Chapter 10 #2
I followed him to the truck. As we walked, I could see Bronc out of the corner of my eye, arms crossed, watching us like a sentry.
Juliet stood beside him, hand on her belly, eyes bright and unblinking.
For the first time, I realized how fiercely these people protected their own.
It was a different kind of leash than Steiner’s, but it was one I thought I could live with.
I slid into the passenger seat and let the door slam me back into reality. Jess started the engine, and we rolled out of the lot, the dust from the tires painting a gold veil over the last sliver of morning sun.
The Iron Valor compound awaited—a fortress, a home, a holding cell. For now, I didn’t care which.
All that mattered was that I wasn’t alone.
The drive from the airstrip to the Iron Valor compound took less than ten minutes.
The scenery was all fence-line and dust; the world flattening out into a panorama of brittle yellow grass and sagging power lines.
Jess kept both hands on the wheel and said nothing, eyes locked on the horizon.
His knuckles were white. I wanted to break the silence, maybe ask a question about the pack or the rules, but my words just pinballed around my mouth and vanished.
At the door, two women waited.
The first had her hair cropped short and spiked up with streaks of pink.
She wore a hoodie so enormous it looked like it could have eaten her, and a pair of black leggings that did nothing to hide the bulk of muscle underneath.
The other woman was her opposite in every possible way—tall, dark hair parted dead center, and a kind of quiet, unassuming beauty that made you do a double take when you caught it in the right light.
She wore a yellow sundress with white polka dots and a big white collar.
She had on white tights and brown boots.
I recognized them both, but only distantly. They’d been in the van and on the plane, hovering at the edge of my vision, making the trip feel less a true rescue. I remembered the smell of Parker’s coffee, the way Aspen sang to herself under her breath.
Jess parked the truck and jumped out, rounding to my side and opening the door before I could even reach for the handle. I tried to climb out on my own, but my knees locked and I nearly ate it on the step rail. He caught me, one hand under my arm, and then let go as soon as my feet touched ground.
“Hey, Harper!” the short one called, voice big as a freight train. “Remember me? I’m Parker. Wrecker’s mate.” She bounded over, and for a second I thought she might tackle-hug me, but she just stopped short and grinned. “Glad you made it.”
The other hung back, with a half-smile on her lips.
“You probably don’t remember me, honey. I’m Aspen.
I’m the local witch. I’m mated to Big Papa.
He’s the one who helped make you feel so calm in the van.
He’s the best.” She’s clearly head over heels in love with her mate.
“I own the local bakery. You’ll be getting some goodies soon.
I make the best blueberry lemon scones you ever ate.
Just prepare your tastebuds to be dazzled.
” Her southern accent washed over me like warm water, and I hoped we could become friends.
“If you need anything, you come see me.”
A third figure darted from behind Aspen’s dress; an eighteen-inch-tall prairie dog, wearing a tiny vest and a pair of wire-framed glasses. He bowed with such grandeur I almost snorted.
“Miss Harper,” he said, voice crisp and British. “Oscar B. Wild, at your service. If you require assistance, do not hesitate to call upon me. I am highly discreet.” He flashed his incisors and then ducked back into Aspen’s skirts.
I blinked. “Is he… is he always like that?”
Aspen giggled. “Oscar’s my familiar. He’s very proud. He’ll keep you safe, no matter what.”
Parker leaned in, lowered her voice. “If you need clothes or, like, anything at all, Bronc’s sister Maddie brought you a duffel bag. It’s waiting outside Arsenal’s door.”
I nodded, trying to smile. “Thank you.”
Aspen tilted her head. “Are you okay, darlin’?”
I wasn’t. My skin crawled with a thousand memories, every nerve ending screaming to be scalded clean.
The demon’s touch clung to my body, sticky and sour.
I wanted to scrub every inch until I bled, and even then I wasn’t sure it would be gone.
My eyes started to sting, and I forced myself to breathe.
“I just need a shower,” I said, voice flat. “Maybe two.”
Jess’s posture changed in an instant. He stepped between me and the others, arms loose at his sides, shoulders squared. “We’ll head up,” he said. “Thanks for the help.”
He didn’t wait for a reply. He walked me past the main building—big, low-slung, with a wrap-around porch and windows painted a blinding white.
The sun was at its peak now, no shadows left to hide in.
Every inch of the property screamed order and security, but there were splashes of comfort here and there: a wind chime, a porch swing, an old Radio Flyer wagon tipped over on the lawn.
The living areas were on the second floor of the large pack house. The hallway smelled like fresh paint and carpet. Jess’s door was easy to spot—it had a battered Marine Corps sticker next to the peephole, and a pair of muddy boots lined up perfectly against the jamb.
A duffel bag leaned against the threshold, stuffed to bursting. Jess picked it up in one hand, unlocked the door with the other, and stepped aside for me to enter.
I hesitated, then went in.
The place was spotless—minimal, almost severe, but not unfriendly.
The living room had a gray sectional, a wall-sized TV, and a small kitchen tucked behind a peninsula bar.
The appliances gleamed. The only decoration was a single framed photo on the counter: Jess and Bronc, both in uniform, both with arms around each other and shit-eating grins.
Jess set the duffel on the sectional and pointed down the hall. “Bedroom’s through there. Bathroom’s attached. You can… do what you need. I’ll get you some towels.”
He left without another word. I listened to his footsteps fade, then collapse into the quiet.
I took a minute just to stand there, hands dangling, head empty. My heart still hadn’t slowed, and my skin still felt wrong. But at least here, I could close the door and pretend.
I found the bedroom. King bed, fluffy comforter, a mountain of pillows that all matched. There was a row of hooks on the wall for jackets, and a heavy safe built into the closet. The only personal item was a battered copy of “Lonesome Dove” on the nightstand.
The bathroom was gleaming white tile, the shower big enough for three. There were three bottles of soap lined up—no flowery scents, just plain blue gel and a bottle of Head & Shoulders. I almost laughed.
I closed the bathroom door, locked it, and let the silence take me apart piece by piece.
The tile was freezing under my feet, but I barely felt it.
I stripped off my t-shirt dress, peeled away the old underwear, and looked at myself in the mirror.
The bruises were yellowing out. My hair was a tangled mess.
A knock at the door made me jump.
“Harper?” Jess’s voice, awkward and careful. “I brought some stuff that Maddie dropped by. You probably don’t want to use my cheap soap.”
I yanked the towel around me and cracked the door. Jess stood there, eyes on the floor, holding a canvas tote stuffed with bottles and a hairbrush and what looked like half the personal care aisle from Target. He set it on the counter without looking at me.
“Thank you,” I whispered, voice barely audible.
He nodded, jaw flexing. “Take your time. I’ll be in the living room.” Then he vanished.
I closed the door again, pressed my back to it, and slid to the floor. My towel bunched around my waist, and I let my knees draw up to my chest. That’s when it hit me—no warning, no gentle ramp up. Just a flood, like someone had torn open a dam.
I sobbed. Not dainty, pretty tears, but a full-body, retching howl that left my throat raw and my stomach knotted.
I pressed my fists into my eyes, trying to block it out, but the crying only got worse.
I wept for every moment in Eyrie, for every night I’d spent wishing for rescue, for every piece of myself I’d bartered just to stay alive.
I cried for Jess, for what I’d done to him, for what he’d just done for me.
When the tears finally ran dry, I sat there in the half-light, chest heaving, head spinning. I let myself lean into the sadness, the fear, the shame. I let it hurt.
Then, slowly, I stood up.
I set the new toiletries on the edge of the sink and picked up the brush, running my fingers over the bristles.
I uncapped the bottle of real shampoo and sniffed it—jasmine and lemon, nothing like what I used at the club.
It was perfumed like Eyrie. This was the smell of regular life, the smell of people who weren’t constantly running from the past.
My hands still shook as I turned the shower on, as hot as I could stand. The room filled with steam in seconds. I stepped in, closed my eyes, and let the water carry everything away.
When I was done, I wrapped myself in the fresh towel and stood there, staring at my reflection.
I was still a mess. But I was alive. And I’d made it this far.
That would have to be enough for today.