The Hellhound’s Bride

Where are you?

I try not to think of that message on my phone. It's depressing to look there, very depressing. I never get messages that make me laugh from it anyway. I should throw it down into a ditch and never get another one. It's not like it changes anything. I'll still be locked up and never allowed out as a punishment.

I begin to move around the bakery now as I try my hardest to ignore the sound of the clock ticking behind me. Very soon, Father will send a horde of guards to find out if I'm alive, accompanied with Adam, of course. He's very good at that, coming to see me when Father demands it. I don't exactly have a problem with it. As long as he's not trying to touch or fuck me, he's fine.

I'm fine. I'm—

The bell hung over the door of the bakery rings, alerting me that someone's entering. My hand instantly goes to the gun hidden under the cash register before my eyes realize that whoever the person is, their shoes are damaging a floor that I just cleaned.

All the pent up anger I managed to put a lid over erupted violently as I found myself storming away from the other side of the counter to them, immediately grabbing them by their collar as I yank them down, hissing, “It's 1am and no one should be here. You aren't just cutting into my breaktime, you're messing up the entire—”

I pause as I realize that the creature in my hands— A Male— Stares at me with a happy, pleased sigh almost as if he didn't hear anything I said at all but that isn't what gets me to stop. Even with him so close up, he is gorgeous. He bears the face of a woman— And not at the same time. His face is pristine, bearing no blemish or scar. It's terribly smooth, too smooth, and even under the barely lit room, his immaculate jawline and baby blue eyes stare back at me.

When he realizes I'm not speaking, the excitement fades. The change of emotion is immediate, too fast for the next one to be real as he says in a low voice, “Why did you stop the scolding? I was almost about to cum.”

Cum? I raise an eyebrow, my curiosity getting the best of me as I look down to his pants to see if there was any bulge before I notice he has on a white shirt that has a spreading red stain and that smell— I know it more than I know my perfumes.

Gunpowder and blood.

Letting go of his collar, I move to his shirt, pressing my hand on the left upper quadrant of his stomach. He winces, his hand instinctively reaching out to hit me because of the pain but I move away quickly, heading behind the counter as I say, “Take off your shirt.”

“This is the first time a woman is taking charge of me. Is this how fast your kind usually is? Do I get a safeword?”

I shoot him a look as I grab the first-aid kit in a cupboard. “Not until you pay extra,” As I say this, I walk back to him, a bit surprised that he did as I told him to. His buttons are off, showing off his toned abs which are currently covered in blood and his legs are spread with his smile back again.

I ignore it as I drag a stool to sit in front of him, opening the box as I pull out a pair of tweezers as I hear him say, “And here I was thinking you were going to use my blood as lube to give me a blowjob.”

“For someone with a bullet wound, you're surprisingly talkative,” I say this as I lean in close. It's easy to find the wound, easier to realize that the bullet isn't lodged as deeply as it should be though from what I see, it's not going any deeper with how hard his muscles are clinging onto it, making its descent slower.

“I like pain. Can I pay extra for that as well?”

I ignore him. As I begin to take out the bullet, I find myself wondering why I'm doing this. Whoever he is, it's clear from the way he's acting all lackadaisical about this that this isn't new to him. If anything, this was his hundredth time and he was not in as much pain as he should be because he was used to it.

When I take it out, I place it on the table and place a piece of cloth over the wound before pouring antiseptic over it. That is the first time he squirms, making a small sound of discomfort. As soon as I hear it, a smile beams over my face as I look at it, “So you feel pain. Good. You'll feel it when I break your legs for messing with my floor.”

“More kinky?” His voice comes out huskier, breathless almost as he begins to lean in. “You seem talented with piecing back together hurt men. Is this what you tell them as well when they come to offer your… Services?”

As he asks that question, that is when I also realize again that this has never happened before and could never have for one reason. Every gang member knew who I was so they avoided this bakery. My boss had mentioned once that crime had become nonexistent in our street since my arrival.

I never tell him it's because I'm the daughter of the current Italian Mafia's Don as I quite enjoy not being treated like a fragile flower by him.

I push in the cloth deeper now, hearing him hiss louder as I lean in close and whisper, “I can clearly see the reason you got shot is your dick. Try not to use it too much or you'll get killed, okay?”

As I begin to move away from him, I sense at that moment that the air in the room has changed, as if it has grown colder and I know instinctively that I am about to be torn apart and ripped limb by limb before the door to the bakery opens and two men rush in.

I turn my attention to them, my eyes already narrowing at their feet before I hear him say, “Do not enter. The woman here doesn't like messes.”

The playful tone in his voice is gone and all that's left is a deep, bottomless void where emotion is supposed to be but isn't. As I turn back to him to see his face, he rises and turns away, giving me only a side profile as he walks towards the door. Their heads are bowed, clear fear wafting off them prominent. When he gets to it, he pauses and turns around.

He's smiling again but this time, he makes it clear that he's faking it as he says, “We should meet again, and for your troubles,” He places a card on the table. I know even from this distance that it's a premium black card from the glint it makes under the light as he says, “Max it as much as you like.” And after that, walks out.

When he's gone, his guards follow immediately after, bowing to me as well before they rush out. I rise from my stool now and walk towards the card, picking it up slowly as I read the words on it before I feel my blood run cold.

Lucille Hellfire.

My anger returns again more violently as I say rapidly in Italian, “Did I just help a bloody Mafioso?”