18. Rose
Rose
The taste of copper fills my mouth as consciousness returns in sickening waves. My eyelids feel weighted, refusing to open fully. The first thing I register is a bone-deep chill seeping through the thin fabric of my dress and into my skin.
"Finally awake, princess?" Richard's voice, familiar and loathsome, cuts through the fog in my brain.
I force my eyes open, blinking against harsh fluorescent light.
The room comes into focus gradually—rough wooden walls, a filthy kitchenette in one corner, threadbare furniture.
A cabin of some sort. My wrists are bound with zip ties, the plastic cutting into my skin when I instinctively try to move my hands.
"Where am I?" My voice emerges as a croak, my throat parched.
Richard sits in a rickety chair across the room, a beer in one hand, a cigarette in the other. His thinning hair is greasier than I remember, his paunch more pronounced beneath a stained t-shirt. But his eyes remain the same—cruel, calculating, assessing me as an object rather than a person.
"My hunting cabin," he says, taking a long drag from his cigarette. "Nobody for miles. Just you and me...for now."
For now. The words send ice through my veins as I understand their implication.
"Why?" I ask, though I already know the answer. "Why did you take me?"
His laugh is ugly, phlegmy from decades of smoking. "You're my property, girl. Always have been. That biker trash had no right to take what's mine."
"I'm not yours," I say, surprising myself with the steadiness in my voice. "I never was."
Richard's face darkens, his features contorting with familiar rage. He stands, crossing the room in three quick strides. His backhand catches me across the cheek, snapping my head to the side. The pain blooms hot, a reminder of countless similar blows throughout my childhood.
"Still got that smart mouth, I see." He grabs my chin, forcing me to look at him.
His thumb digs into the spot he just struck, making me wince.
His stale breath, reeking of alcohol, washes over me in nauseating waves.
"The Shadow Reapers might've filled your head with ideas, but you're still the same worthless little bitch I raised. "
I say nothing, letting him see only blank compliance in my eyes while my mind races. I need to stay calm. Need to think. Need to protect my baby.
Thoughts of my unborn child send a surge of fierce protectiveness through me that overshadows my fear. My hand twitches with the instinct to shield my stomach, but I force it still. Richard can't know. If he realizes I'm pregnant...
"Here's how this is gonna go," Richard continues, releasing my chin to take another drag from his cigarette.
"You're gonna be real sweet to me tonight.
Real accommodating." His eyes travel down my body, lingering on the places where the dress clings to my curves.
"Show me some gratitude for all those years I put a roof over your head. "
The implication turns my stomach, bile rising in my throat.
"And tomorrow," he continues, oblivious to my revulsion, "we meet my business associate.
"Nobody will pay for damaged goods," I say, desperate to dissuade him from what he's planning tonight. He doesn’t know I’m no longer a virgin, and I have no qualms about lying to him. "You'll get more if I'm...intact."
Richard's eyes narrow, considering. "Maybe. But what they don’t know won’t hurt them, and after eight years of putting up with your ungrateful ass, I think I deserve a test drive before handing over the keys.
" He takes a final drag of his cigarette before stubbing it out on the arm of my chair, inches from my bound hands.
The smell of burning fabric mingles with the acrid tobacco scent.
"Don't worry, I'll be gentle. Wouldn't want to lower your market value. "
He walks back to his chair, reaching for another beer from a warm six-pack on the floor. The momentary reprieve gives me a chance to assess my surroundings more carefully.
Single room cabin. One door, likely locked.
Two windows—one behind me, one to my left.
Both are small, but possibly large enough to squeeze through.
Richard's keys dangle from his belt loop.
A hunting rifle leans against the wall near his chair.
A small door stands ajar in the corner. It must be a bathroom.
Most importantly, I notice a clock on the wall.
The time on the analog display reads 12:47.
We left the club around 11:30, which means, if the time on the clock is correct, we must have been driving for about an hour.
Not too far from the city, then. Within range for someone to find us, if they're looking.
And they will be looking. Cipher will be looking. I’m sure of it.
The thought of him sends a complicated mixture of emotions through me—fear, hope, longing. Despite everything, despite his anger and continued rejection, I know one thing with absolute certainty: Cipher will come for me.
"Drink this." Richard thrusts a glass of water at me. "Can't have you passing out again before the fun starts."
I take it with bound hands, the zip tie so tight it cuts into my wrists. The water smells clean enough, and my parched throat screams for relief. I sip cautiously, using the opportunity to glance out the window behind him. Trees, darkness. No indication of where we might be.
“I need to use the bathroom,” I lie. I hate how small and submissive my voice is.
Richard jerks his chin toward the door in the corner. "Don't get any ideas. There's no window in there."
"My hands," I say, holding up my bound wrists.
He hesitates, then pulls a pocket knife from his jeans. The blade gleams in the harsh overhead light. "Try anything, and I'll make you regret it."
The plastic falls away as he cuts the zip tie, leaving angry red welts around my wrists. I rub them gingerly, keeping my eyes downcast, playing the role he expects—the broken, compliant girl he thinks he raised.
The bathroom is barely larger than a closet—a composting toilet, a tiny, rust-stained wash basin, and, as Richard said, no window.
But it's privacy, a moment to think, an excuse to have my hands free.
I close the door, fighting the urge to sob as adrenaline and fear crash through me in equal measure.
Think, Rose. Think.
I drop my face into my hands, wincing as I touch the tender spot where Richard struck me.
In the cracked mirror, I barely recognize myself—makeup smudged, hair tangled, a bruise already forming on my cheekbone.
The burgundy dress that made me feel so confident and beautiful just hours ago now feels like a mockery.
My hand moves to my still-flat stomach, a gesture that's becoming instinctive. "I'll protect you," I whisper to my baby. "I promise."
I'm not the same frightened girl Richard sold six weeks ago. The Shadow Reapers—Abuela, Angel, Sophie, Luna, Rash—they've shown me what family should be. What support feels like. What strength I have inside me.
Rescue is coming. And I need to be ready.
When I emerge, Richard has dimmed the lights and switched from beer to whiskey. Bad sign. He’s a violent, unpredictable drunk.
"Took you long enough," he growls, patting the couch beside him. "Come sit with daddy."
I swallow back bile, moving toward him with small, hesitant steps. Each moment I can delay is another moment for rescue to arrive. Another moment to figure out how to protect myself and my baby.
"Richard," I say, "I'm feeling sick from whatever you injected me with. Could I have some more water?"
His eyes narrow, suspicious, but he nods toward the kitchenette. "Make it quick."
As I refill the cup, I hear it—the faintest, far-off hum of a motorcycle outside. So soft I might have imagined it. My pulse spikes, but I keep my face carefully blank as I turn back toward Richard, cup in hand.
"Sit down," he orders, patting the couch again.
I obey, placing as much distance between us as the small couch allows. He scoots closer immediately, one arm snaking around my shoulders in a grotesque parody of affection. His other hand lands on my thigh, fingers digging into the flesh exposed by my dress.
"I've been waiting for this," he slurs, alcohol heavy on his breath. "Ever since your mama died. But I was patient. Waited till you were ripe."
His hand slides higher, and it takes everything in me not to recoil. Instead, I force myself to think strategically. I need to keep him talking, keep him distracted.
"How did you find me?" I ask, leaning slightly away under the pretense of taking a sip of water.
Richard's laugh is smug. "Been watching that compound for weeks.
" His eyes roam over me, making my skin crawl.
“Got lucky when I saw you girls leaving tonight, all dolled up like proper little whores.” His fingers squeeze my thigh painfully.
"Just waited outside the club—and whadda ya know?
Fate presented me with the perfect moment. "
Another sound from outside—too deliberate to be the wind. A soft metallic click that raises the hair on my arms. Someone is definitely out there. I need to create a distraction, give them an opening.
"I need to use the bathroom again," I say abruptly, pulling away from his grip. “Whatever you drugged me with is making me sick."
"You just went," Richard snarls, grabbing my wrist in a bruising grip.
"I'm going to throw up," I insist, letting real panic bleed into my voice. "Please. In the bathroom or on the bed—your choice."
He releases me with a disgusted shove. "Make it fast. And leave the door open."
I stumble toward the bathroom, glancing back at Richard, now pouring himself another whiskey.
That's when I see it through the window behind him—a shadow moving across the yard. A tall, broad-shouldered figure approaches the cabin with lethal purpose.
Cipher.
My heart soars, even as fear for him grips me. Richard has a gun. If he hears them coming...