CHAPTER 11
I'm falling through darkness, tied to something I can't see. Cherry pie and Marcus's voice—honey-dove, honey-dove—his fingers on my face, in my hair, places I don't want him. The syringe coming closer, closer?—
BANG!
BANG!
BANG!
I jolt upright, a scream lodged in my throat. My heart slams against my ribs as I blink at unfamiliar surroundings—cracked window repaired with duct tape, upside down milk crate, sheets that smell like Legion.
Legion. The silo. The rescue. The club.
I look down at my naked body tangled in rough sheets, chest still marked with Sharpie.PROPERTY OF DEMON. My wrists throb where the zip ties cut into them for three days.
BANG!
BANG!
BANG!
"Not Mine! Wake your ass up!"
Not Mine. I huff out a breath that's almost a laugh. It was cute last night when they christened me with whiskey and that ridiculous name, but in the cold light of morning, it feels less charming.
"I hear you breathing in there! When I fucking knock, Not Mine will get her ass up and answer the fucking door!"
The woman's voice is sharp as a cattle prod. Shit. I wrap the sheet around me, toga-style, and pull open the door with my heart still racing. I arrange my features into the polite mask I've worn at a thousand charity functions.
"How can I help you?" My voice comes out scratchy from sleep.
The silver-haired woman from last night stands in the doorway, arms crossed over her chest. She's wearing jeans and a faded Badlands MC tank top, her arms lean and muscled. Up close, I can see the lines around her eyes, the hardness in her jaw. This isn't a woman who's ever smiled for a camera she didn't want to.
"You've got thirty seconds to pull on some clothes," she barks, "otherwise you're coming with me naked."
I blink at her, still foggy from whatever drugs are lingering in my system.
"While the men do their little vote, us women have a meeting of our own," she explains. Though it is very clear that she doesn't feel explaining is necessary.
Great. A female interrogation to match the male one. Because showing my tits and fucking Legion in front of fifty bikers wasn't enough of an initiation.
But I nod anyway, because what choice do I have? I drop the sheet—the time for pretenses and privacy clearly over now—and pull yesterday's clothes back on. Legion's T-shirt hangs to my thighs, and clearly this little foray into kidnap-victim territory has caused me to lose weight, because the jeans haveno intention of clinging to my hips this morning. I hold them up with one hand, nose crinkling because I now smell like spilled whiskey and stale ashes.
I sigh, wishing for more sleep. My body aches in places I don't want to think about, and I'm so hungry for more than liquid courage, my stomach is cramping.
But I follow the woman downstairs, feeling like I'm walking into judgment, as she leads me through a narrow hallway.
My bare feet stick slightly to the floor with each step.
God, I wish I had shoes.
"Where's Legion?" I ask.
She doesn't even turn around. "Church."
"Church." I sigh.
"The vote." She throws the words over her shoulder like I should know better than to ask. "When men decide things, they call it 'church'. When women decide things, they call it 'gossip'."
