You Belong To Me Now - Leon

She’s quiet now, has been asleep for a while. Curled into the leather beside me, knees drawn to her chest, head resting against the window like a bruised bird. Her breath is shallow, lips parted, fingers twitching every so often, dreaming of something sharp.

The city moves around us in streaks of gold and brake light red. Rain glosses the windshield in slow sweeps, but I haven’t bothered with the wipers. I don’t need clarity to drive.

She smells like fear.

And beneath that, sweat, old soap, and the faintest trace of cheap, drugstore perfume. Her clothes are worn thin in places, the seams at her knees frayed to threads. The hoodie swallowing her frame is two sizes too big and stained with a dozen stories no one’s ever asked her to tell. Her jeans are clinging to her hips more from wear than design.

And yet, she really is fucking beautiful.

Not in a soft, sweet way. Not the kind of pretty that asks to be kissed. No. This girl was carved, not born. Her face is sharp where it should be soft, cheekbones that cut shadows across pale skin, a jaw that would look defiant if she ever lifted her chin long enough to make it so. And her mouth… too full for how little she speaks. Always pressed shut, always half-bitten, constantly swallowing every scream she never got to release.

Her hair is dark and long, hitting below her waist, too tangled to be intentional, a messy curtain that hides half her face. But I’ve seen what’s under it, the haunted, hollow eyes. There’s something in them, a pull  that makes me stare too long and think too much.

Then there’s her body.

Fuck.

The kind that gets you stabbed in your own club for looking too long. Curves that don’t belong to a girl starving herself in a shitty motel room. Hips built to ruin men, thick legs she doesn't know how to use, because she's always walking like she’s afraid of being noticed. And that ass, round, firm, impossible to ignore. The kind that makes you forget your own name, and maybe even hers.

She’s trouble. Not the fun kind, the kind you take out and tame and make behave. She’s the kind you lock in a room because you can’t behave.

I should walk away, let her stay lost and broken and far from me.

But I already know I won’t. And the worst part?

I don’t want to.

I flick open the dossier resting next to me, again. Not because I need the information, at this point, I know more about her than she does. But because I can’t stop looking.

Raine Dalca. Twenty-four. No known relatives. Parents dead. Foster records sealed. No digital footprint worth noting beyond a few minimum-wage jobs and a suspended library card. She doesn’t exist, not really. But I’ve been watching long enough to know that’s a lie.

I keep the photos in the back, from before.

She won’t know they were ever taken. But there she is, fifteen, maybe sixteen. Standing at the edge of a streetlight like she might vanish if she steps too far into the dark.

She disappeared not long after that.

Until now.

Until she let someone touch her like that in the hallway of a shitty motel.

I shouldn’t care. I really shouldn’t. I’m not her savior, I don’t do broken. I don’t fix strays. I don’t collect wounded women and nurse them back to strength.

Weakness doesn’t get my cock hard.

But when I finally got the ping and went to collect her, saw that dead man’s hand pawing her, her mouth open like she wanted to scream but couldn’t remember how.

My whole body reacted before I could even stop it.

She shifts beside me, sucking in a sharp breath. Her eyes snap open wide with panic and confusion. Her chest rises too fast, shallow and stuttering. She jerks upright, blinking, her hands scrambling for the door handle.

I say nothing.

Let her panic, let her feel it, let her learn. The world isn’t going to cradle her just because she looks like a girl made for wickedness.

Her fingers fumble at the lock, and she finally turns to me, breathless.

“What is this?” Her voice cracks. “Where are you taking me?”

I don’t look at her. “You're safe.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“No. It isn’t.”

She shifts again, eyes darting to the window. I can see her calculating, thinking about throwing herself out of the moving car like a feral thing that doesn’t care if the landing breaks her spine.

I keep one hand on the wheel and reach with the other, passing the folder into her lap.

She looks at it like it might explode.

“What is this?” she says again, quieter now.

“Open it.”

She does. And the silence that follows is so fucking satisfying.

There’s no sound but the soft rasp of paper sliding over paper. I feel her body lock up beside me, every muscle wound tight.

Information about her. Not everything, that’s for me for now. But it’s the photos, all of her, taken from a distance.

Her fingers tremble. “Why do you have these?”

I take the next turn slow. We’re close now.

She’s staring at me, voice thin. “Please, what is this?”

“I’ve been waiting for you to show up again.”

She stares, mouth hanging open. “Again?”

She waits for more. I give her nothing.

She closes the folder too hard, drops it to the floor of the car like it burns her. Then she curls back in on herself, eyes on the window, retreating like I’ve gutted her.

Good.

She needs to understand this isn’t a fairytale. It’s a reckoning.

We pass through the last set of security gates. Long gravel drive, lamps flickering to life one by one as the car approaches. The estate rises in the distance, black stone, sharp angles, windows like watchful eyes.

She lifts her head slightly. Just enough to see. I slow to a crawl and turn toward the front entrance.

She’s trembling again. I can feel it, even with the engine running. I kill the lights, shift into park and bark at her without even bothering to look.

“Get out.”

She doesn’t move.

Fine, may as well let her know where things really stand. 

“Come on bunny. You’re home.”