Bloodlines

Branded

As if it had been previously planned all along, the second Logan pulls the car to a stop on the dusty road, his phone rings out. He shoots me a typical 'Logan' look before sliding it from his pocket.

"Boss?" he answers curtly, eyes still watching me like a hawk. "Yeah, ok," he continues, "I'm sure she'll be thrilled. Right. See you later."

"What will I be thrilled about?" I grumble in annoyance not needing to ask if the discussion was about me.

"Your father can't meet us at the shop," he answers with a shrug of his shoulders. Then he exits the car, and I follow him like a good little puppy into the building.

The tattoo place isn't like a conventional trading shop at all and that doesn't surprise me one bit. Set into the brickwork of a seedy-looking outhouse, you wouldn't stumble upon it if you didn't know of its location in the first place. I wonder to myself how a shop like this is even able to make a profit. If it's so well hidden from public view who goes there?

Logan, like the gentleman he is-not, holds the large wooden door open for me to step through. Inside, the atmosphere is unsettling, not inviting in the slightest. I'm immediately overwhelmed by the feeling to turn and flee, but my security guard makes certain I can't achieve that.

My eyes wander around the claustrophobic room taking in the dank and outdated interior. This venue is desperately in need of a fresh lick of paint. The majority of the room is poorly lit, but in the dead-centre, there stands a hydraulic chair, not dissimilar to one you'd find in a hospital. I skim over it, and my heart races when I notice the thick leather restraints dangling precariously off the floor.

Spinning around in a flurry of panic and fear I crash directly into an unsuspecting Logan. Nevertheless, he's grabbed both of my wrists in a heartbeat.

"No, no," I squeak struggling against his hold. "I can't do this!"

"Jesus, Octavia," he grinds out, "the restraints aren't for you."

"I don't care!" I wail squirming in an attempt to free myself.

"Ah! Logan! Clarke said you'd be stopping by soon," a new voice interrupts our scuffle and I glance up to see Logan searching for the owner. A knowing smile spreads across his lips as he makes contact.

"Bernard!" Logan addresses the voice like an old friend, "long time no see."

"Indeed. Immagino che questa sia la nostra ragazza?" the man replies back.

Perfect. Another person to talk complete gibberish about me. Logan's grip loosens enough on my wrists so I'm able to pivot around. He replaces his arms around my neck for good measure. I must say the action feels a little possessive.

I stare at the guy a metre or so from me. He's not the kind of person you'd want to meet in a back alley. Built like a tank from head to toe, his muscles have muscles and every inch of visible skin is a gallery for intricate ink. He sports an impressively groomed moustache and a long black beard to go with it. Our eyes meet momentarily and I see the years of pain and anguish behind them. They tell a story. One I'm not willing to read.

"It is," Logan responds finally, "this is Octavia Luciano."

"Ah. Mio caro sei bellissima!" he explains, "I am Bernard."

"Hi," I answer, my voice wavering.

He gestures to the large chair behind him. "Come, take a seat."

Logan releases his cage around me and gives me a nudge in the back. Hesitantly I step towards my doom. With all the grace of an elephant, I clamber onto the seat, the shock of the cold leather nipping at my bare skin. The big man spins the chair around so he can occupy the stool next to it.