He stumbles, almost falls, but I keep him moving. Nobody in the bar looks up.
Outside, my bike is waiting.
Cain starts to struggle, starts to beg, but it doesn't matter.
Nothing he says matters anymore.
An hour later, it's done.
I stand over his body, breathing hard, blood on my hands and satisfaction in my chest.
He died badly, but he deserved worse.
I think about Ripley. About her swollen face and her trembling hands and her voice askingwhy.
Because someone should.
I clean up, dispose of the evidence and make the body disappear.
Then I ride back to the clubhouse, to the woman who's sleeping in my spare room, to the promise I made.
He'll never touch her again.
She doesn’t know this yet, but I keep my promises.
CHAPTER 5
Ripley
I can't sleep.
The room they've put me in is small but clean—a bed with faded sheets, a dresser with a cracked mirror, a window that looks out over the parking lot.
It smells like cigarette smoke and leather, like every other inch of this clubhouse. Like safety.
I should feel safe.
The door is locked.
There are a dozen armed men downstairs who've been told I'm under their protection.
Cain doesn't know where I am.
But every time I close my eyes, I see his face. Feel his fists. Hear his voice telling me this is my fault, that I deserve this, that I'm nothing without him.
I curl into a ball on the bed, pulling my knees to my chest, and stare at the wall.
The bruises throb with every heartbeat.
My ribs ache where he kicked me—I didn't tell anyone about that, didn't lift my shirt to show them the boot-shaped mark on my side.
It hurts to breathe. Hurts to move. Hurts to exist.
But I'm alive.
That feels like more than I deserve.
A knock on the door makes me jolt upright, heart pounding.
