The Scars He Left: A Second Chance At Happiness

Sleep was a luxury I wasn't afforded.

I had just managed to strip off my wet clothes and crawl under the thin blanket of the servant's bed in the guest quarters when the door burst open.

It wasn't Luca this time.

It was Floyd himself.

He consumed the doorway, radiating a frantic, violent energy that sucked the oxygen right out of the small room.

"Get up," he barked.

I sat up, clutching the sheet to my chest. My face throbbed with every terrified heartbeat.

"What?"

"Jaylah's mother," he said, his voice rough. "She's been hit."

My mind raced.

The Ryans were powerful. An attack on their Matriarch wasn't just a crime; it was an act of war.

"I... I'm sorry," I stammered, my brain failing to bridge the gap. "But what does that have to do with me?"

Floyd crossed the room in two predatory strides.

He grabbed my arm.

His grip was bruising, tight enough to cut off circulation instantly.

"She lost a lot of blood. The bullet hit an artery. We can't take her to a hospital; the cops are swarming the area."

He yanked me out of bed.

I stumbled, my bare feet hitting the cold floor hard.

"She has O-negative blood," Floyd said, staring at me with dead eyes. "So do you."

I froze.

I looked at him, searching for a trace of the boy who used to bring me soup when I had the flu all those years ago.

There was nothing.

There was only a predator looking at a resource.

"You want me to donate blood?" I asked, my voice trembling.

"I'm not asking," he said.

He dragged me into the hallway.

I was wearing nothing but an oversized t-shirt and underwear, exposed and shivering.

"Floyd, please," I said, trying to dig my heels into the carpet to slow him down. "I'm exhausted. I haven't eaten in twenty-four hours. I lost blood in the snow..."

"You owe the Family," he snarled, not breaking his stride.

"I owe the Family?" I laughed, a hysterical, jagged sound that scraped my throat. "I took a bullet for you! I sewed that dress in the freezing cold! What more do I owe?"

He stopped.

He spun around and pinned me against the wall.

His face was inches from mine. I could smell the expensive cologne he wore, a scent that used to make me feel safe.

Now, it just made me want to retch.

"You owe us your life," he hissed, spittle flying from his lips. "Because without my protection, the wolves would have eaten you years ago. You are property of the Meyers estate. And right now, my alliance with the Ryans is bleeding out on a table in the basement."

He leaned in closer, his dark eyes boring into mine.

"If she dies, the merger dies. If the merger dies, I lose the city. You are going to give her every drop she needs."

He didn't wait for an answer.

He hauled me down the back stairs, past the kitchen, and into the hidden elevator that led to the underground clinic.

The "Chop Shop."

It smelled of sharp antiseptic and old rust.

Jaylah was pacing in the waiting area. Her white fur coat was splattered with red.

When she saw me, her eyes lit up. Not with gratitude. With vindication.

"About time," she snapped. "She's fading."

Floyd didn't let go of my arm.

He dragged me past her, pushing me through the double doors of the operating room.

There was a woman on the table.

Jaylah's mother. The woman who had once called me a "stray dog" at a gala.

She was pale, unconscious, hooked up to monitors that were beeping frantically.

The doctor, a nervous man named Dr. Evans who was on the Meyers payroll, looked up with sweat beading on his forehead.

"She needs it now, Boss," Evans said, his voice pitching high. "Her pressure is bottoming out."

Floyd shoved me toward the empty gurney next to her.

"Hook her up," Floyd ordered.

"Floyd," I whispered, tears pricking my eyes. "I'm scared."

He didn't look at me.

He was looking at the monitor, watching the heart rate of the woman who meant power to him.

"Just bleed, Elizebeth," he said, cold as the grave. "It's the only thing you're good for right now."