3. Rose
Rose
Steam rises from the pot as I lift the lid, and the rich aroma of simmering beef and spices fill the kitchen. My stomach growls—even after three days of regular meals, my body still reacts to food like I might never eat again.
"Good, nina," Abuela says as I stir the stew in a figure-eight pattern, scraping the bottom to prevent sticking exactly as she showed me. Her weathered hands deftly chop onions beside me, knife moving with practiced precision. "You learn quick."
Pride blooms in my chest at her approval. These mornings in Abuela's kitchen are my anchor—a small pocket of predictability in this unfamiliar world where leather-clad men with weapons move through hallways and mysterious conversations happen behind closed doors.
“But you work too hard," she adds, her dark eyes studying me with unsettling perception. "Always cleaning, cooking, scrubbing. The floors, they do not need to shine so much that I see this wrinkled old face in them."
Heat crawls up my neck. Caught. "I just want to help," I murmur, focusing intently on the stew, watching the carrots tumble through the rich broth.
"Help is good. Breaking your back is not." She taps my arm with her wooden spoon, leaving a dot of sauce on my skin. "You are not a servant here."
But I am. Or at least, I should be. These people rescued me, clothed me, fed me, and sheltered me when I had nothing. I have nothing to offer in return except labor. My worth has always been measured by my usefulness. Without it, what claim do I have to the space I occupy, the air I breathe?
"I like helping," I say instead, offering a small smile that doesn't quite reach my eyes.
Abuela makes a sound between a snort and a laugh. She points her spoon at me like a weapon. "I see you. I know what you do."
I just shrug and pretend I have no idea what she’s talking about.
After helping Abuela prepare lunch, I slip away with a bucket of cleaning supplies. The compound is relatively quiet at this hour—most members either sleeping off the previous night or out on what they call “runs.”
In just a week, I've mastered the art of reading the rhythm of the clubhouse—when to make myself scarce, which rooms to avoid when raised voices filter through closed doors.
I start with the common room, wiping down tables and straightening chairs. The work keeps my hands busy and my mind quiet. If I'm honest with myself, it's also an excuse to wander the compound, hoping for a glimpse of him—Cipher.
Just thinking his name sends electricity through my veins, a shiver that starts at my scalp and tingles down to my fingertips. I haven't spoken to him since the night of my rescue, but I feel his presence constantly—like a shadow just outside my field of vision, a prickle on my skin.
I'm scrubbing an already spotless table when the hair on my arms rises. That feeling again—the weight of eyes on me, heavy and intense. I straighten slowly, turning toward the hallway entrance, but all I see is the empty corridor stretching into shadows.
I know he was there. I felt him.
The sensation is so familiar now—this awareness that slides over my skin whenever he's near. I’m not imagining it. Am I? Could I be creating connections where none exist? Perhaps trauma has finally fractured my perception of reality.
I shake off the unsettling thought and move to the hallway bathroom, armed with fresh cleaning supplies.
This bathroom sees heavy use from members and always needs attention.
The sharp smell of bleach burns my nostrils as I scrub, the physical discomfort almost a relief from the constant uncertainty that plagues my waking hours.
As I'm on my knees scrubbing the base of a toilet, the door swings open. I freeze, momentarily trapped between embarrassment and the instinctive fear of being cornered in a small space.
"Oh shit, sorry!" a male voice exclaims.
I glance up to see one of the bikers—younger than most members I've met, maybe early twenties—backing out the door, his face flushed with embarrassment as he quickly zips up the fly of his jeans and refastens them.
"I'll come back," he says hurriedly.
"No, it's okay," I reply, getting to my feet and pressing myself against the wall to try to squeeze by him. My heart hammers, but I force myself to stand straight. "I was just cleaning. You can use it."
He hesitates, studying me with curious brown eyes. He's tall but less bulky than most of the brothers, with a lean build and boyish features that haven't quite hardened into the intimidating mask the older members wear. His leather vest has a patch that reads "RASH,” which I think is his name.
"You're Rose, right?" he asks, making no move to actually use the bathroom, or to let me pass.
I nod, wiping my hands on the rag tucked into my pocket. "And you're Rash?"
He grins, dimples appearing in his cheeks. There's pride in his expression as he runs his fingers over the embroidered patch on his cut. "I'm sorry about...you know. Barging in with my pants undone. Seems like every time I see you, you're cleaning something."
Heat floods my cheeks. "I like to keep busy."
His expression turns serious. "You know you don't have to, right? We have prospects for the shit work. Cleaning toilets is actually their job." He gestures around the bathroom. "I would know. I was a prospect for two years before getting patched in. Cleaned more toilets than I care to remember."
"I don't mind," I say automatically. "I want to earn my keep."
Something like understanding passes over his face. "Yeah, I get that. But seriously, you're not a prospect or a servant. You're family now."
There's that word again. Why does everyone here use it so freely, applying it to someone they barely know?
"Besides," he continues, "no woman should be scrubbing toilets used by a bunch of filthy bikers." His grin returns. "We're disgusting. It's not fit work for a lady."
Lady? Despite myself, I laugh—a small, rusty sound I barely recognize as my own. "I've dealt with worse."
His smile fades, replaced by something darker. "Yeah, I bet you have." He seems to make a decision, holding out his hand. "Give me that brush."
"What?"
"The toilet brush. Hand it over."
Confused, I pass him the brush. To my astonishment, he kneels and begins scrubbing where I left off.
"What are you doing?" I ask, bewildered.
“Finishing this up so you can do something that doesn't involve other people's piss," he says matter-of-factly. "Go take a walk outside or something. Or better yet, veg out in front of the TV. Just relax for once."
I stand frozen, unable to process this strange role reversal. No one has ever taken work from me to make my life easier. Work always gets added, never subtracted.
"I can't let you do that," I protest weakly.
He looks up, his expression kind but firm. "You're not letting me do anything. I'm choosing to. There's a difference." He turns back to the toilet. "Besides, I spent two years cleaning these nasty-ass bathrooms. I'm a pro."
I hover uncertainly for a moment, then slowly back toward the door. "Thank you," I manage, the words feeling inadequate.
"No problem, little sis," he says casually, not looking up from his task.
Little sis. The nickname is like a blanket around my shoulders, warm and comforting.
I've never been anyone's sister, never been part of anything resembling normal family dynamics.
The casual kindness is more disorienting than any cruelty could be, and I leave the bathroom feeling oddly off-balance, as if the ground beneath my feet has shifted slightly.
I’m smiling—a genuine smile. Not a huge smile, but a smile nonetheless.
As I pass the surveillance room—a door marked “Cipher’s Cave” that always remains closed—I notice that today, it's cracked open slightly, a sliver of blue light spilling into the hallway.
I should keep walking, I know that. But my curiosity is too much, and I slow my steps until I find myself peering through the narrow opening.
My pulse picks up when my eyes land on Cipher sitting before a wall of monitors, his broad back to the door, shoulders tense beneath his black t-shirt.
The muscles in his forearms flex as his fingers move over a keyboard.
On the screens before him are multiple views of the compound—the common room, hallways, entrances, and. ..
My breath catches as I recognize an image of myself—standing where I was just moments ago outside the hall restroom—frozen on a monitor. Was he watching me?
The idea sends an excited tingle through me, and a warm feeling starts in my chest and radiates outward. He may have been keeping his distance, but he hasn't exactly been avoiding me completely. Not if he’s still keeping me in sight, right? I mean, it still counts, doesn’t it?
Gah! I don’t even know. I’m so stupid, so stunted when it comes to having any kind of social skills.
Before I can process this discovery, or what it means, Cipher stiffens, his head turning slightly as if sensing my presence.
His cold eyes lock with mine, narrowing with unmistakable hostility.
I can do nothing but freeze under his venomous glare, my body tensing as he rises from his chair in one fluid motion. His huge form moves with surprising speed, crossing the room in three long, angry strides.
My knees feel weak. I should run. Or say something. Or... I don't know.
He reaches the doorway, towering over me…
And slams the door in my face with such force that the air blows my hair back and a loud bang echoes through the hallway. I stand there stunned, drowning in a painful flood of hurt and embarrassment.