Her phone buzzed in her pocket, and her blood turned to ice. Only three people had this number, and two of them wouldn't call unless she was already dead. She pulled it out with trembling fingers. Unknown number, but the area code was from home. The text was simple:You can't hide forever, princess.
She didn’t need to see the number to know that it was her father, or one of his men, using his favorite pet name for her. It was the one that used to mean affection and now meant ownership. God, she hated being called a princess. She deleted the message and pulled the SIM card from the phone, snapping it in half. She had others in her bag, but they'd found this number somehow, and she couldn’t risk using the phone any longer. Maybe the motel she'd stayed at two nights ago gave out her information when they started asking questions. Her father’smen could be quite persuasive. Or maybe they had picked up her signal from a traffic camera. It didn't matter how they got her number. What mattered now was that they were closer than she'd thought, and staying at the clubhouse was dangerous—not just for her but for the members who were allowing her to stay there.
Trixie sank onto the bed, finally letting her exhaustion show. It had been five days of running, of looking over her shoulder, and jumping at every sound. Five days since she'd copied those files, uploaded them to three different secure servers, and walked out of her father's house with just the clothes on her back.
The smart play would be to run now. She could just slip out the window, disappear into the night, and keep moving. These bikers didn't deserve what was coming for her, and ultimately, for them. Cyclops didn't deserve it, with his one good eye, his rough kindness, and his stupid promise to stand beside her instead of in front of her. Nobody had ever promised her that before. Hell, nobody had ever offered to stand anywhere near her once they found out who her father was.
Vincent "Vinnie" Lee—legitimate businessman to the world, but a monster to anyone who really knew him. He'd built his empire on blood and fear, and she'd been his perfect princess, raised to be beautiful, silent, and useful. And she was all of those things until she'd stumbled onto his new business venture—the one that made drug dealing look like charity work.
He was involved in human trafficking. Not just adults who could at least theoretically choose their fate, but kids. Children young enough to still believe in Santa Claus. They were packaged and sold like party favors to the highest bidder, and the thought of what they did to those young girls made her sick.
She'd confronted her father, stupidly, and threatened to go to the FBI if he didn't stop. He'd laughed—actually laughed—and told her she'd be in one of those shipping containers herself before she could dial 911. He said that to his own daughter, his blood, and she believed every word. That was when she knew that she had to run. But she needed an insurance policy before she left, so she copied everything. His financials, shipping manifests, and buyer lists—enough to burn his entire operation to the ground and put him and his men in jail for a very long time. That was if she lived long enough to use it.
She looked down to find her hands shaking. When did that start? She clenched them into fists, allowing her nails to bite into her palms. The pain helped a little. It grounded her.
A soft knock at the door made her jump. "Food," Venom's muffled voice came through. "The acting Prez says you need to eat." Cyclops wasn't just some random enforcer—he was in command of the club right now, and that meant his promise of protection actually carried weight. It also meant he had more to lose by helping her.
"I'm not hungry," she called back.
"Wasn't a request." There was amusement in the giant's voice. "He said you'd say that you didn’t want to eat. He also said to tell you that starving yourself doesn't make you harder to catch, just easier to carry."
“Asshole,” she whispered. Cyclops was an asshole. But he was also right, and the smell of what had to be Chinese food was making her stomach cramp with hunger. She hadn’t had more than a protein bar in about two days, and the thought of a hot meal had her deciding to do as Cyclops ordered and eat.
She undid the locks and opened the door just wide enough to take the bag Venom offered. He was even bigger up close; built like someone had stacked three normal humans on top of each other and wrapped them in leather.
"Orange chicken, fried rice, and egg rolls," he said. "And a Coke for some sugar and caffeine."
"Thanks," she muttered, starting to close the door.
"He's a good man," Venom said suddenly. "Cyclops comes off like a dick sometimes, but he's solid. If he says you're safe here, you're safe."
She studied the giant's scarred face, looking for the lie, but she found none. "Are you always this trusting of strangers?"
"Nope." Venom grinned. "But I trust him. And he seems to trust you, at least enough to let you stay here. That's good enough for me." He settled back into his position in the hallway as she closed and locked the door again. Three locks between her and the world, and one giant biker. It was more protection than she'd had in weeks, and the relief of it made her knees weak.
She ate mechanically, barely tasting the food but knowing she needed the fuel. The orange chicken was too sweet, and the rice was too salty, but her body didn't care. It wanted calories, and she gave them to it, years of training overriding the anxiety that killed her appetite.
You're only as strong as your body,her father used to say.Take care of it like the weapon it is. Even his good advice was tainted now.
The bathroom had a shower with actual water pressure. She stood under the spray for so long, her skin pruned, washing off five days of fear and sweat. The water ran gray, then clear. She'd forgotten what it felt like to be truly clean.
When she finally emerged, she found that someone had left clothes outside her door. It was probably Venom, on Cyclops's orders. They were worn but clean sweatpants, a Road Reapers T-shirt that would hang to her knees, and thick socks. They smelled like laundry detergent and felt like heaven against her skin.
She should have fallen right to sleep. Her body was screaming for it, and every muscle in her body ached withexhaustion. But when she lay down on the bed—God, an actual mattress, not a car seat—her mind wouldn't stop racing.
They'd found her phone number. Her father was able to track her somehow. How long before they tracked her here? That was the ultimate question—that and what would happen to Cyclops when they did? She worried about what would happen to Venom and Ink and all these men who'd done nothing wrong except offer shelter to a woman with blood on her hands. Because she did have blood on her hands, even if she hadn't spilled it herself, she'd kept her father's books for three years, thinking she was smart and that she was building her own future. She'd moved his money, cleaned it, made it disappear and reappear like a magic trick. She'd told herself it was just drugs, and that the people buying them were making their own choices. But the kids that he was trafficking didn't choose to be taken and sold to the highest bidder. Those kids were just cargo to her father, profit margins with tear-stained faces.
Her phone—her other phone, the one she'd bought with cash three towns back—buzzed with an incoming call. Only one person had this number.
"Maria," she answered, her voice barely a whisper.
"Jesus Christ, Trix, I've been trying to reach you for two days." Her best friend's voice was tight with worry. "Are you okay?"
"Define okay." Trixie moved to the window, watching the parking lot below. "I'm alive. That's something."
"Your father's men came by the restaurant." Maria's voice dropped. "They were asking questions and wanting to know if I'd heard from you."
"What did you tell them?" she hesitated to ask.
