The Blood Stained Bride

Dangerous Company

ALISA'S POV

Not long after Arthur Geraldine ended the call, the three men in the room finally lowered their suffocating gazes and their weapons.

"Go open the door," one of them barked at me.

I did it instantly. I would have done anything just to get them out of my sight.

"We’ll be back soon," another one said with a dark smirk.

I only managed a nod. I literally didn't have any words left in my mouth. I stood by the door and listened until I heard the hum of their car engine. I peeked through the curtains and watched as the car zoomed off into the night.

I could finally breathe.

I had done it. I had actually avoided getting my head blown off, and I had saved that disgusting psychopath, Caden, as well. Gosh, what the hell had I gotten myself into?

I went upstairs to change. My clothes were soaked with sweat and desperate prayers. I took a long, warm bath to try and clear my head, staying in the water until my skin wrinkled. Once I felt human again, I changed into my nightgown and went downstairs to make some tea. My dinner had been interrupted by monsters, and I was starving.

"What the f**k are you doing here?" I gasped, nearly dropping my mug.

Caden was sitting right there on Mabel’s couch. The sight of him scared the life out of me.

"It’s lovely to see you alive as well," he said.

His eyes were closed and his head was tilted back, exposing his sharp jaw and his neck. He looked exhausted. His tie was gone, his top buttons were open, and his sleeves were rolled up. Then I saw it—his arm.

A white cloth was tied tightly around his forearm, but it was already completely soaked through with dark, heavy blood. It stood out like a stain against the expensive fabric of his shirt.

"Oh my goodness, what happened to your arm?" I asked, moving closer to the couch despite myself. The sight of that bloody cloth made my stomach turn.

"I’m fine," he muttered, not moving an inch.

"I didn't ask if you were fine. I asked what happened," I snapped.

He opened one eye and looked at me. He scanned me from head to toe, his gaze lingering long enough to make my skin prickle. Then he opened both eyes.

"You want to f**k me with your eyes, or are you going to talk?" I asked, rolling my eyes.

Caden chuckled—a deep, expensive sound. "Your feisty behavior might be the only reason we’re both breathing right now," he said. "And I don't 'f**k' with my eyes, Alisa. I do what I want to do."

I ignored his comment, my eyes fixed on the red-stained fabric on his arm. "Your arm, Caden. That looks deep."

"He cut me," he said simply, referring to Arthur.

"Why? Why would he do that?"

"Just because he could," Caden said, closing his eyes again.

"Well, that cloth is already soaked through. You should go to the hospital before you bleed out on Mabel’s couch."

"I'll have it treated when I get back to my house," he replied, sounding bored by his own injury.

"Alright then. When exactly are you leaving?" I asked. I was already tired of looking at his face.

"You don't want me to spend some time with you?" he asked, his eyes still closed.

"I don't want you anywhere near me."

"Well, that’s sad," he said, "because we have a burial to attend in two days."

"Unfortunately," I muttered.

He chuckled again and finally stood up. His height towered over mine, making the small living room feel even smaller.

"I guess I’ll take my leave then," he said. He paused, looking at my simple nightdress. "Do you need money for clothes?"

"I don't need your filthy money," I said, stepping back to create some space.

"Alright then. I'll pick you up Saturday morning."

"Noted. Now, get out," I said, pointing toward the door.

"Language, Alisa. Language," he said. His eyes had that same dangerous spark they had the first night we met.

He walked out of the apartment without another word. I rushed to the curtains, hiding behind the fabric just to be sure he was actually leaving. As his car started, his eyes met mine through the window—it was like he knew exactly where I was standing.

I closed the curtains immediately, my heart thumping.

"f*****g asshole," I whispered to the empty room.