Chapter 3 - Savannah
He's lying.
He has to be lying because Derek told me a hundred times, a thousand times, that I was too heavy. That I needed to lose weight. That he was embarrassed to be seen with me when I looked like this. That no other man would ever want someone who couldn't even have the self-control to put down the fork.
And yet Knuckles is carrying me like I weigh nothing. Like it's easy. Like it's not a burden he's being forced to endure.
He's a liar. He has to be.
Except his breathing hasn't changed. His arms are steady. And when I tense up, because of course I tense up, because having a strange man's hands on me should be terrifying after everything, he just adjusts his grip slightly and keeps walking.
"You okay?" he asks quietly.
No. I'm not okay. I'm so far from okay I can't even see it from here.
I'm being carried through a casino by a man I met twenty minutes ago.
A biker with a violent road name and scars across his knuckles that tell stories I probably don't want to hear.
I'm still wearing my wedding dress, the dress I was supposed to wear while promising forever to a man who made me afraid of my own shadow.
My feet are stitched up with what I'm pretty sure were illegal medical supplies. My phone is turned off because I can't handle one more message telling me to go back, to apologize, to be a good girl and fix what I broke.
And I'm letting this stranger take me somewhere private because the alternative is going back out onto the street with nowhere to go and no plan beyond that.
So, no. I'm not okay.
"Yeah," I whisper instead.
We pass a massive man at the casino entrance. Easily above six-foot, covered in tattoos, wearing the same cut as Knuckles. He looks at me with an expression I can't read, then at Knuckles.
"Be smart about this," the big man says quietly.
"Always am."
The big man snorts but doesn't argue. Just steps aside and lets us pass.
I should ask who that was. Should ask a lot of questions, actually. Like where exactly Knuckles is taking me. Whether the "room upstairs" is actually a room or a convenient lie to get me somewhere isolated. Whether I'm trading one dangerous situation for another.
But I'm so tired. Bone-deep, soul-crushing tired in a way that has nothing to do with the two hours I spent running and everything to do with the two years I spent trying to survive Derek.
And Knuckles said he'd help me. He stitched my feet. He carried me when I couldn't walk.
Derek never carried me. Said his back couldn't handle it. Said I should lose some weight if I wanted to be carried like other women.
But this stranger, this biker with scarred knuckles and sharp blue eyes, scooped me up like it was nothing. Like I was allowed to need help. Like needing help didn't make me weak or pathetic or any of the other things I've been called for the last two years.
We reach an elevator at the back of the casino. Knuckles shifts me slightly so he can press the call button. The movement brings me closer to his chest, and I can feel the steady thump of his heartbeat through his shirt.
Calm. Controlled. Like carrying a runaway bride through a casino is just another Friday night for him. Maybe it is. What do I know about bikers?
The elevator arrives and he steps inside, still holding me. The doors close and we're alone in the small space. My breathing picks up despite my best efforts to stay calm.
Enclosed space. No witnesses.
Derek's favorite combination.
"Hey." Knuckles' voice is soft. "You're okay. Just taking you upstairs. That's all."
I nod but can't make myself speak. My throat has closed up with panic I can't quite control.
"Breathe," he says. "In through your nose, out through your mouth. Nice and slow."
I try. It comes out shaky and uneven, but I try.
"Good. Again."
I breathe. He waits. Doesn't tell me to calm down or stop being dramatic or ask what the fuck is wrong with me. Just waits while I remember how to get air into my lungs.
The elevator stops on the third floor. The doors open and Knuckles carries me out into a hallway that's nicer than I expected.
Not luxury hotel nice, but clean and quiet and well-maintained.
He stops at a door marked 307 and somehow manages to unlock it while still holding me.
The room inside is small but clean—a queen bed, a dresser, and a door that probably leads to a bathroom.
Generic hotel art on the walls. Nothing threatening.
Nothing that screams biker clubhouse or place where women disappear.
Just a room.
Knuckles sets me down on the edge of the bed. My feet immediately throb in protest at the change in position, but I bite back the sound that wants to escape.
"Bathroom's through there," he says, pointing to the door I noticed. "Towels, soap, all that shit. There's a robe in the closet if you want to get out of the dress."
I look down at myself. The ivory fabric is gray at the hem, stained with blood and street dirt and the remains of a life I set on fire tonight.
"Thank you," I whisper.
He nods once. Then he pulls out his phone and types something quickly.
"I'm gonna have someone bring up food and clean clothes. You got sizes you want to give me, or should I guess?"
The question is so practical, so mundane, that it almost makes me laugh. What size do you wear? Like we're shopping instead of... whatever this is.
"Large," I say. Then, because Derek's voice is in my head telling me I should be embarrassed, "Extra large, maybe. I'm—"
"I don't need your life story," Knuckles interrupts. "Just a size."
It's not cruel, the way he says it. Just matter-of-fact. Like my size is information, not a judgment.
"Large is fine," I say quietly.
He types something else. "You eat meat?"
"Yeah."
"Allergies?"
"No."
"Good. I'm having them send up a burger and fries. You need anything else?"
I need so many things that I don't know where to start. I need my life to make sense again. I need my family to believe me. I need Derek to disappear. I need to wake up and discover this whole nightmare was just that, a nightmare I can leave behind.
But I can't say any of that to this stranger who's already done more for me tonight than he had any reason to.
"I'm okay," I say instead.
He gives me a look that says he knows I'm lying but isn't going to push. "Food will be here in twenty. Clothes might take longer. I gotta call in a favor."
"You don't have to—"
"Yeah, I do." He's already moving toward the door. "Lock this behind me. Don't open it unless it's me."
"How will I know it's actually you?"
"Because nobody else knows you're here." He pauses with his hand on the doorknob. "And nobody's gonna know unless you tell them. You're safe here, Savannah. I promise."
I want to believe him. God, I want to believe him so badly it physically hurts. But I've been promised safety before. Derek promised to love and cherish me and look at how that turned out.
Still. What choice do I have?
"Okay," I whisper.
He leaves. I hear his footsteps fade down the hallway, and then I'm alone.
I sit on the edge of the bed for a long moment, trying to process everything that just happened. My mind feels like it's moving through mud, slow and thick and struggling to make sense of anything.
Then I stand up. Slowly, because my feet are screaming and lock the door like he told me to.
The bathroom is small but clean, just like the rest of the room. White tiles, generic fixtures, a shower that's seen better days but looks functional. I catch sight of myself in the mirror and have to suppress a gasp.
I look like hell.
My makeup is smeared beyond recognition—mascara tracks down my cheeks, foundation patchy where I've been crying and sweating.
My hair is half-falling out of the elaborate updo my stylist spent two hours creating.
The bruise on my jaw that the makeup artist covered is showing through now, a purple-yellow shadow that makes my stomach turn.
And the dress. God, the dress.
It cost four thousand dollars. My mother insisted.
She said Derek deserved to see me in something beautiful, said I should be grateful he was willing to pay for it considering my figure.
Now it's ruined. Blood on the hem, dirt ground into the fabric, one of the straps torn where it caught on something during my run.
Good. I'm glad it's ruined. I hope I never have to look at it again.
I reach behind me to undo the zipper and immediately run into a problem: I can't reach it. The dress was designed to be put on with help. My sister Melissa zipped me in, her hands gentle and excited, chattering about how beautiful I looked.
I wonder if she's still at the venue. If they're all still there, waiting for me to come to my senses and return.
I wonder if anyone's worried, or if they're just angry that I embarrassed them.
I already know the answer to that.
I struggle with the zipper for a few more minutes before giving up. I'll have to wait until Knuckles comes back. The thought of asking him for help undressing makes my skin crawl with anxiety, but the alternative is staying in this dress all night, and I can't do that.
I settle for washing my face instead. The hotel provides those tiny bottles of soap and shampoo, and I use an entire bottle of face wash trying to scrub away the makeup and the memories of this horrible day.
The bruise on my jaw looks worse without the makeup. Three days old and still angry. Derek caught me with a backhand when I suggested we postpone the wedding. He said he'd already paid for everything and I was being ungrateful.
Then he'd kissed it better and told me he loved me. Said he only got upset because he cared so much. Said I needed to learn not to push his buttons.
I'd believed him. Or at least, I'd pretended to believe him, which amounts to the same thing.
I'm staring at the bruise when someone knocks on the door. Three sharp raps.
I limp back to the door, my feet protesting every step. "Who is it?"
"It's me. Got your food."
I unlock the door and open it. Knuckles is standing there alone with a brown paper bag that smells like heaven.
"Can I come in for a second?" he asks. "Need to talk to you about a couple things."
My heart jumps into my throat, but I step aside and let him in. He sets the bag on the dresser and turns to face me, keeping a respectful distance.
"Ghost is getting your clothes," he says. "Might take an hour or two. Midnight shopping for women's shit isn't exactly easy. He'll knock three times as I do, so you'll know it's him."
"Ghost?"
"One of my brothers. You can trust him."
I nod, though I'm not sure I trust anyone right now except maybe the man standing in front of me, and even that's a leap.
"Second thing," Knuckles continues. "I need to tell my president about you. Pope. He runs the club, and he needs to know when we're offering protection to someone."
"Protection?"
"Yeah. That's what this is. You're under the club's protection now. Which means rules."
"What kind of rules?"
"You don't leave without one of us with you. You don't talk to anyone outside the club about where you're staying or who you're with. And if trouble comes looking for you, you tell us immediately. Don't try to handle it yourself."
"Why?" I whisper. "Why are you doing all this?"
He's quiet for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice is rough.
"Because I know what it's like to have nowhere to go. And because the man who gave me a chance when I needed it taught me that sometimes you help people just because you can."
"You don't know me."
"Don't need to. You needed help. I'm giving it. That's it."
"Nothing is ever just 'that's it,'" I say. "People don't help for no reason."
"Some people do." He moves toward the door. "Eat your food. Get some rest. We'll figure out the rest tomorrow."
"Wait." He stops. "I can't... I can't get out of the dress by myself. The zipper. I can't reach it."