Her words echoed in my head, a phantom whisper that felt more like a command from a ghost than a plea. Reaching for my phone, my hand trembled, the cold metal a stark contrast to the burning in my chest. This was a decision I’d never dreamed I’d have to make, a betrayal wrapped in a desperate gambit for survival.
This was not a rescue; it was... something else entirely. It was the only thing I could do.
The unthinkable act gnawed at my core.
“Brother?” My voice cracked, a stranger’s sound. “Tell Morpheus the Death Dogs have his daughter-in-law,” I choked out, my words tasting like bile.
I slammed the phone shut, the click echoing in the sudden, profound silence.
No explanations, no apologies, just the grim finality of my betrayal.
Looking back at the shack, its flimsy walls shaking with the ferocity of their screams, a cold dread settled over me. I prayed they survived, not for their sake, but for the slim, desperate hope that they might somehow find peace—a peace I had just actively, brutally, fractured.
“I’m sorry, Fleur. Forgive me.” My plea was a raw, desperate wound, a confession I could never truly deliver.
Running for my bike, I jumped on, its engine roaring to life. It felt like a snarl of defiance, a desperate attempt to outrun the hollowness growing within me. The familiar rumble sounded, a poor substitute for the solid ground of my convictions, as I sped off. Never looking back was the only way to outrun the monster I’d just become.
Chapter Thirty-One
Karlyn
My wrists ached beneath the rough nylon cord, a burning reminder of my helplessness. My breaths came shallow and sharp in the cramped room, each inhale a fresh wave of stale air that thrummed with the echoes of distant engines and men’s voices—voices I recognized with a sinking heart.
Satan’s Angels.
Old ghosts in new leathers, their laughter rang down the corridor, meaner and hungrier than I remembered. I pressed my forehead to my knees, trying to vanish into myself as their boots scraped with purpose toward the door. I knew they would come for me. But a deeper dread, a twisting knot of guilt, coiled in my stomach. I should have fought harder. Had I given up too easily when they grabbed me, too consumed by the thought of what I’d already lost, what they might do to me?
The shadows pressed in, suffocating in their intensity, as I strained against my bindings. Each second dragged out, uncertainty gnawing at the edges of my resolve. Their footsteps were getting louder. Panic fluttered in my chest, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. But beneath the terror, a shard of self-recrimination pierced through. I was supposed to be stronger, to fight, to survive. And yet here I was, a captive, waiting to be used. Clinging to the sharp sliver of hope that somehow Jackson would find me before it was too late felt like a betrayal of everything I believed in. What if he found me too late? What if my inaction had led to this?
For the last hour, I’d listened as Grace screamed, cried, pleaded with the Death Dogs, her voice growing hoarse until her silence told me everything I needed to know. A cold, hard certainty settled over me. I could have told her that fighting them was futile, had I been given the chance. There were too many of them, and they were stronger. So much stronger. The knowledge gnawed at me. I had survived them before, but this time, the memory of their cruelty, of what they did to me, to so many others, felt like a heavier burden than my own bonds.
I could still hear the grunting, the sickening sound of flesh meeting flesh as one finished, and another began. The noises were a grotesque soundtrack to my own impending doom, and worse, a stark reminder of the choices I might be forced to make. When the door finally opened, Zephyr walked in, flanked by Cobra and Blitz—the brother of that sick, vile fuck who got me pregnant. But as the last man entered, my eyes widened fearfully.
I scooted back, shaking my head in disbelief, a strangled whisper escaping my lips, “Beast.”
The sick fuck smirked. “Hello, Karlyn. We meet again.”
I gulped, making a dry, rasping sound. Cobra moved to the corner and set up a tripod, then placed a camera on it. I knew what that camera was for. I knew what they intended to do. The thought of the violation, the public degradation, was almost unbearable. But the true horror was the dawning realization of the bargain they were offering. Looking at the camera, then back at Beast, a desperate plea tore from me. “Please. Don’t do this. I’ll be good. I swear.” My words tasted like betrayal. To surrender, to plead, was to admit defeat not just of my body, but of my spirit.
My mind raced, a frantic hamster on a wheel, searching for any way out, any scrap of escape from the nightmare unfolding.Beast’s gaze was heavy, calculating, as if he could see every secret I tried to bury, every compromise I’d ever made.
I twisted against the rough rope, pain blooming along my wrists, a physical manifestation of my internal agony. Yet, the only sound I could manage was a broken sob. Terror threatened to drown me, but somewhere deep inside, a stubborn ember of defiance flickered. I would not give them the satisfaction of watching me break.
Not yet.
Squatting down next to me, the fucker smiled, rubbing his cleanly shaven face. “I know you will, Karlyn. Now, be a good girl, and we won’t touch you. Lie to me and we’ll make what happened last time seem like playtime.” His implication hung heavy in the air, a suffocating promise of something far worse than physical pain. He was offering me a choice: complicity or extreme suffering. And with that, the lines between good and bad, between surviving and truly living, blurred into an indistinguishable, terrifying gray. The thought of betraying everything I stood for, even to save myself, made me feel sick. But the alternative... the alternative was unthinkable.
I nodded, the knot in my stomach tightening with a sickening certainty. I knew he meant every word. This wasn’t just an interrogation; it was a test, and I was already failing. “What do you want to know?” My voice cracked, betraying the bravado I was desperately trying to project.
“Where is Ravage?” His voice was low, a rumble that vibrated in the air, demanding obedience.
My mind reeled, a frantic scramble for an answer that wouldn’t condemn us all. He wanted to know where Jackson was. Just a location.
That was it?
He just wanted the name of a place.
Staring at him, feeling a tremor of something akin to revulsion at my own compliance, I told him what he wanted to know. “At the hospital in Diamond Creek. A woman went into labor. He is with her.” A sharp stab of regret followed my words.
