Chapter Two
Jet
Darkness hums behind my closed eyelids, thick and heavy. Every breath scrapes through a throat that’s too dry, every sound feels too sharp. For a second, there’s nothing but confusion, then the scent hits. Leather. Smoke. Whiskey. Not the same as before. It’s safer and warmer here.
Boots scuff over the wooden floors, a door creaks open, and a soft voice cuts through the haze. “Hey, sweetheart. You’re safe now.”
Devil, the Royal Bastards president’s ol’ lady, speaks softly her voice cutting through the fog. Gentle hands check bandages while light footsteps move around the small room. The calm she carries doesn’t match the chaos tearing through my head.
Walls press close. The faint hum of voices leak in from outside, deep, rough laughter, and engines somewhere in the distance. The Bastards. The men who dragged me out of hell.
Memories crash in, jagged and bright. Metal cages. Chains. The smell of blood. Other women crying.
Then him. The one who helped to pull me free. Broad shoulders, leather cut, eyes like a storm.
Justice.
Even now, his voice still lingers. A promise wrapped in gravel. You’re safe now.
Safe. The word feels foreign.
Devil returns with water, helps tilt the cup. The first swallow stings, the second goes down easier. “You’re tough,” she says with a small smile. “Most wouldn’t be doing as well as you.”
Tough. Maybe once. The woman who ran into gunfire to open cages died somewhere in that place. What’s left is a ghost wearing her skin. A woman hiding from her past.
A sound outside the door snaps every nerve tight. Deep voices rumble, low and masculine. One of them stands out. Rough, commanding, cocky, familiar.
Justice.
The door opens halfway, light from the hall cutting across the room. A shadow fills the space.
No words come. My body reacts before any thought does, curling back, my hands grip the blanket like it’s armor.
He freezes. Silence stretches long enough to make it hurt. Then a nod, slow and respectful, before the door clicks shut again.
Air finally moves in and out and my shoulders drop.
He didn’t come closer. Didn’t touch. Didn’t demand.
Something shifts, small but sharp. Maybe trust, maybe curiosity, maybe nothing at all.
Sleep drags again, heavy and reluctant. The last thought before it wins, not every man who wears a cut is a monster.
Some wear it to keep the monsters away.