Chapter 30
Chapter Thirty
Dahlia, your father was a thief.
Pretty soon the bank would take her father’s office, Dahlia was sure of that.
Mother had said he owed them money. With the doors locked and a sign out front—written in blood—that read closed, this place was officially out of business.
She sighed, slapping a palm on the steel countertop.
It was foolish to have assumed this would be her office one day.
Sylas, her captor’s counterpart, had been breathing down her neck. “Nice and dark. Good, good, good. That’s the color it should be. He’ll be very pleased—pleased, indeed.”
Dahlia kept stirring the mixture of filtered blood, herbs, and testicle meat. “What do you mean the color it should be?”
Sylas pulled up a chair and sat down, which was better than hovering. His jittering made her nervous. “I shouldn’t talk about it. Fang will get upset.”
“He’s sleeping. Can’t you hear him snoring?” He’d gone to rest on the couch in reception an hour ago, to her relief. The more unconscious he was, the better.
“Your father …” he shook his head, “well at first things were good. Great, even. Perhaps too good. The elixir truly worked, it did indeed. But things changed. After a while, he claimed the recipe required outsourcing and more money. Fang funded it.” He lowered his voice and added, “Blew through his savings.”
“And what happened?” she whispered, desperate to know why she was in this predicament.
“The next few injections that came were weaker, lacking their usual color. They didn’t work the same. Fang was displeased, and well …”
“Are you saying my father diluted the elixir and charged more for it? He wouldn’t do that.” Unless …
Were financial burdens the cause of such a desperate decision? Lying to a werewolf?
“He would because he did,” snapped Sylas. “And the last batch …” He huffed. “It wasn’t even the same product. He used coffee beans, or something.”
Dahlia scoffed and continued stirring. “I don’t believe you.”
“Hmm. Do you recall what your father told Fang while your mother was choking to death?”
Anger boiled through as the memory of that dreaded night rushed back to her mind. I can do half the price. That was what he’d said. So, it was true—Papa had robbed these werewolves.
“And now I’m to go wherever you go? Do whatever you tell me to do? All to clean up my father’s mess?” She asked the questions through gritted teeth.
His smirk made her skin crawl. “See how smart you are?”
Before she could smack him with the bloody spoon, a growl rumbled through the treatment room.
Fang turned the corner, scowling. “Why are either of you talking? If I don’t sleep, I can’t fight properly.
” He rubbed his face and fixed his inky black eyes on hers.
“You sound like a squeaking rat when you raise your voice.”
Dahlia frowned, tired of his insults.
Sylas stood like he hadn’t just revealed the truth of why they took her. She regretted helping him bandage his lanky arm earlier. He deserved to bleed out for his part in this.
“She’s almost done, sir. It’s coming along great.”
She lifted her chin and squinted at Fang. “Why don’t you have a seat so I can prepare the transfusion.”
“Oh, Dahlia, you’re being such a good human today.” Fang reached into the pocket of his leather jacket and pulled out a torn heel of bread. “Here’s your reward.” The stale hunk of wheat smacked her chest before falling between her feet.
“Thank you.” The words escaped her absentmindedly as she bent down and started eating it.
Dahlia ignored the family portrait resting atop her father’s desk because Fang didn’t like it when she cried. He would call her a baby, asking if she wanted a wittle doll to play with. Dahlia loathed baby dolls. She preferred sharper activities—like needlepoint and bloodletting.
If only the needle between her fingertips was made of silver. Although, killing a werewolf required puncturing their heart, not their skin. She grumbled and said, “Give me your arm.”
Fang’s evil eyes ticked towards her. “Your father had better manners than that.” He rolled up his sleeve and said, “Let’s try that again, doc.”
She offered him a hate-filled smile. “May I please have your arm, sir.”
“Not great, but it’ll do.” He eyed her up and down, his gaze settling between her legs. “We’ll work on your obedience.”
What kind of threat was that? If he wanted polite, he could have it.
Dahlia poured the elixir she’d spent half the day making into a glass bottle.
Once full, she put the rubber stopper in, fitted it with tubing, and attached the transfusion needle.
Keeping her tone respectful, she said, “It’s ready.
” She flipped the bottle over and handed it to Sylas. “Hold this above his head.”
Fang raised his eyebrow at her as she wrapped a tourniquet around his bicep. “Your hands better not be shaky like your father’s.”
“They’re not.” Dahlia had been embroidering since she was six, stitching through stiff canvas like it was skin. Phlebotomy was simple in comparison.
She poked his vein on the very first try, released the tourniquet, and taped the tubing to his arm. Fang leaned back in her father’s desk chair and grinned at her. “Oh, I’ll be keeping you for a long while.”
Dahlia’s mouth went dry. If she was scared before, she was terrified now.