After nearly a week in the infirmary, Dixie gradually returned to normal. Her beast-like behavior slowly faded, replaced by human mannerisms, and she began to speak again.
With regular meals, her weight steadily increased—at least she no longer resembled a sickly, underfed cub.
Seeing her recovery progress, Melissa summoned Jensen. After all, it was Jensen's money that had purchased her, and her "assignment" needed to be decided.
In Burman, purchased "goods" typically served only one purpose: public relations.
Here, aside from the "Princesses" and "Gentlemen" of the trade, only hardened, muscle-bound enforcers remained.
In short, this place offered just two choices: violence or sex.
For a barely-sprouted fledgling like Dixie, public relations was the obvious path. But Sherry had intervened, forcing Jensen to reconsider.
In a small room on the second floor, Dixie sat on the bed wearing an oversized T-shirt. Its hem nearly covered her shorts, revealing her wheat-toned calves and bare feet. The loose collar slipped off one shoulder, partly exposing her collarbone.
Bruises still shadowed her cheeks. Melissa had taped gauze over one, and wounds—partly hidden by bandages—marred her exposed collarbone.
Dixie sat quietly, eyes downcast, strands of soft black hair framing her face.
Just beyond the wall stood Jensen and Sherry.
Crammed into a narrow observation room, they watched Dixie through one-way glass. Jensen smoked impatiently, silent.
Sherry leaned her temple against the glass, eyes closed, silver hair cascading over her shoulders as if napping.
Click. The door opened. Three pairs of eyes lifted.
Dixie stared at the tall man entering. Jensen and Sherry stared at Dixie.
"Well, well. The new merchandise?" The man gripped Dixie's chin, his gaze sliding down her neck and into her collar, appraising her inch by inch.
Dixie didn't resist. She obediently tilted her head up.
The tycoon, Hill, bared his teeth in a grin. "Quite docile, isn't she? Trained well, Jensen."
His hand trailed down Dixie's soft cheek as he leaned closer, sniffing her exposed ear and neck. She lowered her lashes, compliant, letting his hand guide her head sideways.
Beyond the glass, Jensen spat in contempt. Sherry's lips curved as she twirled the cross pendant at her chest, watching impassively.
No matter how lewdly Hill whispered in her ear, Dixie showed no reaction. Her dark eyes held only a vacant innocence. Still. Unresisting.
Only when Hill hooked an arm around her waist and tugged at her clothes did Dixie blink. She lifted a hand from his grip and pointed toward the bathroom.
Silent, she met Hill's gaze, eyes faintly pleading.
"What's wrong, sweetheart? Want me to shower?"
Dixie nodded. "Mhm."
"Good girl. Wait here—daddy won't be long." Hill smirked, pinching her waist.
Jensen sneered—but his grin froze mid-curve.
The moment Hill turned, Dixie moved like lightning. She snatched the brass candlestick from the nightstand. Cold fury flooded her eyes as she swung it savagely at the back of Hill's skull.
BANG!!
The crash stunned everyone into stillness.
Except Sherry, smiling as she leveled her gun.
The bullet sheared off a corner of the candlestick, yet Dixie's grip held.
Dixie turned, dazed, staring through the shattered glass at Sherry. At the gun's dark mouth aimed at her.
Hill gaped. No one could process the docile prey now brandishing a weapon.
Hill reacted first. The Italian tycoon roared a curse and slapped Dixie hard across the face.
She sprawled onto the bed, blood trickling from her lip. But before the next blow landed, Dixie sprang up, swinging the candlestick at Hill's head.
BANG!!
Another shot. The bullet struck the candlestick's handle, wrenching it from Dixie's grasp.
As the gunshot echoed, Sherry kicked through the glass and vaulted into the room.
Her silver curls fanned out amid flying shards. The jangling charms on her clothes didn't hinder her as she landed, light and fierce, at the room's center.
Sherry thrust a palm against the enraged Hill, snapping something in Italian. With her other hand—pinky hooked around her gun—she pinned Dixie to the bed, forearm pressed to her chest.
Jensen yanked Hill back, restraining his flailing limbs while rapid-fire Italian spilled from his lips.
Dixie thrashed beneath Sherry. Her dark eyes burned with feral rage, like a provoked beast baring its teeth.
"Easy, easy," Sherry murmured, knee wedged between Dixie's legs as she effortlessly pinned the girl's arms. Amusement softened her tone. "Cool it, little one."
But words couldn't calm Dixie now. Gritting her teeth, she snarled low in her throat, straining against Sherry's hold—determined to break free and crack the lecher's skull.
Sherry's pinky flicked. Her gun spun into her grip.
Click. The cold barrel pressed under Dixie's jaw, still hot from firing. Dixie flinched.
"Shhh. Quiet now, little one. Don't fuss." Sherry lowered her voice dangerously, her beautiful face inches from Dixie's as she smiled.
She theatrically cocked the hammer. Click. Dixie's lashes trembled.
Instantly, the frenzy left Dixie's eyes. She went limp, gasping on the bed, chest heaving as she stared at the gun—then into Sherry's lake-clear gaze.
"Done fighting?" Sherry released her, tucking stray silver hair behind her ear. She holstered the gun at her lower back and turned to the two men still arguing.
"Gentlemen. Resolved?"
"What kind of lunatic is this?! I pay good money just to get attacked?!" Hill's face flushed crimson as he spat Italian curses.
"Now, now, sir—" Sherry raised placating hands, smiling. "Your fee will be refunded in full. With compensation. All expenses are mine."
Hill ranted again. Jensen blocked his swinging fist. On the bed, Dixie wiped blood from her mouth and slowly sat up. Jensen glanced over—and his pupils shrank.
"Sherry! Gun!"
At Jensen's shout, Sherry whirled—grabbing Dixie's wrist just as the girl raised the stolen gun.
Somehow, she'd taken it.
Now Dixie's gun-hand strained against Sherry's iron grip, forced downward. Rage contorted Dixie's face; her trembling arm corded with tension.
"Hey. Easy, little one," Sherry soothed, though her hand clamped like a vise.
Sherry crushed down. Dixie gritted her teeth against the pain but kept her glare locked on Hill, her free hand clawing Sherry's wrist.
Fingernails dug purple welts into Sherry's skin, yet Sherry didn't budge. Dixie heard her own wrist bones creak.
Sherry leaned closer, eyes gleaming with predatory interest.
"Who do you wanna dead, little one?"
Dixie's face paled with pain, but her eyes stayed fixed on Hill. Her gun-arm trembled.
Sherry watched her irises quiver—half terror, half fury. She laughed softly in Dixie's ear, a viper's whisper:
"No. You can't. You've never killed anyone..."
"..." Dixie's stare never left Hill. Her voice shook, throttled rage beneath.
"I have."
As the words left her lips, the gun fired. BANG! The bullet struck the floor, jolting the already frozen Hill.
Jensen shoved him out the door.
Sherry smiled, satisfied with her answer. Jensen slammed the door shut as she released Dixie's wrist.
Clatter. The gun hit the floor. Sherry stood, leisurely lighting a cigarette. Through the smoke, she gazed down at the gasping girl.
Dixie's entire right arm trembled, useless. Purple fingerprints banded her wrist.
After a few ragged breaths, Dixie lunged from the bed toward the fallen gun.
"Hngh—!"
A knifehand strike chopped her nape. Dixie crumpled, unconscious.
Sherry caught the limp body, tucking it under one arm.
"Mmm," she murmured, cigarette hand tilting Dixie's slack chin. She studied the girl's pale face, a rare approval in her eyes. "Jensen chose well this time."
Sherry and Jensen's wager had angered Hill—a famed American diamond magnate. For days, troublemakers swarmed Burman, all driven back by Jensen's crew.
Jensen's fury neared murderous. He stormed off to drag the troublemaker out for a beating, but
Dixie scrambled into a bathroom stall and locked it.
Jensen's jaw clenched, muscles twitching. He drew back his foot to kick the door in—then collided with Sherry, emerging from the sinks while drying her hands.
Sherry wore haute couture, silver hair upswept to bare her pale neck. The low-cut, waist-cinched gown amplified her allure.
One of Jensen's boots already pressed against the stall door. Sherry arched a brow.
"Oh? Your honey in there?"
"Sh*t! It's that d*mn cub!"
"Ahh," Sherry intoned, tossing her monogrammed towel into the bin. She smiled sweetly at Jensen.
"I'm off to see Hill Brant. Do keep order at Burman, won't you?"
The brute opened and closed his mouth, speechless. Finally, he lit a cigarette, punched the stall door, and stalked away.
The dented door creaked open, revealing Dixie—barefoot, crouched on the toilet tank.
"..."
Sherry visited the Brant estate that same day. By afternoon, the family patriarch sent a formal apology.
"So. Still sending her into public relations?"
In Burman's staff cafeteria, Sherry elegantly sliced her steak. A triumphant smile played on her lips as she eyed Jensen.
Jensen cursed, slammed the table, and stabbed out his cigarette. Plates rattled.
"Godd*mmit! My money's wasted!"
"Don't say that, Jensen." Sherry's eyes glinted. "You bought something precious."
"Bullsh*t!" he hissed.
"Truly, though," Sherry pressed, her knowing smile radiating pressure. "Why did you buy her?"
Jensen stared at his plate, silent. He took two long drags, exhaling smoke slowly.
"When I bought her... the brat was f*cking beautiful."
"Where?"
"...The eyes."