Chapter 2 - Sadie
Pain shoots through my body as I jolt awake, my heart hammering against my ribs. The room spins for a moment before settling into focus - unfamiliar walls, unfamiliar bed, unfamiliar everything. This isn't my apartment.
Panic rises in my throat as last night's memories flood back. Running. The white dress that asshole forced on me. Pain with every step. And then... darkness.
I force myself to stay still, to assess. I'm lying on a king-sized bed with dark sheets. My dress is still on, but someone's draped warm sheets all over me. The room is minimal - some furniture, a few framed vintage motorcycle posters on the walls. A man's room. Clean, but lived-in.
Every muscle screams as I push myself up to sitting position. My head throbs, and I can taste blood where my split lip has cracked open again. Thanks for that, Jake, you bastard.
A sound from somewhere else in the apartment makes me freeze. Someone's here. Of course someone's here - this has to be their place. But who? The last thing I remember is... oh God. A man approaching me on the street. A big man. And on his cut...
My stomach drops as I spot it hanging on a hook by the door - the Iron & Blood MC patch gleaming in the morning light streaming through the window. I'm in the home of an enemy.
I scan the room for weapons, exits, anything. There's a window, but I'm at least three floors up. The bedroom door is closed, and beyond it, I can hear movement, maybe in a kitchen.
My legs shake as I stand, but I grit my teeth through the pain. I've survived worse than this. I am my father's daughter, even if he is gone now. And I'm not about to let some Iron & Blood member think he's got me cornered.
The question is, what's his game? Why bring me here instead of their clubhouse? And why am I still alive?
I spot the baseball bat propped in the corner near a closet. My body protests as I limp over to grab it, but adrenaline is a hell of an anesthetic. The wooden grip feels solid in my hands - not my preferred weapon, but it'll do.
Positioning myself behind the door, I listen to the footsteps getting closer. My hands are shaking, but I tighten my grip. After what Jake and his crew did to me, after learning that my own club - my supposed family - had turned on my father and helped set him up... No. I'm not trusting anyone ever again, especially not a member of the rival MC.
The footsteps stop outside the door. My heart pounds so loud I'm sure he can hear it. The handle turns slowly, and I raise the bat, ignoring the stabbing pain in my ribs. I might be hurt, but I've got surprise on my side. One good swing is all I need.
The door starts to open, and I catch the scent of coffee and something cooking. It throws me for a second - I was expecting cigarettes and whiskey, not breakfast. But it doesn't matter. He's still the enemy, no matter how domestic this feels.
A deep voice calls out, "Hey, you awa-"
I don't let him finish. As soon as I see his shoulder clear the doorframe, I swing with everything I've got left.
The bat stops mid-swing, caught in his massive hand like it's nothing more than a twig. The crash of breaking glass and the smell of spilled coffee fill the air as I stare up at him, my eyes wide with terror. He towers over me, muscles rippling under his tattooed arms, and I've never felt smaller.
My breath comes in short gasps as I try to wrench the bat free, but it's useless. He's not even straining to hold it still while I use both hands and all my remaining strength. The last time I was this helpless... No. Don't think about that. Don't think about Jake.
I brace myself for the blow, for the pain. That's how this works, right? You swing, you miss, you pay. My body tenses, making every bruise and cut scream in protest. But I won't give him the satisfaction of seeing me cry. If he's going to hurt me, he'll have to do it while I look him in the eye.
Except... he's just standing there, still holding the bat, looking down at me with an expression I can't read. Not anger. Not the sick pleasure I saw in Jake's eyes. Something else.
"You done?" he asks, his voice surprisingly calm for someone who just had a bat swung at his head.
I should say something smart, something brave. Instead, my legs give out, and the only thing keeping me from crumpling to the floor is his other hand suddenly catching my elbow.
"Whoa, easy there, killer," he says, his grip gentle but firm on my elbow.
The bat clatters to the floor as he releases it to better support my weight. I want to pull away, to run, to fight - but my body has other ideas, trembling traitorously against him.
"Don't..." I manage to whisper, hating how weak my voice sounds. "Don't touch me."
He immediately lets go, stepping back with his hands raised. I grab the doorframe to stay upright, my knuckles white with effort. The spilled coffee and broken ceramic create a hazardous pool at our feet, and the breakfast he was bringing in is now a mess on the hardwood floor.
"Wasn't planning on hurting you," he says, still keeping his distance. "Still not planning on it, even after that lovely wake-up greeting."
I scan his face for lies - I've gotten good at spotting them lately. But all I see is... concern? That can't be right. He's Iron & Blood. We’re at war with them.
The room starts spinning again, black spots dancing at the edges of my vision. No, not now. I can't pass out again. Can't be vulnerable. Can't...
"You should sit down before you fall down," he says, his voice coming from very far away. "I'll clean this up and make you another breakfast. No strings attached."
I want to tell him exactly where he can shove his breakfast, but the words won't come.
Instead, I force myself to take deep breaths, focusing on the rough wood of the doorframe under my fingers. Mind over matter. I've made it this far - I'm not going down again.
"Why?" I croak out, finally finding my voice. "Why help me? You know what I am." I gesture weakly to my shoulder, where my Outlaws tattoo marks me as his enemy.
He stares at me for a moment, "Because someone worked you over pretty good, and where I come from, we don't leave injured women on the street, patch or no patch."
A bitter laugh escapes my split lip. "Right. Bikers with a heart of gold. I've heard that one before."
"Believe what you want," he shrugs, then nods toward the bed. "But you're about ten seconds from kissing that floor, and I'd rather not have to pick you up again. Sit. Please."
It's the 'please' that throws me. That, and the fact that he's making no move to force me, just standing there waiting for my decision. My legs are screaming, and he's right - I'm running on fumes.
Slowly, carefully, I edge my way back to bed, never taking my eyes off him. The mattress dips under my weight as I sink down, and it takes everything I have not to groan in relief.
"I'll get this cleaned up," he says, glancing at the mess on the floor. "Then we can talk about who did this to you."
"We're not talking about anything," I snap, but there's no real fire behind it.
I'm too tired, too sore, and too confused by this man who's nothing like what I expected.
He just raises an eyebrow.
"We'll see." Then he turns and leaves the room, returning moments later with cleaning supplies.
I watch him clean up the broken mug and spilled coffee, my guard still up but my mind racing. What's his angle? What does he want? And why do I feel safer here, in an enemy's bedroom, than I have in weeks?