Chapter 4 - Rachel
The room is small but clean, with a single bed pushed against one wall and a dresser that looks like it came from a thrift store. There's a window with bars on it. For protection, I'm sure, but all I can see is another cage.
I've locked the door and pushed a chair under the handle for good measure. It probably won't stop anyone who really wants to get in, but it makes me feel like I have some control over my situation.
Control. What a fucking joke.
I haven't had control over my life in months. Not since I caught Marcus with that barely-legal bartender bent over our kitchen counter. Not since I quit my job and decided to "find myself" through travel like some cliché from a bad romance novel. Not since the Iron Eagles grabbed me off the street in some nowhere town and told me I could work with a smile or die.
And definitely not since a silent, deadly biker with gray eyes and too many scars threw himself in front of a bullet meant for me.
*Because I've left people behind before, and I'm tired of living with the weight of it.*
Shadow's words keep repeating in my head, and I hate that they got to me. Hate that I heard the raw truth in his voice, the pain he was trying to hide behind his usual flat effect.
He's damaged. I can see it in every line of his body, in the way he moves like he's trying not to be noticed, in how he kills without hesitation but took a bullet to protect strangers.
And damaged people are dangerous. They either drag you down with them or leave you bleeding when they can't handle their own shit anymore.
I learned that lesson with Marcus. Learned it with my parents, who loved each other so much they forgot they had a daughter who needed them too. I learned it every time I tried to help someone and got burned for my trouble.
I'm done being the collateral damage in other people's disasters.
There's a knock on the door.
"Go away," I call out, not moving from where I'm sitting on the bed with my knees pulled up to my chest.
"Rachel." It's the woman—Luna, I think her name is. The club president's woman who looks too sweet and pretty to be mixed up with bikers. "Please let me examine you. I'm a nurse. I just want to make sure you're not injured."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. None of you are fine after what you went through."
"Then I'm as fine as I'm going to get. So, fuck off and leave me alone."
There's a pause, then I hear low voices outside the door. Luna talking to someone, though I can't make out the words.
Then the footsteps retreat, and I'm alone again.
Good.
I don't need their help. Don't need their pity or their medical attention or their fake concern. I survived a week with the Iron Eagles. I survived watching Shadow and his brothers slaughter an entire clubhouse. I survived seeing a man get executed right in front of me.
I can survive this too.
My stomach chooses that moment to growl, reminding me that I haven't eaten anything substantial in days. The Eagles fed us—barely—but it was always scraps and leftovers, just enough to keep us functioning. Just enough to remind us that our lives depended on their generosity.
I'm so fucking tired of depending on anyone.
The bruises on my arms throb where one of the Eagles grabbed me too hard yesterday. Or was it the day before? Time kind of blurred together in that back room where they kept us locked up between shifts serving drinks to men who looked at us like we were meat on display.
I should let Luna check me over. Should make sure nothing is seriously wrong beyond bruises and exhaustion and the crushing weight of knowing that the world is full of monsters who will take whatever they want.
But letting her examine me means being vulnerable. Means admitting I need help. Means trusting someone when trust has proven time and time again to be the fastest way to get hurt.
So, I stay where I am, wrapped in my own arms, staring at the barred window and wondering if I should just leave. Walk out that door and keep walking until I'm far away from Blackwater Falls and motorcycle clubs and gray-eyed men who make stupid choices for reasons I don't understand.
Another knock. Heavier this time.
