my tongue. She’s pretty. Blonde, with sharp features and a proud nose. She’s a bit too skinny for my liking, but it doesn’t matter. I don’t have to like her, and the fact that I can admit to myself that she’s attractive is already a problem enough.
“How old is she?" I ask, surprising even myself. I don’t want to know anything about her. I can’t. But the question already hangs between me and the boys, and there’s nothing I can do about it without embarrassing myself.
“A year younger than you," Snake replies, and my brows furrow. Yeah, I shouldn’t have asked that question. Such simple information as knowing we’re similar in age makes whatever I’ll have to do to her more personal. She’s just a teenage girl. Younger than me at that.
Her chest rises and falls with each breath, but she's far from looking relaxed. Her eyebrows twitch every so often, and it takes me back to that grimy warehouse that was the base of her brother’s operations.
The girl with the deep bags under her eyes didn't hesitate to rat her out, all for some quick cash. Betrayal seemed like second nature to her—no hesitation, just backstabbing. And her brother? No better. When he heard Irvin's offer to exchange her for the gang's freedom, he almost leapt at the opportunity, looking relieved as hell.
I can't help but feel sorry for her, and I hate that I do. I don't want anything to do with her, emotions included. But there's no coming back now, and I better realize it. Her life got set in stone.
Kind of like mine.
Except that I doubt that we’re kindred spirits. Every ounce of pity that I have for her has to evaporate. I can’t allow myself to feel such useless emotions as compassion. I sacrificed too much to be where I am now. I’m too close to the end to just give up now.
“Fine," I say, nodding my head slowly. Being around her might be tough, and I'll dodge it whenever Snake's not watching, but if I've come this far, putting up with some girl should be a piece of cake in comparison. I take my eyes off her and look at Snake. “Just do me this favor and fuck off with her for today, okay?"
I don’t wait around for an answer. I just walk past the couch with the knocked-out girl and head into the hallway, and the guys let me go without any more talk. As soon as I leave the room, a weight lifts off my shoulders. My steps feel heavy through the long hallways, but I can breathe easier now that I’m alone.
I need this solitude. And I need to wash off this feeling of disgust while I’m at it. The filth of despair still sticks to my skin after visiting that warehouse the street kids call the Hangout.
Heading to the west wing, my eyes skim through the walls, which are still that coffee-brown color, just like they were in the past. It reminds me of the ghosts of my past and of all the people that were taken away from me. Too many were. Everyone except Harold Lionhart. Oh, no. He didn’t die. He's like a cockroach, always surviving and making everyone else’s life miserable. Yet he keeps living.
It’s always the way, isn’t it? The ones who should be gone never are. Fate likes being cruel like that. But once I get the power, it will be up to us to give him what he deserves, not fate. We’ll make him choke on the Lionhart blood he holds so sacred. Just like he did to my family.
A war's coming. I can feel it in my bones, no matter how tense it makes me. It’s coming, and it won’t stop once it’s here.
And I'm dragging someone new into it. That sad, pretty girl lying on the couch in my house will not have a choice but to be in the thick of it.
She'll be stuck in this old house, in this life, sharing a misery like mine.
Cursed, just like I am.
Shackled because of our revenge.
And I won't do anything to stop it.
CHAPTER NINE
There’s darkness all around me. It’s coming at me, contracting around me, like it’s trying to swallow me whole. There’s no light in it. There’s only pitchy black and various shades of gray.
I think I’m sitting on the ground, but I’m not sure. I might be floating in the air, for all I know. My palms are numb, and I feel nothing beneath me. Except… there’s a feeling. A familiarity. No sooner than I realize what it is, I trace something with my fingers. Every single corroded dent and sharp, rusty bulge screams home.
I’ve been sitting here so many times I couldn’t count it. I could map every edge and line of this staircase with my eyes closed.
So that’s what I do.
I close my eyes and feel the rough metal with my hands, reveling in the feeling it brings me. I do it just like when I was twelve years old and sat in front of the Hideout, waiting for the boys to finish their sparrings in the parking lot, or when, amidst cool spring air, this metal staircase was the only thing warm, and I wanted it all for myself.
The hideout…
A sharp pain jabs at my chest. It hits out of nowhere, prodding and poking until it feels like it's breaking through my ribcage and burrowing into my heart. Right. I am in front of the Hideout, am I not? It’s the place where I was betrayed by the very people I trusted with my life.
I open my eyes. I can see it now—the shapes of the warehouse next to me. It stands tall, with darkness for its cover and no light coming from within onto the night. The wide doors are open and waiting, like I’m supposed to get inside. Like it’s me that it wants.
Slowly, carefully, I stand up. It’s difficult because the stabbing in my heart is relentless, restraining my movements. Panic surges through me, and before I know it, the same aching heart starts beating faster, pumping angry blood through my veins.
I don’t know why I get scared. It’s illogical and stupid, isn’t it? But fear enters my bloodstream like it knows something more than I do, and I get scared. I get so scared that my limbs start shaking.
Still, I have no choice. I need to enter the warehouse and face whatever lies ahead, or I’ll stay in the darkness forever. So I take a single step forward, reaching my hand out to skim the bricks with my fingers, and pass the threshold with one foot.
The moment I do, something shifts. I don’t even need to turn around to know it. Someone is standing behind me, watching me, hiding in the shadows. I feel their gaze on my back for just a fragment of a moment before it gets worse. Then, I start hearing steps on the gravel below my staircase. One loud crunch that soon gets followed by another.
The darkness is coming my way. It wants to get to me.
Fear prickles at my skin again, and I listen to it like my life depends on it. I run into the warehouse without hesitation. My steps are heavy and laced with pain in my chest, but I ignore it. I am not going to lose to the darkness. I refuse to break.
Inside, everything is covered in a thick fog. The distance to the main hall seems never-ending, but I know this place regardless of my limited vision. I’ve been here too many times to not remember it by heart, and I’m going to use it to my advantage.
I choose to trust my memory and quicken my run. I cannot be more than one-third of its length when I hear a bottle breaking behind me. The sharp sound sends waves of shivers through me, and I know without turning around that the darkness is on my heels like a hellhound. It doesn’t mean it will catch me, though.
I don’t turn around. I just run ahead. The hall stretches like it’s made out of gum, but I keep going. I don’t have the luxury to slow down, even if sweat coats my spine and the pain in my chest intensifies.
Finally, the room ends. I can see the crew’s meeting room just ahead of me when the sounds behind me grow louder. The darkness is heavy, breathing just behind me. I can almost feel its breath on my skin.
I need to make a choice. I can either run into the meeting room and try to close myself there or run up the stairs to the upper floors of the warehouse.
My mind is whirring.
This place is as good a maze as a labirynth. The second and third floors are built in such a way that I could fool the darkness and escape from its sight. But that would mean that I’d have to leave the warehouse altogether, and I don’t like my chances in the pitchy blackness outside.
The second option is to run into the meeting room, retrieve the gun from the safe, and use it for self-defense. If the darkness can break glass, get tired, and breathe, it can definitely bleed too. I can use it against it.
A few days ago, I would have had a problem choosing my next course of action. I always hated my brother’s gun so much that the thought of using it myself would never seem appealing. But now… Now I’m different. It’s obvious what I should do.
I run into the meeting room, not bothering to close the barn doors behind me. They’re far too heavy to be closed in the spur of the moment. Without catching my breath, I aim at the bar on the other side of the room until my knees bend in front of the square, silver safe. It’s open, like it was waiting for me to come and take its contents all this time. The metallic gun sits inside it and manages to somehow gleam even though there’s no light around me.
The moment I grab it in my hand, steps come closer. My fingers curl around it tighter, and I extend my arm, just like I’ve done when there was that crazy man in my room. The dark figure steps inside with a ragged breath, and it slows down when it notices what I do.
Because it clearly notices. It’s not just a blob of darkness, like I thought. It’s a human. I can clearly distinguish the shape of its shoulders, legs, and torso. But I cannot see its face. It’s hidden, as if clothed in the darkness itself.
Confidence licks my spine. I knew this thing could bleed. I made the right choice. I lift my chin higher and clutch the gun so tightly that my knuckles ache. But then something I didn't see coming happens, and my grip falters. Another figure appears. It’s coming at me together with the first one; their heads hung low, and something like smiles spread underneath their hoods.
Fear, stronger than ever, paralyzes my limbs. It hugs my body like a vine laced with poison, and I can just stand still and open my lips. All the confidence disappears like it was never in me in the first place, and before I know it, I scream.
The sound is so loud that it shatters everything—me, the figures, and the darkness around us. It forces me to swallow air and open my eyes, which I didn’t even realize I had closed. That’s when I realize that the world built anew, and the darkness is no more. Instead, there’s light. Too much of it, and too intrusive, piercing my eyes and hurting my brain.
“Where am I?" I whisper, not recognizing my surroundings. I'm in a big, spacious room, bathed in brown hues and warm lighting. It looks like a man's bedroom. There are big windows with a view of distant forests and a bunch of fancy furniture decked out with even fancier decorations. It looks nowhere close to the rusted, molded warehouse that I’ve just been to.
“You’re awake," someone says, and before I can search for the voice’s owner, my heart leaps at the thought that it’s one of the hooded figures that must have gotten to me. That’s when I realize that my entire body is sweaty, and I still fear the licks of fear along my limbs. Limbs that are covered with... silk?
I whip my head to the side, and I see a man. I have seen him before, but it takes me a moment to realize where. It’s a moment too late, because before my instincts scream at me to run, he stands up from a chair next to the bed I lie in, and he brings a glass of water to my lips. The moment the liquid hits my parched mouth, I realize who he is and nearly choke.
I've seen him at the hideout. He was drinking alcohol when... When so much wrong happened.
I move my head away, pushing his hand away with my own, that has just found its way from under the blanket and onto him. Then, I'm up and backing into the corner of the room, my eyes jumping all around the place and then back at him. If my brain were a car console, it would blink all the red lights because the dizziness crashes over me like a waterfall, and I need to hit my back against the wall behind me for support.
“Who are you?" I ask in a raspy voice, even though I know who he is. I remember as much. The memories from our encounter flood all too well into my head. “What do you want from me?"
A Lionhart—a fucking Lionhart—shakes his palm with a slight twitch in his mouth. It’s all wet, splashed by the very water he offered me that now drenched both him and the bed I slept in. If my stomach didn’t already coil from fear, it would now. Everybody knows better than to piss the Lionharts of Silverbrook off. They’re the fucking legacy of this town—the richest old money family in the entire town. Shit, maybe even the entire state. And they can definitely, and I mean definitely, kill me on the spot.
My eyes glide over him from head to toe. His expression doesn't hint at anything except cold calculation, but it would be a mistake to discard it as indifference. It’s clear that he doesn’t forgive mistakes easily. It’s written over the way he stands, like he thought every second of his time spent here to be a waste, and I’m only proving him right so far. And even though his mouth is relaxed, with the lush bottom lip looking slightly feminine, the upper one is exceptionally sharp, like it’s used to being pursed. Like it’s used to saying the things that hurt. Like it’s often twisted cruel.
His eyes are hazel, surrounded by thin yet dark eyebrows that are shaped into a defined arch. The gold in his eyes contrasts with the dark brown hair that falls onto his forehead in silky strands. The upper portion of his hair is shorter, reaching a little past his ears, while it's longer in the back, reaching his shoulders in a slight curl.
I simply stare at him with my muscles as tight as they go. He does so too—the silence between us is laced with tension.
“You're at the Lionhart mansion," he says finally. His tone fits his words—harsh and bitter. “And you can call me Snake."
So, not only have I been taken by influence moguls, I’m also staying in their mansion. I will my heart not to skip a beat at this revelation, but the bastard’s too scared to listen. Great.
The Lionharts own half the railroad tracks in the country. They’re a true case of old money that invested in new influential endeavors, though, because if I remember right, they’re claws deep in pharmaceuticals as well.
“The circumstances under which we met were less than ideal, but it would be best if we could start anew. There are a few tasks with which you could help us, and even though we’ve taken you here by force, we’d pay a great sum for your… cooperation."
He talks as if I'm not standing here ready to fight, arms out, or as if I didn't just splash him with the water he gave me. It's like in his world, it's just him and me having a straightforward exchange of information. I might be thankful for it if it didn’t make me so damn angry.
“Cooperation?" My face twists into a snarl. “You must be kidding me."
Backtalking to the man that has my life in a chokehold is probably not a good idea in any kind of situation. It looks way better on movie characters than it does in real life, and I wish I’d feel equally badass when the words escape my lips, but that’s far from the truth. Chills ridge my skin, and fear churns my stomach.
Snake cocks his head to the side before breaking our eye contact.
“I'm not." He adjusts the cuffs of his ebony shirt with his fingers draped in equally black gloves and clears his throat. “I have an offer for you, and I think it would be reasonable for you to take it."
My hands clench into fists, my nails digging into my palm. This is no offer. That's what you call a proposition for someone to accept or reject as desired. And I sure doubt that whatever he wants me to do comes with the option of refusing.
Still, my tongue itches on the roof of my mouth, and I ask, “And what if I don't want to?"
I straighten my spine while my eyes trail the hard planes of his face. I’ve seen it in the Hideout, and I see it here again—he’s damn attractive. It infuriates me that I even notice it, but I do. It’s impossible to miss. There’s just this aura around him that paints him as powerful, even though his physical form isn’t big or bulky. It’s his chilling aura.
“Then we'll make you want to," he tells me, looking into my eyes again. I bite the inside of my cheek as it gets warm from either attraction or nerves.
“So I don't have a choice but to do as you say," I sum up.
“You do have a choice. Just not the one you'd like." He walks over, and I get on high alert again. My hands stiffen in front of me. “You can either make this easy or... otherwise. It’s a choice regardless."
