Page 3 of Upon Blooded Lips (Vengeance #1)

TESSA

“ G ood morning, Tessa. How are we feeling today?” Nurse Emily asks, backing into the room with a trolley.

She spins it around and sidles it up to my bed.

Emily’s what I imagine the perfect grandmother to be like.

She’s kind, chatty, and bustles around me like a mother hen.

She tied her white hair into a low bun at the base of neck this morning and wore one of her more outrageous pairs of scrubs.

I’ve only known her for three days, but it didn’t take long to realize she’s a kid at heart, if the hot-pink pants and hearts and rainbow top are anything to go by.

“Okay, I guess. Are… are those eggs?” The sloppy-looking yellow concoction on the tray barely resembles anything edible. I glance into the little cup sitting next to it, which contains some kind of fruit. I think. How am I supposed to get better if this is what passes for food?

“Right? I swear those things are radioactive. Here.” Emily reaches down and grabs a brown paper bag from the trolley’s lower shelf. My face breaks out into a grin, and her blue eyes twinkle back. “Just don’t tell Dr. Maloney, okay? I’ll get fired.”

My eyes shutter at the smell of pancakes filling the room. I eagerly tear into the bag and pull out the polystyrene boxes containing IHOP’s finest fare. Pancakes with butter and syrup, sunny side up eggs, hash browns, and crispy bacon.

“Oh my God, I think I love you,” I gush, before tearing into a pancake. It’s a far cry from the Michelin star restaurants Presley prefers, but after three days of choking down unidentifiable slop, I’ll eat just about anything.

Emily busies herself checking my heart monitor and breathing apparatus. After I blacked out during the fight, Jacob and his friends didn’t hold back with their feet and fists. They left me with a sprained ankle, bruised and broken ribs, a bruised cheek, a split lip, and a punctured lung.

I did the best I could.

It’s not your fault. It was four against one.

“Have my parents been by?”

“No, but their driver dropped a bag off for you.” Of course, they haven’t. That would require them caring. “But Amy at reception said to tell you to expect two visitors from your school today.”

My stomach twists. Why? St. Mary’s installed cameras in the hallways my sophomore year and caught the entire thing on video. It was clearly self-defense, and the police cleared me. “Did they say who?”

She shakes her head. “At least you’ve got some clothes. No more flashing me in that hospital gown.”

“I think you’ll miss seeing my ass every time you help me to the bathroom.” Emily purses her lips and raises a brow. I duck my head and shovel the rest of my breakfast into my mouth.

“Come on. You’ll feel better after a shower and wearing your own clothes. Maybe one of your visitors will be a cute guy.” She winks at me.

“Have you seen me?” I ask, gesturing at my bruised face. “I don’t think anyone’s going to ask for my number.”

“Not with that defeatist attitude, they’re not. Let’s go. Roll your legs over so I can help you up.”

Pain lances through my chest and I wince when Emily carefully shifts me to the edge of the bed.

She removes the nasal cannula and pulse oximeter and drops them on the mattress.

I place my hands in hers and swallow down a cry when my bare feet touch the chilly tiled floor.

She helps me limp to the bathroom and assists me in relieving myself before giving me a shower.

Her gentle hands have tears welling in my eyes. When was the last time someone touched me kindly? Have they ever? My teeth clench and I shove the thought away. I refuse to keep feeling sorry for myself.

We’re still going to kill them, right?

Fuck yes, we are. My family swims in society’s elite circles, and with that comes a level of protection enabling them to do horrific things without the thought of consequences.

It’s the reason our world is so broken. Injustice litters the landscape of the wealthy western world, where money talks and crimes are for those who can’t afford defense.

It’s how I know they’ll sell me to this Mafia guy and sail off into the sunset without a backward glance, never having set foot in a cell while my shattered heart becomes hollow and bitter. I’ll never get justice.

I stay quiet, lost in my thoughts while Emily dresses me and French braids my hair.

My mind fantasizes about various forms of revenge.

Hanging. Burning alive. Death by a thousand cuts.

Mirror Girl cackles, the loud sound filling my mind.

Her insatiable drive for blood urges me toward more gruesome forms of torture.

Waterboarding, the rack, eaten alive by rats. Sarin gas, poison, beheading.

My thoughts would appall most people. My mind isn’t a pretty place, filled with horrors most couldn’t imagine or live through.

If Presley taught me one thing, it’s how to maintain a societal mask.

With it, I can fool teachers and classmates into thinking I’m a shy, friendless bookworm.

But despite my outward appearance, I know one thing to be intrinsically true: I am not normal. I am not okay.

Something broke inside of me the day Presley attacked me. Something even the best surgeon could not fix. And my uncle? He cemented that brokenness. No one can save me now.

While other girls dream of romance, flowers, and white dresses, I dream of torture, bloodshed, and vengeance. While they go shopping, giggle over boys, and have sleepovers, I practice my knife skills, research the best ways to dispose of dead bodies, and create elaborate revenge plans.

Yes. I am most definitely not okay.

Emily pats my shoulder when she finishes braiding my hair and scoops up the Hermès bag my parents sent. “Your laptop is in here. Would you like it?”

“Please. I’m going crazy staring at these four walls.” She hands it to me, and I clutch the lifeline to my chest. If Presley had any idea, she would never have sent it.

After Emily leaves with the trolley, I open the laptop and log in.

I scroll through my folders until I find one labeled “games” and click on an innocuous-looking farming app.

If Presley, who wouldn’t understand the concept of privacy if it hit her in the face, ever snooped, all she’d find is a working game among twenty-seven others I don’t actually play.

They’re a smokescreen.

I click on a minuscule dot in the top right corner and enter the password my pen pals gave me a little over six years ago after I disappeared following Presley’s beating.

She might have succeeded in keeping me socially isolated and friendless, but she couldn’t prevent them from finding another way to reach out to me.

If she knew, she’d kill me.

I was shy with them at first, unsure if I could trust them.

When the people who should love and protect you instead cause the greatest harm, you learn early on to be wary.

But they eventually brought me out of my shell, and I began confiding in them.

They’re my biggest secret and my only allies in a world full of pain and betrayal.

The chat screen comes up, and before I can type anything, a message comes through.

Pal1

WHO DID THAT TO YOU?

My gaze flicks to the red camera light before I lower my head so he can’t see the tears misting my eyes. Their concern fills me with longing. What would it be like to meet them in real life?

Presley’s malicious laughter bounces around my skull. You’re a vile little worm that no one could love.

I clench my hands, blinking the tears away. I need to stop letting her words control me. She’s not my real mother. She’s nothing but the abusive piece of shit I have to live with until they sell me or I can escape.

Pal2

Angel? Talk to us. Was it your parents?

I glance at the camera and shake my head.

Tessa

Boys at school.

Pal1

Who?

Tessa

It doesn’t matter. School’s out in four weeks.

Pal1

Tessa

Tessa

Pal1

Tessa

When are you guys going to tell me your names? Pal1 and Pal2 are stupid.

Pal2

Soon. Now tell us what happened.

I suck my bottom lip into my mouth. Why do they even care? It’s not like they can do anything about it.

Pal1

Tessa, if you don’t start talking right this second, you aren’t going to like the consequences.

My mouth gapes open, and warmth floods my core.

Fuck me. I wish I had a picture to go with the dominant words.

It’s something I’ve begged them for in the past, but they refused.

All I got was we’ll tell you when the time is right, or not now, little one .

All I know about them is that they’re stepbrothers.

Their names, ages, and where they live are a mystery.

Tessa

Four jocks cornered me and got physical when I rejected them for the hundredth time.

Pal2

Diagnosis?

Tessa

Sprained ankle, broken ribs, punctured lung.

The text goes suspiciously quiet, and my gaze flicks from the camera to the screen.

Tessa

Are you still there?

Pal1

Names.

I blow out an exasperated breath. I still don’t get why they want to know.

Tessa

Oliver and Michael Young, Jacob Carter, and Nash Myers.

Pal2

Thank you, angel. Are you being taken care of?

My right shoulder lifts, and I avoid looking at the camera.

Should I tell them about Presley’s plan for me?

I’ve made it a point to be honest with them in the past. They’re the only people I can talk to, the only ones who make me feel like I’m not alone.

But for all I know, they could live in another country.

What’s the point of burdening them with my problems?

Ever since I heard my parents talking, I’ve been racking my brain about how I’m going to get myself out of this. I refuse to trade one prison for another. I may not know much about the Mafia and how it works, but Presley’s premise that he’ll “keep me in line” doesn’t bode well for my freedom.

And that’s all I want. My parents have kept me locked down my entire life.

No family—bar Uncle David, and I refuse to acknowledge familial ties to that monster—no friends, no after-school activities.

No social media, no summer jobs, nothing.

Stephen, my parents’ driver, takes me to and from school, pretending to be a bodyguard instead of the jailor he really is. I can’t even go to the mall alone.

If they force me into marriage, I won’t survive. But I have nothing to my name, not a single cent. I won’t last long on the streets, and I refuse to resort to selling myself in order to eat. Sex work is a valid profession, but after Uncle David, it’s not something I can consider.

Tell them. They might help.

Pal2

Is there something else, angel?

I take a deep breath, give a reluctant nod, and force myself to lay it all out on the line. Deep down, I know I can trust them, but there will always be a part of me that’s wary of asking for help.

After all, the last time I did, my parents locked me in the closet for four days with only a bottle of water and a bucket to piss in.

Tessa

My parents are forcing me to marry into the Martinelli family the day after my eighteenth birthday. I’m scared and don’t know what to do.

A single tear rolls down my cheek as I stare into the camera like it could solve all my problems.

Tessa

Please help me.