Prologue 2 Rose
The metal floor under me is like ice against my bare legs.
I think it’s been three days. Three days in this shipping container.
I’m not a hundred percent sure since it’s hard to mark the passage of time in here.
My body has begun to adapt to discomfort—the cold, the hunger, the constant despair prickling beneath my skin. I've always been good at adapting.
A soft moan draws my attention to the newest arrival in our dimly lit prison. They threw her in hours ago, unconscious and bleeding from a gash on her forehead. I've been watching over her, dabbing at the wound with a strip torn from the bottom of my dress. I wish I could do more to help her.
She stirs again, her one good eye fluttering open—the other is swollen shut from whatever violence brought her here. When she tries to sit up, I slide an arm beneath her shoulders, helping her prop herself against the corrugated metal wall.
"Don't move too quickly," I tell her softly. "You might have a concussion."
The girl's good eye fixes on me, confusion and fear swimming in its depths. "Where are we?" Her voice is rough.
“It’s a shipping container," I answer, keeping my voice steady and factual. Panic helps no one.
"Who are you?" she asks.
“My name’s Rose.”
She wrinkles her nose, and I don't blame her.
The container smells of sweat, fear, and human waste.
We're either in a port, a shipping yard, or a warehouse.
From the snippets of conversation I've overheard when our captors open the door long enough to remove our bucket-toilet or to toss us bottles of water, I'm aware we're due to be moved soon.
Natasha rocks in the corner, red hair falling in tangled curtains around her knees. Mei sits with perfect stillness, conserving energy like a wounded animal hiding from predators. Zoya lies facing the wall, having given up on engagement entirely.
The girl introduces herself as Luna. There's something in her eyes—a spark of defiance that the rest of us lost days ago.
"Has anyone tried to escape?" Luna whispers.
A sad smile crosses my lips. We’ve explored every inch of this prison—running fingers along seams, banging on walls, testing for weaknesses.
"The container is locked from the outside," I explain.
"They only open it sporadically to throw in water bottles or.
.." I hesitate, unwilling to finish the sentence.
The memory of rough hands grabbing my arms flashes through my mind, followed by the clicking of a camera, men's voices discussing me as if I were livestock. I push the memory away, focusing instead on Luna.
"Are you in pain?" I try to examine the bump on her head. It's hard to see in the dim interior, but the wound seems to have stopped bleeding.
"Not really," she claims, but the tension in her voice tells me otherwise.
I offer her my water bottle—half-empty, the contents warm and plasticky. "Here, drink this." I'm not sure when they'll bring more...or if.
When she tries to return it after just a sip, I shake my head. "Finish it. You need it more than I do."
“How did you get here?" Luna asks.
The question should cut deeper than it does, but I've gone numb to my own story. "My stepfather sold me," I say simply.
I don't elaborate. Don't explain that the man who was supposed to protect me saw me only as chattel. I don't think I need to.
When I ask Luna the same question, her story spills out—a fake note, a trap, a desperate attempt to save people she's grown to care about.
"Motorcycle club?" I ask when she mentions it, unable to hide my surprise. My knowledge of such things is extremely limited, but I’m instantly intrigued.
"The Shadow Reapers," she says, wincing at the movement of her nod. "My...my man is their Sergeant at Arms."
There's something reverent in her voice when she says "my man", something that speaks of a deep connection.
“And you think they might be looking for you?" I ask, not bothering to hide the cynicism in my voice.
"I know they are,” Luna says with complete conviction.
A tiny flame of hope ignites in my chest—the first warmth I've felt in days— years , if I’m being honest. If these men are as dangerous as they sound, maybe they do have the power to find us, and just maybe they can break us out of this metal coffin.
I lean closer to Luna, lowering my voice to ask more about this outlaw motorcycle club, but the sound of heavy boots approaching outside stops me cold.
The other women tense instantly. Natasha's rocking speeds up. Mei closes her eyes. Zoya curls tighter into herself.
"Don't fight them," I whisper urgently to Luna. "It only makes it worse."
The lock rattles—a harsh, metallic sound that sends ice through my veins. The door begins to creak open, and a sliver of artificial light cuts through our darkness like a knife.
I squeeze Luna's arm once, then pull away, making myself small, invisible. It's a survival technique perfected through years of living with my stepfather’s moods.
Two men appear in the doorway—bulky shadows against the light. I keep my eyes down, but I'm acutely aware of their gazes sweeping over us, assessing, calculating value.
"That one," one of them says, pointing at Mei.
I close my eyes as they drag her out, her feet scraping against the metal floor. She doesn't struggle much. She’s too weak—we all are.
When the door slams shut again, plunging us back into darkness, I wait until my eyes adjust before moving again to Luna's side.
“If they’re really coming," I say, attempting to ease the fear I know she must be feeling, “we just have to survive until then."
“They’re coming.” Luna looks at me with a mixture of strength and determination. "Saint is looking for me, and he won't stop. The Shadow Reapers won't stop."
I nod, but I’m a pragmatist. I don’t have much faith that Luna's motorcycle club will actually be able to locate, much less execute a rescue.
Hours pass—or what I assume must be hours—before we hear shuffling outside. I brace myself for the return of the guards, but something’s different. The sounds are…louder, heavier, more urgent.
"Something's happening," I whisper to Luna.
Voices shout outside. There's the sound of a scuffle, then loud, sharp cracks like firecrackers. They echo through the metal walls, making my ears ring.
Is it… I think it’s… Gunfire?
Natasha starts screaming. Zoya finally turns from the wall, eyes wide with terror.
Luna struggles to her feet, swaying slightly. "It's them," she says, her voice thick with emotion. “The Shadow Reapers.”
I want to believe her, but hope is a dangerous thing. What if it's just our captors fighting among themselves? What if it's the police, who might send me back to Richard?
The shouting grows louder. More gunfire. Then silence—a silence so thick it feels like a weighty presence.
The lock turns. The door swings open wide.
I wince and try to focus as the bright light hits my eyes.
Silhouetted against harsh floodlights stands a man—tall, broad-shouldered, with what looks like a gun in his hand. Behind him are more tall, broad-shouldered silhouettes.
"Luna?" The masculine voice is rough with emotion.
Luna stumbles forward. "Saint!"
I watch, frozen, pressing my back against the container wall as the other women scramble out. They might be Luna's saviors, but I’m not so quick to trust any man, especially those radiating such unbridled power.
One of them steps into the container, scanning the space with shrewd, calculating eyes. His aura of controlled violence makes me shrink further into myself. Then his cold gaze lands on me.
He moves toward me with predatory grace, crouching down to my level. Up close, I can see a jagged scar running down the side of his face. His eyes are like steel, sharp as a blade. Yet there's something in their depths—a recognition, as if he sees past my filth and stink to something underneath.
"You hurt?" he asks, voice low and surprisingly gentle.
I shake my head, unable to speak.
When I look up into his face, his expression changes completely—from terrifying to something…Well, I wouldn’t call it soft , just less hard.
“You don’t need to be afraid,” he tells me. “I’m getting you out of here.”
I stare at his outstretched hand for a long moment. Behind him, Luna is wrapped in another man's arms, sobbing with relief. The other women are being aided by more leather-clad men with guns and grim expressions.
I slide my hand into his, and the moment I do, his strong fingers close around mine, and he leans forward, scooping me into his arms. The contact sends an unfamiliar shockwave through my system.
“No one will ever hurt you again.” His words wrap around me. I’ve never been spoken to with such…caring? Possession? Conviction? I’m not sure what it is I hear in his tone, but my insides unfurl like flower petals when he mumbles against my hair, “I got you, Baby Girl.”