What they don’t know is that I’ve been practicing quiet survival for years. It isn’t a sudden genius. It’s pattern and pain and repetition.
Every time John laughs at me, I watch him. I memorize his tells, the way his smile changes right before he turns cruel.
Every time Malice orders me to clean blood out of the back room, I note what night it happens, what vehicles come and go, which men are jittery, which ones act like they’re already spending money they haven’t earned yet. I track their habits the way you track weather, because weather can kill you too.
I hold onto information like a life raft. I survive by watching, by drawing, by keeping little pieces of truth hidden away in my sketchbook. It’s my refuge. When panic rises, I draw until my hands stop shaking. When I’m forced to smile, I draw later to remember what was real.
My pencils and charcoal know things my voice can never say.
My sketchbook sits on the passenger seat now, tucked under my jacket like a secret heartbeat. I’ll need it later to steady my hands. For now, I keep driving.
The road curves around pines and rocky outcroppings. The sun sinks behind the ridgeline. Shadows deepen, stretching across the asphalt like long fingers.
When I see the sign for Lovestone Ridge, my throat tightens.
The Damned Saints clubhouse is nearby.
My pulse quickens as I pull over onto the shoulder. The forest is dense here, a canopy of dark needles and quiet. I park beneath the trees and kill the engine. In the silence, I can hear my breathing. I can hear leaves shifting in the wind like whispers.
I know engines. Malice made sure I learned so I could work at the Wolves’ shop, so I’d be useful, earn my keep. I pop the hood and remove a small connector from the engine, a piece pocketable enough to disappear in my fist. Without it, the car won’t start. A believable break. Simple. Quick.
I wipe my hands on a rag. It just smears the grease around. I drag my palms down my jeans, staining the denim and leaving grit under my nails. In the car window, my face looks pale, eyes too bright.
I rehearse my lines under my breath. “Hi. Sorry to bother you. My car died. Can someone help me?”
My voice sounds wrong. Too sweet. Too practiced.
I swallow and try again. “Thank you so much. I really appreciate it.”
My stomach flips.
I should leave. I should get out and walk until my legs give out.
But the plan is to let them see me stranded. Wolves will be watching. If I deviate, John will know. Johnalwaysknows.
I take a deep breath and straighten beside the hood, letting the cooling night hit my skin. The sky is a dark blue canvas speckled with stars. The forest smells like pine and damp earth. My boots crunch on gravel.
In the distance, I hear the low thrum of an engine.
It sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with the cold.
Bikers. Loud. Unapologetic. Free.
Freedom. The thought is bitter. Men like Malice and John are caged too. They just ride in bigger cages and call it power.
My hands tremble again. I think about my mother, how she left in the middle of the night and never looked back, like I was an afterthought she could abandon without consequence. I think about Malice using me to punish a club I’ve never met.
My mouth is dry. My heart thuds so hard it hurts.
Headlights appear around the bend.
A single bike rolls into view, the sound deep enough that I feel it in my bones. I don’t have to force anything into my expression. Panic is already sitting in my throat. The fear is real. The only performance is that I’m standing here at all.
The bike slows as it approaches. The rider pulls up just behind my car and kills the engine. He swings a leg over the seat and stands.
He’s tall, broad, and in the moonlight his silhouette is all strength and stillness. Tattooed arms catch the faint light as he comes closer, calm like he owns the quiet.
Then I see his eyes.
