Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“MONSTERS - ACOUSTIC VERSION” BY RUELLE
LARK
After Jude lapped up his brother’s cum off my face—which shouldn't be as fucking hot as it is—he swatted my ass and told me to get into the shower so that, and I quote, ‘my fine ass would be ready to do some riding of something other than Tailor cock’.
Fucking twisted bastard.
Getting out of the shower, and after brushing my teeth with the spare brush that Tarl gave me, I head into the bedroom to find it unoccupied. I can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief at being alone for a moment.
The Tailor boys consume me when they’re around, and I lose sight of who I am and what I’m doing here. All I want is their touch, their fucking approval, and I’ve not wanted a man’s approval since my father gave me away to his best friend the day after my twelfth birthday.
But I want theirs, and it leaves me all kinds of confused and messed up. Not to mention the unease that coils in my stomach at the thought of my task here.
Picking up the ointment that Jude left me, I head over to the full-length mirror and swipe some over the sore and raised skin, the calming scent of lavender washing over me. I study the design as I work, having to admit that it is beautiful, even if he’s chained me up.
And what the fuck did he mean by ‘not all chains keep you from flying’?
Fucked if I know.
Sighing, I set the pot down and head over to the bed where my clothes are neatly laid out. Jude must have picked them up after Aeron dropped them earlier before he rocked my fucking world.
There’s a henley-style, short-sleeved shirt in a delicate pink shade, and what looks like tight leggings, only they have extra pieces of thicker fabric along the inside of the legs.
There’s also a set of lacy lingerie in dusky pink, and I breathe a sigh of relief at the soft lace bralette instead of an actual bra.
My back is still healing, the fresh skin that now covers the lashes a little sore, my new tattoo adding to the pain.
Picking up the underwear first, I slip the panties on and can’t help turning to admire the way the lace shorts make my ass look peachy. The bralette goes on next, and even this small amount of fabric feels strange after so long without clothes.
Once I’m fully dressed, I walk over to look at myself in the mirror, turning round to see that the leggings hug my ass like a second skin.
“How the fuck did they know my size?” I whisper, looking over my reflection to confirm that everything fits me to perfection.
“We know everything about your body, Pretty Bird,” a deep, melodic voice says from the doorway and I jump at the sound.
“Fucking hell, Tarl. You scared the shit out of me!”
“Such a dirty little mouth,” he says, his tone husky as he stalks into the room towards me. He moves like a jungle cat, all feline grace and coiled danger. His mismatched eyes bore into me, and I wish I could read the emotion in their depths. “If we had more time, I would fill it.”
I swallow hard, my new panties effectively ruined with dampness. I might as well not fucking bother.
“Where are we going?” I ask, blinking when he takes my hand and leads me to the desk which sits against one wall. It’s covered in pages of artwork, more tacked onto the wall behind it, spreading out like a spill of ink. Apt given that this is Jude’s room after all.
Placing his hands on my shoulders, he gently pushes down until my ass hits the leather stool that sits in front of the desk, and then swivels me around until I’m facing the stunning artwork.
My heart hammers in my chest as I wait for his next move, jerking slightly when I feel a brush being pulled through my wet hair.
“Calm down, Azizam. It’s just a brush,” he soothes, the smooth cadence of his voice relaxing my bunched shoulders.
I’m just not used to soft touches, but something tells me that these Tailor boys are going to make me get used to the feel of them.
I do just that, my limbs loosening as I get lost in the rhythm of the strokes as he guides the brush through my hair.
It hits me when I remember my mom used to do this, brush my hair, and my vision blurs, the artwork before me bleeding as my heart aches.
I frown when he stops, and then an embarrassing moan escapes my lips when his firm fingers dig into my scalp, massaging some sweet-smelling product in and chasing the lingering sadness away.
“That feels amazing, Tarl,” I groan on an exhale as he hits an especially sore spot.
After a few minutes, his hands leave my head to be replaced by the brush once more.
I study the art before me, seeing Jude’s signature expressive style all over it, the lines like my tattoo.
The designs are hauntingly beautiful; moths with skulls on their bodies, little girls with the shadows of monsters, and faceless women with stars for hair.
Tarl’s fingers suddenly grip my hair, and I gawp when I realize that he’s braiding it.
“Where on earth did you learn how to braid hair, Tarl?”
He chuckles.
“I was not born here, Little Bird,” he tells me, and his voice reminds me of a time when storytellers wove magic in the air with their tales.
“Adam Taylor found me on the streets of Tehran, the capital city of Iran, homeless and without parents. He took pity on me, and bought me back here, to live with, and serve his son.” He reaches to the end of my braid, then uses a hair tie at his wrist to tie it off.
It’s light pink, the same color as my shirt.
“But before I became homeless, I had sisters, and I would help my mother to braid their hair.”
He swivels the stool around, and I gaze up into his eyes; one the blue of a summer sky and the other the green of a sage plant.
“What happened to them? Your sisters? Your family?”
His whole face changes, going hard and shuttered, and the pain that he’s not quick enough to hide brightens his eyes, making the colors pulse.
“They were killed.”
He goes to turn away, but I reach for his wrist, holding it as the brush dangles from his hand. Turning back, he looks down at me, his expression a blankness that screams of loss.
“Then we have something in common.”
His chest rises and his whole face softens before his other hand comes up to stroke my cheek.
“I wish it was something other than the death of loved ones, Pretty Bird,” he tells me, and there’s no hint of a lie in his tone. He means it, and it leaves my stomach churning with uncertainty about how we reached this point between us. Are we still enemies? “Let’s go.”
He removes his hand from my cheek, holding it out for me to take, and ignoring the confusion that wraps around me. I take it, letting him lead me from the room and down the stairs.
When did I start to trust the Tailor boys?
The guys usher me into an enormous truck, all black and monstrous-looking, and I have to basically climb into the back like a mountain goat.
It takes about forty minutes to get to our destination, and I press my face to the blacked-out back window, drinking in the way the cityscape turns into countryside.
It’s so green, and with the mountains in the distance and the summer sunshine bathing the landscape with its glow, I’m awestruck by its majesty.
“Never left the city before?” Jude asks, his hand massaging the back of my neck, sending tingles racing across my skin and threatening to distract me from my staring.
I briefly turn my head to look into his deep blue eyes, but there’s no teasing there, his softened voice and raised brows letting me know he means no offense.
“Mom took Rook and I to the Grand Lake beach once, maybe twice when we could sneak away, like the time I told you about,” I tell him, remembering the feel of the sand between my toes and the sound of the waves lapping at the shore.
I mean, it wasn’t the sea or anything, but as a kid, it always amazed me, the vast body of water that was Grand Lake.
I suck in my lower lip, remembering the punishment she received at the hands of my father both times upon our return.
After the second time, I begged not to go again.
“Why the frown, Nightingale?”
Blinking, I see his eyes once more, the blue not dissimilar to the bruises that decorated Mom’s skin so often. Too fucking often.
“Rufus punished her for taking us away. Any time we did something fun, she’d be beaten and be limping for days afterwards,” I tell him, watching as his eyes narrow, his brows drawing down.
“Your father is a wicked man, Nightingale.”
“I know.”
We spend the rest of the trip in silence, lost in our own thoughts. I straighten in my seat when we pass through a large, wooden archway, a sign that reads ‘Tailor Stables’ hanging above it.
“Stables?” I turn to look at the guys, my eyes wide and my pulse fast as I practically bounce in my seat. I’ve always loved animals and always wanted a pet, but obviously was never allowed one.
“That’s right, Dove,” Aeron says from the front passenger seat, turning around to face me. “These are Tailor-owned stables. One of my father’s passion projects.” His chin is high, his shoulders back as pride gleams in his eyes.
“Also helps to clean all the dirty money,” Knox adds with a chuckle from the driver’s seat, and Aeron gives him a glare.
“Just tell her all of our business, Knox.”
“Who exactly am I going to spill your dark secrets to, Devil Man?” I interject, my eyebrow arched in amused contempt, before they can start an argument.
Bloody men will fight over anything, though I suspect there is something more going on as there’s a crackle of tension between Aeron and Knox that never quite goes away.
Aeron concedes my point with a sharp nod just as we pull up in front of a vast, white stable block with what looks like a fucking mansion at one end. I knew the Tailors were rich, but they must have a hell of a lot of dirty money to launder if they can afford this kind of setup.