Blood Red Rose (Rose and Thorn Book 1) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Epilogue

  Disclaimer

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Acknowledgments

  More information…

  Blood Red Rose

  Rose and Thorn Book 1

  Fawn Bailey

  Copyright © 2018 by Fawn Bailey

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Disclaimer

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  More information…

  To those who dance barefoot.

  Fawn

  P.S. This book is inspired by the song Wild Love by James Bay.

  Disclaimer

  Fawn Bailey is the dark romance pen name of Isabella Starling.

  1

  Harlow

  It was Christmastime, and London was freezing. A lacy coverlet of snow had fallen, not promising to stay but whispering of cold, exciting nights under the stars and the inky blue sky. It felt like magic was in the air, sweet, playful magic that promised to work its forces on every single person in the Estate Theater.

  None of us noticed the creeping darkness, slowly bleeding in through the brick building, its cold, claw-like tendrils enticing me to join the dark side.

  It was a freezing night. In the dressing room at the back of the theater, it was too warm though, the air thick and fragrant with the scent of flowers and the room filled with noise. It was a Friday night, well past midnight, and the crew had collapsed in remarkably good moods after their first performance of The Nutcracker.

  I fell back into a chair, a sigh leaving my lips as I kicked off my ballet shoes. I was ecstatic, high on our success and dazzled by my performance. I had done more than well, and for the first time, I had managed to thoroughly impress my trainer, Madame Dugare. She was harsh on me, always urging me to do more, jump higher, try harder. And I gave it my all, sometimes wondering when it would pay off. Every vestige of my power went into dancing, every pound I made towards costumes and training. I lived for it, lived for the dance and the exquisite beauty I felt permeating my body as I stood center stage, en pointe and with my thick lashes wide open to reveal the crowd.

  Oh, the crowd… I lived for them too, every single person in the audience, their applause, their cheers, their inability to look away.

  Mummy used to call me a dancer when I was a little girl.

  She said she knew I’d be dancing under the stars, among them, and finally, becoming one as I stepped front and center, my eyes bright with dreams and my body poised, trained to perfection.

  For a long time, I thought I was doing this for her. The dancing, the life – no personal contacts, knowing no one but the people connected to the business. Devoting my whole life to dance, to ballet, letting the stunning art shape me into a person.

  Other times, when I was feeling low, I wondered what Mummy would think if she saw me now.

  With blistered, broken feet, and a body so thin it looked emaciated. With hair that shone like gold and big blue eyes that seemed manic when I danced.

  What would she think of the girl I had become?

  But it didn’t matter either way now. I was a success, I felt on top of the world, and by tomorrow, I would be joining a more prominent ballet. There was no way they wouldn’t take me after seeing this performance. The critics were left speechless.

  “Harlow!”

  I raised my eyes, thick with eyeshadow and fake lashes, towards the woman approaching me.

  “Madame,” I said excitedly, standing up on my weary feet, my eyes sparkling as they connected with her dark brown gaze.

  “I spoke to a scout from The Great Russian Ballet,” she whispered, and my consciousness fought the exciting information, coming in panicked, anxious waves and hitting me as I almost passed out. I hadn’t eaten in days. I needed to fit my costume. I needed this dream to happen, and I needed to be a star.

  “And?” I begged, my voice so desperate I almost felt ashamed of myself.

  “And they loved you,” she said solemnly. “I gave them your number, but I didn’t let them come back here.”

  “Madame!” I whimpered. “It could be my only chance! How could you!”

  She started to answer, but I didn’t wait for her explanation, turning around instead with a desperate flourish and letting out a cry of protest. Just then, the theater receptionist showed up with a bright smile and urged several employees in, each of them carrying a bigger vase of flowers.

  “Oh!” I exclaimed, approaching the giant bouquets.

  I’d never gotten flowers before that day.

  They kept on coming, bringing gorgeous white roses, velvety peonies, pretty daisies, orchids. So many flowers to join the ones already filling the room. Except now they weren’t meant to say ’good luck’. Now, they were here to congratulate me on the job I would surely be awarded for my flawless performance.

  I flitted from bouquet to bouquet, trying to decide which one was my favorite, when the receptionist cleared his throat. Turning around, I surveyed him, urging him to go on. He held out a hand with a single red rose between his gloved fingers. It was beautiful, thick velvet petals forming a perfect bud, the color a sweet light pink. Dewdrops glistened on the leaves. It was beautiful.

  “Only one?” I asked, jutting out my bottom lip.

  “Yes,” he said apologetically, and I giggled, realizing I’d come off as rude.

  “It’s beautiful,” I told him. “Who brought this one?”

  The receptionist laughed nervously, shrugging as he said, “Some gentleman. He’s seen your performance I take it. Congratulations, Miss Granger. It was truly out of this world. I was so impressed by your dancing. We get to peek in during the performances.”

  “Thank you,” I replied with a bright smile, my attention already elsewhere. “You can put the rose on my dressing table if you’d like.”

  I turned my back on him and sauntered back towards the rest of the cast.

  A mere few hours ago, I was Harlow Granger, the girl next door who was always living from month to month, barely covering her expenses to pursue a stupid dream. And now, with the ballet behind me, I was someone. A beautiful, talented dancer with nothing but a bright future ahead.

  Madame was gone by the time my attention snapped back, and my lips pursed in annoyance. She was supposed to be by my side, apologizing profusely for letting the agent get away. Hopefull
y, she had gone to try and convince them to give me another shot. The Great Russian Ballet had always been a dream of mine, and I wanted desperately to be a part of it.

  Still, it was near impossible to put a dampener on my mood. I was excited, the adrenaline rush from the ballet still coursing through my veins. And my girls’ spirit was the same. The room was filled with giggling and excited laughter, and someone started passing around cigarettes even though they were strictly forbidden in the dressing rooms. I stared at the cancer stick when it reached me, wondering whether I should do it, break my rules for once and have some fun.

  I took a long drag on the cigarette, and my friend Amber lost it when I started choking the next second. The smoke was thick and cloying, and I stuck my tongue out with the unpleasantness of it.

  “This is horrible!” I announced. “I don’t know how you can stand it.”

  “It keeps you skinny,” Amber grinned wide, taking a long drag herself. She was my age, eighteen - but much more experienced.

  We spent the next several hours in the dressing rooms. There was nowhere I would have wanted to be but in the company of people who’d worked with me on the ballet. It had been such a fantastic success, and I wanted the feeling of being loved to last a lifetime.

  “I have to get home,” Amber said at a quarter to three in the morning.

  “Nooo,” I whined. “Please stay a little while longer.”

  “I have work tomorrow,” she said apologetically. “You know I’m happy for you, Harlow, but I have to work. You’ll get an offer tomorrow, I’m sure of it. But for me…” She shrugged sadly. “You know I’m just an understudy. I didn’t even get to dance tonight. I have to keep going, keep trying until I finally make it.”

  “I understand,” I mumbled, flushing lightly and suddenly feeling embarrassed about the way I’d acted.

  I gave Amber a quick embrace and promised to call her with any news and developments the next day.

  I felt sorry for her, knowing that I’d gotten off lucky because Madame wanted to teach me herself, only accepting the paltry sum I made as a waitress for my training. I’d treated her too harshly too, but I’d just been too excited to worry about anyone else.

  “I’ll see you soon,” I called after her, and Amber waved me off as she disappeared down the hallway and into the cold, snowy night.

  There were only a couple of girls left, and we started passing around a bottle of Becherovka, a Czech drink one of the understudies had pinched from her parents. She told us the whole story, and I found myself giggling over her antics while pretending to like the sharp, cinnamon flavor. It was disgusting, but it was the first drink I’d ever had, and I wanted to savor it.

  The girls started dropping like flies, leaving one by one until I was begging Carina, the last girl around, to stay until we finished the bottle. But she was adamant – she had to go home. She’d danced as Clara that night, technically a more significant role than my own Sugarplum Fairy, but everyone in the theater knew I’d outshined her.

  Still, I didn’t want her to leave. It would mean the night would be over, and I’d have to head home myself. It was time to let the magical evening go.

  I said goodbye to Carina with tears in my eyes and sat down on a chair in front of the giant lit up mirror as she gathered her things and left. My reflection stared back at me as I reached for the makeup remover, lathering a cotton wool pad with cleansing milk and wiping away at my face. My lashes came off, then the lipstick. The thick paints, foundation, blusher, mascara, everything off, revealing my porcelain pale skin underneath, scattered with freckles. I wasn’t drop dead stunning, but I consoled myself that all that mattered was that I was a dancer. My body and the things it could do made up for my too-turned-up nose, my too-full lips and my too-hooded eyes. At least my lashes were thick and dark, and I had decent eyebrows to go with my blonde hair. Most of the other girls had to pencil theirs in.

  I didn’t stop until all the makeup was gone. Then I tossed the cotton pads away and changed out of my beautiful, glittering costume into a plain skirt and turtleneck. I pulled on some tights and added my thick wool coat, bundling up with a scarf and my gloves in my hand. I looked miles away from the glamorous ballerina who had danced center stage that night. Now, I was just a little girl with a dream and a coat that was too big for her. But not for long. Soon, my fantasies would become a reality.

  Starting for the exit, I regretted leaving all those bouquets there to wilt. My eyes came to rest on the single, plump pink rose lying in front of the mirror. I wrapped my fingers around it and gasped when it pricked me, a fat, bloody drop running down my thumb where I’d touched the thorn. I stared at it, then sucked on my thumb and glared at the rose. I couldn’t leave it behind though, something telling me to take it with me.

  My gloves were smooth pink leather, inherited from Mummy, and I slipped them on before taking the rose in my hands again. It was coming with me, but it wasn’t going to hurt me again.

  As soon as I stepped outside through the back door, the cold air hit me like a force to be reckoned with, icy and frightening in how freezing it was. I shivered under the light of the streetlamp, my feet leaving prints in the fresh snow as I made my way towards home. It was about twenty minutes away, and I was considering being naughty and just calling a cab to take me home. There was no direct tube from the theater to my home, and it had been a long night.

  But I had no cash, and I’d need the money to pay my rent – if everything went according to plan, the last time I’d have to for the shitty apartment I lived in. Hopefully, by next month, I’d be living in a gorgeous new place with a new job, too.

  The street was deserted, and it should have been comforting, knowing there was no one out to get me, but instead, I felt fear seeping through my pores and filling me with an urge to run. But there was no one around, no one to hurt me or do me any harm. I just needed to brave the weather and the empty city and get a move on.

  I put some distance between myself and the theater, the bright lights slowly moving farther and farther away until only the night lamps remained, lighting up the rest of my journey. My steps were brisk and hurried, and I rushed home, thinking about what awaited me. A lonely, cold apartment where I’d turned off the heating to save money. An empty fridge and very few coffee grounds for the next morning, since I’d been too broke to buy more. But all of it was bound to change, and a smile tugged the corners of my lips upwards as I thought about my bright future.

  Stepping off the main street, I decided to cut a corner to get home and warm up faster.

  It was a decision I’d regret moments later.

  I heard footsteps behind me, only a few.

  I turned around with my eyes panicked, scanning the street. But there was nobody there. A sigh of relief fell from my lips, and I turned back towards my destination, but now my path was suddenly blocked by a tall, looming figure standing in front of me. The rose fell from my gloved fingers.

  “God!” I cried out. “You scared me, I–”

  I didn’t get to finish my sentence. He knocked me down with a single kick to my knees and I crumpled to the ground, barely conscious but panicking, adrenaline surging and begging my body to fight back. I never got the chance to do that, and never even got to see the man who took me. He wore a hood, but I could tell he was impossibly tall and broad. I would never have been able to escape. A small consolation, knowing that I hadn’t even tried.

  “P-please,” I muttered, and he reached for me, my battered body screaming in protest as he sank a needle in my neck. “No!”

  The last thing I saw was him picking up the rose I’d dropped when he attacked me. The man twirled it between his fingers, seemingly not caring about the thorns.

  “I like broken things,” he muttered in a dark, deep voice.

  I blinked, my eyelids heavy with sleep. I needed sleep. I needed to rest.

  And then darkness took over. The same soft, calming darkness I felt when I slept, a darkness that held a promise of pain and beauty.r />
  I fought it until the last second, but eventually, it took over.

  2

  Harlow

  When I came to, I didn’t understand what was happening.

  It wasn’t just that I felt disoriented. My body was fighting what was happening to it, and I woke up retching. Motion sickness. I was in a moving vehicle, and I felt woozy and panicked, my throat tasting like acid and my stomach doing somersaults from pure instinct, one word reverberating through my whole body and alerting me to the hopelessness of my situation.

  Danger! Danger! Danger!

  I was in the trunk of a car. It was tiny and cramped, and my body was forced into an unnatural position that made my limbs ache. I felt like a fish packed into a can, bent out of shape and struggling to breathe through the tape that had been plastered over my mouth. My breaths were quick, scared and panicked, but I forced myself to think straight. There was a small light on in the trunk, and it illuminated enough to tell me where I was. The car was moving, speeding, and the road was bumpy. I had no idea how long I’d been out, but my head hurt, pounding with an insistence that threatened to split my skull open.

  The vehicle kept moving, and I tried to get myself into a comfortable position and stop the waves of nausea washing over me. My wrists and ankles had been tied with thick, scratchy rope. It bound me so tightly there was no hope of breaking free, no way of getting out of my binds. But I kept trying, clawing away at the thick knots and hoping to God I’d break free. The only thing I managed to achieve was to break nail after nail, and I let out a muffled cry of frustration.