The butcher turned slowly, and my eyelids bat rapidly when I saw how his huge fra filled the doorway. He had a face chiseled from stone—all hard angles and deep furrows, with a nose that looked like it had been broken in a bar fight and never quite healed right.
This was the kind of man who could snap a person in half with one hand and not lose sleep over it.
He most definitely would not negotiate with . Now, I hated myself for not improvising on the money from the mysterious benefactor before it was stolen from .
Whoever they were, I was sure they'd be disappointed in .
"Buenas tardes. Good afternoon, sir." I managed to whisper, trying to keep my voice from shaking.
"¿Y tú quién eres? Who are you?"
Before I could squeak out a response, one of the n behind spoke up. "She's Don Diego's oga daughter. The one cursed by the Moon Goddess!"
He announced with smugness—the kind people reserve for sothing pitiful but mildly amusing—like a three-legged dog trying to catch its tail.
To hell with that clown.
The butcher frowned and his mouth twisted into a scowl—one that seed like it was permanently etched on his face.
He turned to the n. "¡Cállense y sigan trabajando! Leave her alone; she's not your concern."
I blinked. Wait, was that...protection? From him?
That certainly beat any image of him I had of him in my head. I'd thought he'd be like the rest of the pack, but maybe there were exceptions; people who could still rember that I was flesh and blood behind all that Oga nonsense.
Or being cursed by the Moon Goddess, whatever I could have done to her to deserve such a fate.
The butcher glanced back at , the frown he shot his n gone. "You're here for the at, I assu. Co on."
He didn't wait for an answer, disappearing into the depths of the butchery. The n behind exchanged looks but wisely said nothing more. I followed, clutching my tote bag like it was a talisman.
The mont I stepped inside, I regretted it.
The sll hit first—a brutal cocktail of blood, raw flesh, and sothing zingy that made the back of my throat itch. The air was like the after stench of vomit. The floor was slick with what I prayed was just water, though the reddish tint made suspect otherwise.
For soone like who has been used to luxury, such a setting was an eyesore.
I tried not to gag as I passed rows of at hooks, each one bearing a hunk of carcass in various states of disassembly. A pig's head stared at from a nearby table, its glassy eyes accusing of so cri I wasn't aware I'd committed.
I could feel my stomach churning, but I kept walking, focusing on the butler's broad back and reminding myself that this wasn't the ti to faint.
Finally, we reached a small office tucked away at the back of the building. It was cramped and cluttered, with stacks of papers and receipts piled high on the desk.
The butcher turned to , spreading his arms like he was inviting for a hug.
"Did you bring the list and the money?"
I nodded quickly, fumbling in my bag. The list was easy enough to find—I'd written it myself, after all—but the money... My throat ran dry.
How on earth would I explain how Luis Miguel and his gang stole it from and how the vegetable greedily stole the rest?
The butcher raised an eyebrow at my delay. "Well?"
"I—I had it, I swear. It was complete when I left the house. But I encountered so problems on my way." I gestured at my ruined clothes. "It was bullied away from ."
One could easily tell the butcher believed at a go with the way he eyed with pity, giving a one-over. Everyone knew I was the pack's scapegoat.
"You lost it? Now, that's unfortunate."
"I'm so sorry," I blurted out, the words gushing out in my panic. "I'll—I'll find a way to pay you. Or maybe you could just help out. Sell it to on credit and I'll pay up within a given tiline."
How on earth did I even expect to pay him back, huh? I was synonymous with a maid at ho now. Except the maids were getting paid and I wasn't.
"No credit," the butcher interrupted firmly. "Not unless your father says so, and I don't imagine he'd be happy about this."
He turned away, clearly ready to dismiss , but desperation made sick in the stomach. Without thinking, I dropped to my knees.
"Please! Please, I beg you! I need that at—if I go back empty-handed, my father will—he'll..."
I didn't finish the sentence, but anyone with a fine imagination could have filled in the gap. The butcher paused, his shoulders stiffening.
"Get up," he muttered, but I shook my head.
"Please," I whispered, tears streaming down my face. "I'll pay you back, I swear. I'll do whatever you want—just don't send back with nothing."
He turned to look at again, and for the first ti, I thought I saw a whiff of sothing human in his eyes. He could be annoyed, perhaps, but also...pity?
"You're really this scared of your father?"
I nodded miserably.
He sighed, running a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. "Fine," he said at last, though he didn't sound happy about it. "But if you can't pay, you'll have to work for to cover the cost. Agreed?"
HUH? Work for him? How? Here? Amidst these sharks he called workers?!
"Work for you? Here?" I blurted out in wonder, a hand over my mouth.
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