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He sounds excited.
I’m too weak to protest when he pulls me to my feet. I stumble and lean on his shoulder for support as he wraps an arm around me.
I don’t want to touch him. The chemical scent of his fake Alpha pheromones causes my head to spin.
I start reciting recipes in my head.
Vanilla buttercream: five egg yolks, one cup of butter, one teaspoon of vanilla?—
The chain rattles as he leads me back through the dingy room and the open door.
It’s an illusion of an escape.
The chain keeps me captive here no matter how far past my room he leads me.
We stop just past the doorway, and I take in my surroundings.
I’m in a mobile home, with the same faux-wood paneling spreading across the walls. A kitchenette is a few feet in front of me, and to the right I see an open living space with a television on a dusty table. It faces a stained blue sofa with cushions haphazardly arranged. To the left is a shut door, which I assume is his bedroom.
The coffee table in front of the sofa is covered in small plastic bags. A digital scale sits on the end of it.
I swallow and turn my gaze away.
Another digital scale sits next to the stove. A glass baking tray full of…something is next to it.
“Look,” he says as he leads me to the cramped kitchen space. I make it to the cheap cream linoleum tiles before the chain pulls taut. “Look.”
Slowly, he opens the dingy fridge.
It’s empty besides a few condiments in the door and some beers.
And the vials of blood he’s taken from me, stacked neatly next to each other.
This is a horror movie.
My mouth falls open as he pats my shoulder. “Yours is the best,” he adds, shaking me a bit. “The best. You’re the purest batch of O on the market.”
It finally clicks.
He’s been making O from my blood.
The glass bakeware next to the stove, the scale on the coffee table…
“No,” I whisper in disbelief, meeting his eyes.
He grins and puts his mouth to my ear. “You’re my cash cow,” he whispers, his breath sending an awful chill down my spine. He wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me into some sort of awkward hug that I don’t reciprocate. “We’re rich.”
We.
I breathe in his scent and want to cry.
“You can’t keep taking my blood,” I murmur, my voice cracking.
I’ll die.
What if there’s more demand than he can keep up with?
“It’s okay, Skylar, really,” he insists, and my stomach turns when he uses my name. I don’t realize I’m crying until he reaches up and wipes a tear from my cheek. “Hey. I promise. I won’t hurt you.”
