Chapter 2
TWO
JEREMY “DAGGER” WILSON
A year ago
As I walk around in front of the motel building, the scene unfolding before me feels surreal, like something out of a terrible movie. Women are being led out, rescued, but they don’t look relieved. They look… hollow.
Their frames are too thin, their clothes hanging off them like they don’t belong. Their faces are pale, eyes sunken and haunted, as if they’ve seen things no one should ever see. Some are crying softly, others staring ahead blankly, too numb to react.
I feel sick. How can anyone do this to another human being? How can these men—these monsters—look at these women and see nothing but something to use and discard?
I feel the bile rise in my throat, the weight of it all crashing down on me. These women—they’re not just victims. They’re survivors of something so dark, so unimaginable, that I don’t know if they’ll ever truly escape it.
I look away, overwhelmed, but the image of their faces is burned into my mind. This isn’t just wrong. It’s evil. And I can’t fathom how anyone could be part of something like this, how they could look at these women and strip away their humanity.
I want to rage, to do something to make it stop. But all I can do is stand there, my hands clenched into fists.
The only thing I can think about is making these men understand—showing them exactly what happens when they treat people, women , like this. Not just objects, but women . Women like my aunt and grandma, who raised me with love and respect. Women who were saints, who taught me from day one how to value and honor others.
The thought of these men doing this to women makes my blood boil, my vision narrowing until it’s nothing but rage. They didn’t just hurt these women—they shattered lives. They destroyed something sacred.
I walk into one of the dingy motel rooms, the smell of sweat and stale beer clinging to the walls. Inside, one of the scumbags is tied to a chair, his face already pale with fear. He’s not so tough now, not when he doesn’t have the power, not when the tables have turned.
He tries to say something—maybe to plead, maybe to sneer—but I don’t let him get the chance. My fist connects with his jaw before the words can leave his mouth. The force of it sends a jolt up my arm, but I don’t care.
I hit him again. And again. Each punch lands harder than the last, fueled by all the anger, all the frustration, all the pain I’ve seen tonight.
I think about the women outside, too broken to even cry properly. I think about the haunted look in their eyes, the way their bodies trembled under blankets meant to comfort them. I think about how powerless they must have felt.
And I let it all out.
The man groans, his head lolling to the side, but I don’t stop. Not yet. Not until I feel the burning in my chest ease, not until the rage quiets, even just a little.
"You think you’re a man?" I spit, my voice shaking. "You think you’re tough? This is what happens when you prey on people who can’t fight back."
My knuckles throb, blood—his or mine, I don’t know—smeared across them. My breaths come hard and fast as I take a step back, staring down at him. He’s slumped in the chair, blood dripping from his mouth, his swollen eyes barely able to stay open.
The rage still simmers in my chest, but I feel a grim satisfaction watching him like this—powerless, weak, nothing like the predator he thought he was.
This isn’t justice, not really. But it’s something. And right now, it’s all I can do.
As I step back out of the room, my chest still heaving and my knuckles throbbing, I spot Tank in the distance. He’s holding Sophie in his arms, her head resting against his chest like she’s found the safest place in the world.
The way Tank looks down at her makes me stop in my tracks. His expression, normally hard and unreadable, is soft—almost reverent. It’s the kind of look you give to something fragile and precious, something you’d protect with your life. Damn.
Tank’s no ordinary man. As our Sergeant-at-Arms, he’s the backbone of our brotherhood, the one who ensures we stay in line and that no one messes with us—or those we care about. He’s built like a mountain, and his presence alone is enough to make most men think twice about crossing him.
But with Sophie, he’s different. Gentle. Almost tender.
She came stumbling into our clubhouse, Perdition, a couple of months ago, barely holding herself together. Clothes ripped, body bruised, and eyes hollow. She collapsed the moment she crossed the threshold, and Tank was there to catch her before she hit the ground.
She was his the second she passed out in his arms. Everyone could see it—even her, once she woke up.
Tank made it his mission to heal her, piece by piece. He didn’t just help her recover physically; he gave her hope, something she hadn’t had in a long time. And when Sophie told him about the women still trapped in the hell she’d escaped, Tank swore on his life that he’d save them.
And he did.
Looking at them now, it’s clear she’s his world. Sophie’s still thin, still fragile in some ways, but the haunted look in her eyes has started to fade. She looks up at him like he’s her anchor, and maybe he is.
I feel a pang of something—respect, admiration, maybe even envy. Not because of Sophie, but because of what they’ve found in each other. Something solid. Something real.
Tank glances up and catches my eye, giving me a small nod. It’s a look that says, We’re not done yet.
I nod back, knowing he’s right. There’s more to do, more people to save, more justice to deliver. But for now, seeing Sophie safe in his arms is a reminder of why we do this. Of why we fight.
Sophie finally got to save Chloe tonight—the girl she’d called her little sister since their days in captivity. It was a moment she’d been waiting for, fighting for, ever since she escaped that hell.
Back when they were both trapped, Sophie had taken Chloe under her wing, doing everything she could to shield her from the worst of it. Chloe was younger, yet spunkier, and so heartbreakingly naive when they were first thrown together. Sophie had seen the terror in her eyes and had made it her mission to protect her, to keep her as safe as she could in a place where safety didn’t exist.
They had clung to each other like lifelines, whispering stories about the lives they used to have and the lives they wanted to live someday. Sophie had promised Chloe that they’d get out, that she’d make sure they survived. It was the only thing that kept them both going—the fragile hope that there was something better waiting for them on the other side.
But when Sophie managed to escape, Chloe wasn’t with her. That failure had haunted Sophie every day since, gnawing at her like a wound that wouldn’t heal. She couldn’t save Chloe then, but she swore she’d come back for her.
And tonight, she kept that promise.
Seeing Chloe again, alive but battered, brought a mix of relief and heartbreak. Chloe’s haunted eyes were too familiar, a reflection of the same pain Sophie carried. But this time, Sophie wasn’t powerless.
She’d wrapped Chloe in a blanket and held her tightly, whispering, “I told you I’d come back for you. I told you I’d get you out.”
Chloe had cried then, clutching Sophie like she was afraid to let go, her sobs shaking both of them. It was the first time in a long time that Sophie had felt like they might actually be okay—like they’d finally found their way out of the darkness.
All the women climb into the back of our van, their movements slow and careful, like every step reminds them of what they’ve been through. We’re bringing them back to Perdition to get patched up, fed, and taken care of. It’s the least we can do after everything they’ve endured.
I lean against the side of the van, watching as they settle in, wrapped in blankets and surrounded by the quiet hum of relief. My eyes linger on Chloe longer than I mean to, but there’s something about her that draws me in. Something I can’t quite put my finger on.
She’s sitting near the back, arms wrapped tightly around herself, staring out at nothing in particular. She looks younger than the rest, but there’s a strength in her that’s hard to miss. It’s not the kind of strength you show off—it’s the kind you earn the hard way, through grit and sacrifice.
Sophie told me about her. How Chloe had put herself in harm’s way to make sure Sophie could escape. She knew the risks, knew Sophie might never make it back, but she did it anyway. That kind of selflessness, that kind of courage—it’s rare.
Most people wouldn’t have done what Chloe did. They’d have folded under the pressure, clung to the smallest shred of safety they could find. But not her. She made a choice, knowing full well what it might cost her.
That’s badass.
As I watch her, I can’t help but feel a surge of respect. She’s been through hell and back, but there’s a fire in her eyes that hasn’t been extinguished. A spark that says she’s still here, still fighting, even if she doesn’t realize it yet.
I push off the van and head toward the driver’s seat, forcing myself to look away. We’ve got a long night ahead, and there’s a lot to do. But something tells me Chloe’s not just another rescue. There’s more to her story, and I can’t shake the feeling that this isn’t the last time she’ll surprise me.
A month later
Sophie and Chloe are inseparable now, practically glued at the hip. Since the night we took down the men who trafficked Sophie and the other women, there’s been a noticeable change in them. It’s subtle, but it’s there. They seem a little freer, a little lighter, like a weight they’ve carried for too long has finally been lifted.
The haunted look in their eyes is fading, replaced by something that resembles hope. They don’t flinch at every loud noise anymore or glance over their shoulders like they’re being hunted. They’ve started to smile—real smiles that reach their eyes. It’s a reminder of why we fought so hard to make sure those bastards could never hurt anyone again.
Most of the women we rescued have been reunited with their families. The moment those reunions happened—mothers clinging to daughters, fathers crying, siblings hugging—it was like a piece of their humanity snapped back into place. It was powerful to witness, and it made all the blood and sweat worth it.
But Sophie and Chloe don’t have families to return to, not really. Sophie burned that bridge a long time ago, running from a home that didn’t care about her. And Chloe—well, the less said about her so-called family, the better. Perdition is all they’ve got now, and honestly, it feels like they belong here.
Sophie’s grown stronger, more sure of herself. She carries herself differently now, shoulders back, head held high. She’s still got a bit of an edge—she always will—but she’s also one of the kindest people you’ll ever meet. She looks out for Chloe like an older sister, protective and loyal, and Chloe clings to that bond like it’s the only solid thing in her life.
Chloe, on the other hand, is effervescent and full of life. She’s always laughing, her joy bubbling over and filling every room she enters. Despite her past, she refuses to let it define her, rarely showing the weight she’s carried. She’s spirited, endlessly curious, and carries a spark that draws people in.
Together, they’re something special—a team, a force. And as they sit in the clubhouse, laughing at some joke only they understand, it’s hard not to feel proud of how far they’ve come. They’re survivors, yes, but they’re also so much more than that.
For the first time in a long time, they’re living. Not just existing, but living . And it’s damn good to see.
Chloe is sitting at the bar, laughing at something Sophie said, and for a moment, I can’t look away. She’s beautiful—her brown hair falling in soft waves, catching the light, her smile lighting up the room. But it’s her eyes that keep pulling me in. They’ve seen hell, and yet, there’s still a spark in them. She’s been through so much, but she hasn’t let it break her.
And she’s so damn young. Twenty.
I drag my gaze away, trying to focus on anything else. She could be my daughter, for Christ’s sake. Me, Dagger, the club’s resident manwhore, nearing forty. I’ve been with so many women, it’s laughable. None of them meant anything. None of them stayed.
There’s no world where I should even be thinking about Chloe like this.
I need to stay the hell away from her.
“Careful,” a low voice cuts in behind me.
I turn, already knowing who it is. Mason, the president of the Iron Reapers and my best friend, is leaning against the wall, arms crossed. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes are sharp as hell.
“What?” I ask, feigning ignorance.
“You know what,” he says, his tone calm but heavy. “I’ve seen the way you’ve been looking at Chloe.”
I stiffen, but Mason doesn’t let up.
“Don’t,” he says, his voice dropping lower. “Don’t even think about it, Dagger.”
I scoff, trying to brush him off. “You’re reading too much into this.”
“Am I?” he asks, his gaze like a blade. “She’s been through more than anyone should, and the last thing she needs is you messing with her head—or worse, her heart.”
I clench my jaw. “You think I’d hurt her?”
“I think you’d hurt her without meaning to,” Mason says. “You’ve got a reputation, brother. You know it, I know it, everyone knows it. You get near her, and it’s not just me you’ll answer to.”
He steps closer, his voice steady but laced with a warning. “If Tank gets wind of this, he’ll kill you. And you know he will. Chloe’s like a little sister to him, and Sophie’s already got him wrapped around her finger. You think he’ll let you anywhere near Chloe after everything she’s been through? Not a chance.”
I glance back toward Chloe, her smile tugging at something deep in my chest. She’s completely unaware of the storm brewing around her, of the line I’ve apparently already crossed just by looking.
“I’m not gonna do anything,” I say finally, though the words feel heavier than they should.
“You better not,” Mason replies, his voice steely. “She’s off-limits. Period. I don’t care what’s in your head or your heart, Dagger. If you cross that line, I’ll bury you myself—and that’s if Tank doesn’t get to you first.”
His words hang in the air, sharp and unyielding. He claps a hand on my shoulder, but it’s more of a warning than a gesture of support.
“Get your head straight,” he says before walking off, leaving me standing there with a hollow feeling in my chest.
I glance back at Chloe one last time. She deserves so much more than anything I could ever give her. Mason’s right. Tank’s right. I need to stay away from her—for her sake, and for my own damn survival.