I turn to find King watching me.
"Take point on getting the women to the safe house," he says. "Make sure they arrive in one piece."
It's not a request.
"Copy that."
I head for the exit, following in Rachel's wake. She's already outside, standing with the other women near the vehicles. She's not crying like some of them are. Not seeking comfort or reassurance.
She's just standing there, arms wrapped around herself, staring at nothing. I tell myself it doesn't matter. Tell myself she's just another rescued civilian, no different from the dozens I've pulled out of bad situations over the years.
But I've never been good at lying to myself.
And as I watch her climb into the van without looking back, something tells me Rachel is going to be a problem.
The kind of problem I have no fucking idea how to handle.
Chapter 2 - Rachel
I climb into the van and press myself against the cold metal wall, putting as much distance as possible between me and the door. Between me and the bikers outside. Between me and the entire fucking nightmare my life has become.
The other women are huddled together near the front, whispering and crying. I can hear Sarah, the blonde who told me to shut up earlier, trying to comfort Maria, whose sobs are getting louder with each passing second.
I feel nothing.
Well, that's not entirely true. I feel angry. So fucking angry that my hands are shaking and my jaw aches from clenching my teeth.
Angry at the Iron Eagles for grabbing me off the street like I was nothing more than property to be collected. Angry at my ex-boyfriend Marcus for cheating on me and breaking something inside me that I don't know how to fix. Angry at myself for being stupid enough to think that traveling alone would somehow heal my shattered heart instead of getting me kidnapped.
Angry at the universe for taking my parents before I could tell them one last time that I loved them.
And now I'm supposed to be grateful? Supposed to trust these Savage Riders just because they killed the men who were holding us captive?
Motorcycle clubs are all the same. They might wear different colors, claim different territories, but at the end of the day, they're all about power and control and taking what they want.
I saw the way Shadow looked at me in that room. All cold gray eyes and blood-splattered face, like death incarnate. And when Ichallenged him, when I refused to just fall at his feet in gratitude, he made it crystal fucking clear that I was nothing more than a responsibility to him.
A burden.
The story of my fucking life.
"We're going to be okay," Sarah says, and I want to laugh at the desperate hope in her voice. "They saved us. They're the good guys."
"There are no good guys," I mutter, but nobody hears me over Maria's continued sobbing.
The van door is still open, and I can see the bikers moving around outside. The massive one they call Tank is carrying boxes from the building. The one with the beard—Beast, I think—is laughing about something, like they just came back from a fucking party instead of slaughtering an entire clubhouse.
And Shadow.
He's standing apart from the others, watching the building with that same intense focus he had in the hallway. Like he's waiting for something. Calculating his next move.
I hate that I notice. Hate that some stupid, broken part of me finds his silence and stillness oddly... compelling.
It doesn't matter that when he moved through that room, he was the most lethal thing I've ever seen. It doesn’t matter that for just a second, when he looked at me, I felt something other than the hollow numbness that's been my constant companion since Marcus destroyed my ability to trust.
Shadow made it clear. I'm nothing to him. A responsibility. A job.
And I'm fine with that. More than fine. I don't want his attention or his concern or whatever the fuck else men like him pretend to offer before they take what they want and leave you bleeding.
