"Thank you," I say. "Both of you."
Tank nods once, then leaves. Rage lingers by the door.
"Beast will be outside if you need anything," he says. "He looks mean, but he won't hurt you. None of us will."
I want to believe him. After a year with Tommy, I've learned how quickly charm can turn to cruelty, how easily promises of protection become threats of harm. But there's something different about Rage—a steadiness, a certainty in the way he moves and speaks that makes me think he means what he says.
"Get some sleep," he adds. "Tomorrow's going to be a long day."
After he leaves, I sit on the edge of the bed for several long minutes, the ice pack growing warm against my side. The reality of my situation crashes over me in waves. I've run from one dangerous man into the arms of an entire club of dangerous men. I've betrayed the Iron Eagles to their sworn enemies. I've thrown my lot in with strangers who could decide I'm more trouble than I'm worth.
But as I finally lie down on the surprisingly comfortable bed, setting the now-useless ice pack aside, I realize one crucial difference: for the first time in a year, I'm making my own choices. Dangerous choices, perhaps, but mine.
I close my eyes, expecting sleep to elude me. Instead, exhaustion pulls me under almost immediately, the safety of a locked door and an MC enforcer standing guard allowing my body to finally surrender to rest.
I dream of Tommy, his face contorted with rage as he stands over me, boot raised for another kick.
"You fucking bitch," he snarls in the dream. "Did you really think you could run from me?"
His foot descends toward my face, and I jerk awake with a strangled cry, heart pounding against my ribs, opening my eyes.
The room is dark except for the faint glow of a night light in the bathroom. For a panicked moment, I don't remember where Iam. Then it all comes flooding back. The escape, the park, Rage, the Savage Riders clubhouse.
I'm safe. For now.
A soft knock at the door makes me jump.
"Claire?" A deep voice I don't recognize. Must be Beast, the man Rage said would be guarding my door. "Everything okay in there?"
"Yes," I call back, my voice raspy from sleep. "Just a bad dream."
"Need anything? Water?"
The unexpected kindness catches me off guard. "No, thank you. I'm fine."
"Shout if you change your mind."
I hear the shuffle of boots as he resumes his position outside the door. I check the cheap digital clock on the nightstand: 3:17 AM. Too early to get up, too rattled to go back to sleep.
I ease out of bed, wincing as my ribs protest the movement, and make my way to the bathroom
"You got away," I whisper to my reflection, echoing the words I spoke in that filthy park bathroom. "That's what matters."
But getting away was only the beginning. Now comes the hard part: staying away, staying alive, finding a way forward that doesn't end with Tommy's boot on my throat.
I splash cold water on my face and rinse my mouth, wishing I had a toothbrush. Then I remember my duffel bag and return to the bedroom to rummage through it, finding the travel kit I hastily packed. The simple act of brushing my teeth makes me feel marginally more human.
Since I'm awake, I decide to rewrap my ribs. The bandage has loosened during sleep, and the pain is returning in sharp pulses.I shed the robe and examine the bruises in the bathroom's harsh light.
The boot print looks even worse than it did yesterday, the edges darkening to a deep purple-black while the center begins to fade to a sickly green-yellow. I prod it gently with my fingertips, trying to determine if anything is broken beneath the surface. Sharp pain, but no grating sensation. Probably just bruised, not fractured.
I've become an expert at assessing my own injuries over the past year. A sick sort of skill to develop.
I unclip the bandage and slowly unwind it, taking shallow breaths as the support falls away. Without the compression, each breath sends jolts of pain through my side. I focus on rewrapping as Rage showed me, pulling the elastic tight on the exhale, securing it with the metal clips.
It's not as neat as his work, but it'll do. I put the robe back on and return to the bedroom, too restless to lie down again.
My stomach growls, reminding me that the sandwich hours ago was the first real food I'd had in nearly a day. I wonder if there's anything to eat in the mini-fridge Rage mentioned.
