Finding Fortitude (Savage Sisters MC #2)

Prologue

BETSY

My feet can’t move quick enough. Tears burn my eyes as I keep my head down and get out of there as quick as I can, all while keeping my arms protectively wrapped around my body.

“Miss Wilson, is everything alright?” Thomas, the security guard on the front desk, calls out after me.

I briefly pause, feeling the war raging within me to speak up or run away.

I turn my head in his direction, and his kind pale blue eyes widen at the state of me.

“Miss Wilson, let me call the police,” he offers in a gentle tone.

I’m afraid. No, terrified. They are still up there, and they could come for me, or for Thomas. I shake my head no.

“I need to get home,” I plead. Thomas freezes, holding the phone to his ear.

He gives me a brief nod, and I give him a tight smile before I turn and run out of those doors and straight for my car.

I speed off, not wasting time with a seat belt, and not even thinking or caring for my safety or that of others. I just want to go home.

I need to go home.

I run a red light, cutting in and out of traffic.

My vison is blurry as the tears keep coming, and I don’t stop until I pull into my building.

Putting the car in park, I jump out. Not wanting to wait for the elevator, I take the stairs two at a time, running up to my apartment on the fifth floor.

My chest aches with lack of breath, and my body aches as I finally make it to my apartment.

As soon as I’m inside, I slam the door shut, frantically locking every bolt, then I tear and shred every item of clothing from me, dropping them on the floor as I go.

I walk straight into the shower and begin to vigorously wash my body, scrubbing my skin until it’s red raw, all while the tears continue to cascade down my cheeks, blurring my vision.

It’s not enough to stop me seeing the blood washing away from my body.

Shakingly, I step out of the shower and wrap myself in my robe, but as I step out into the hall and see my ripped and bloodstained clothes strewn about the place, my gut lurches.

Bile rises in my throat, and I quickly move to the kitchen and grab a bottle of vodka and matches, along with my metal trash can.

I place it outside on my small balcony and shove my clothes in there.

I dowse them with vodka, then I light a match and stand there watching them burn.

The heat of the flames warms my skin, but it doesn’t help, because still my body shivers uncontrollably.

I can still see them, feel them. Touching me, grabbing me, hurting me. Destroying me.

THREE MONTHS LATER

“Members of the jury, this is nothing but a mere fascination. There is not a shred of evidence that my clients even touched Miss Wilson, let alone viciously rape her,” their lawyer argues.

“Objection, misleading the jury. There is ample evidence, or it wouldn’t have got to court,” my lawyer counters.

I sit there, feeling their eyes on me, searing into my skin.

I clench my fists so tight my nails cut into my palms, drawing blood.

I keep my gaze on the small speck on the table, not daring to look up.

No one believes me. They just think I’m a liar, and they’re going to get away with it.

“Miss Shore, this is Mr. Lyle’s closing statement. There are no objections,” the judge berates us.

My lawyer huffs and sits back down in her chair.

I couldn’t afford a good lawyer, so I hired Rachel, a student in her final year studying law.

She forgot to tell me vital information when I hired her that this was her third attempt at passing the bar.

They, on the other hand, had the best lawyer in town, which was provided for them by their parents, who are also my bosses.

“Apologies for the unprofessionalism of Miss Shore. As I was saying, it has clearly been stated by several members of staff that Miss Wilson had an unhealthy crush on my clients. She even had photos of them in her desk draw. The only witness you have is an old security guard who didn’t actually see anything, only that Miss Wilson was upset.

The marks on her body she could have caused herself.

There is no DNA evidence, and Miss Wilson even admitted to burning her clothes.

Now, you tell me. Why would someone do that?

! Surely you would want to preserve evidence.

” He pauses. “My clients are hard-working, honest young men. They merely took pity on Miss Wilson, showed her kindness, and how were they repaid? By being accused of one of the worst crimes known to man. This has been devastating, not only to their reputation but also to their mental health. All I ask is you, the jury, to look at the evidence given to you and come to the right decision.” He finishes, a smug look on his face as he takes his seat.

My lawyer stands, pausing a moment to clear her throat, but as she makes her way over to the jurors, she stumbles and trips, nearly falling flat on her face. She rights herself and clears her throat, again, her face now beet red from embarrassment.

“My client was brutally raped by those two men. She has been traumatised and is unable to work. Just look at the shell of a woman she is. Look how broken and utterly awful she looks,” she states, pointing across to me.

Jesus, not only is this the worst day of my life, and not only do I feel utterly sick to my stomach at what their lawyer has said, but now my own lawyer is taking chunks out of me.

“Sure, there’s not much evidence. However, she would have to be crazy to make this up, so why would she lie?

She doesn’t gain anything from lying. She wasn’t liked, and she wasn’t treated kindly at her job by the accused.

They bullied her, tormented her each and every day, mocking her until eventually, they raped her.

If you let them go free, they will reoffend, they will do it again, and it could be to your daughters or sisters.

Please look over this case carefully and take your time in making your decision.

Not only does Miss Wilson depend on it, but it could prevent them from doing it again to another poor unsuspecting woman,” my lawyer finishes, and as she turns back toward me, she has a smile playing on her lips, clearly feeling like she’s nailed it.

As we stand waiting for the jury’s verdict, I’m tense over the fact that it only took them twenty minutes to decide. “We, the jurors, find the defendants not guilty of all charges.” Cheers erupt behind me, and my world shifts, my heart feeling like it’s about to skyrocket out of my chest.

“No!” I scream. “No. They attacked me; they raped me. While laughing. While pinning me down. You’re wrong!” I scream, my voice hoarse as panic and tears brim in my eyes.

“Miss Wilson, if you do not control yourself, I will hold you in contempt of court!” the judge bellows.

I don’t hear him. The ringing in my ears is too loud, and the rushing sound of my rapid pulse courses through me. I pull at my hair, at my clothes, struggling to breathe.

“I hate you, I hate you!” I pant. The room suddenly spins around me, and I gasp, struggling to breathe.

Only as I try to steady myself does it all become too much.

The last thing I remember is seeing them smirk over their shoulders as they walk free, before darkness takes hold and I completely black out.