Chapter 2 - Evelyn
I don't know which is worse. The hell I was in or the hell I'm heading toward.
He’s Jackson but the men call him Reaper. He guides me to a motorcycle parked in the shadows behind the bar, his hand hovering near my elbow but never touching me. I appreciate that small mercy. My skin still crawls from the last man who put his hands on me.
"Ever been on a bike before?" he asks, his deep voice carrying easily over the distant sirens.
I shake my head, trying not to stare at the patch on his leather vest. Outlaw Order MC. President. I may have been held captive for months, but even before that, I knew enough to stay away from motorcycle clubs.
"Hold onto me. Lean when I lean." He hands me a helmet. "This will be too big, but it's better than nothing."
The helmet swallows my head, smelling of leather and something distinctly male. I watch as he throws his leg over the massive bike, starting it with a roar that vibrates through my bones. He looks back at me, his gray eyes unreadable in the dim light.
"Your choice, Evelyn. Get on or stay for the sheriff."
My name sounds strange coming from his mouth. How long has it been since someone used my actual name instead of "bitch" or "merchandise"?
The sirens grow louder. Sheriff or biker gang president? Neither option seems safe, but at least the biker fought to get me out. The sheriffs in the last town looked the other way when the Vultures MC first took me.
I climb on behind him, my legs weak and shaking. The bike is hot between my thighs, the sensation almost shocking after months of cold concrete floors. I hesitate, hands hovering uncertainly.
"Around my waist," he instructs. "Hold tight."
Touching him feels dangerous, like placing my hands on a predator. But as I wrap my arms around his solid torso, I'm struck by how warm he is. How alive. How human, despite the inhuman things he's likely done.
We pull away just as flashing lights illuminate the back of the building. My stomach lurches as the bike accelerates, and I instinctively tighten my grip. His body is like stone beneath my arms, unyielding and strong.
The wind tears at my thin dress, the chill cutting straight to my bones. I press myself against his back, seeking warmth, hating my weakness but too exhausted to maintain any dignity. Survival first. Pride later, if there is a later.
We ride through town, past closed storefronts and dimly lit houses. Normal places where normal people sleep, unaware that women are being sold just streets away. Unaware that a monster rescued by an even bigger monster is passing by their homes.
Because that's what I am now. A monster. The things I've seen. The things I've endured. The things I've done to survive. No coming back from that.
The bike turns onto a dirt road, slowing as we approach a compound surrounded by a chain-link fence. Two armed men step forward, then quickly move aside when they recognize their president.
The compound consists of a large main building, some kind of converted warehouse, with several smaller outbuildings scattered around a central courtyard. Motorcycles line one wall, gleaming even in the dim light.
Reaper parks, killing the engine.
"We're here," he says unnecessarily.
I don't move. My fingers seem locked around his waist, frozen in place. Now that we've stopped, reality crashes down. I'm alone at an MC compound with a man named Reaper. What happens now?
He doesn't rush me. Just sits, allowing me to take my time. Finally, I force my hands to release him, ignoring how they tremble. I slide off the bike, legs nearly buckling. Hunger and exhaustion have taken their toll.
"Can you walk?" he asks.
"Yes." The lie slips out automatically. Show no weakness. That's been my mantra for months. Weakness gets exploited.
He glanced at me for a moment, then nods once. "This way."
I follow him to the main building, painfully aware of the eyes watching from the shadows. Other club members. Assessing me. Wondering what their president brought home. Wondering if I'm for sharing.
The thought makes bile rise in my throat.
Inside, the building opens into a large common area. Pool tables, leather couches, a long bar against one wall. It smells of cigarettes, beer, and motor oil. Two men look up as we enter. One with dark short hair and covered in tattoos, another with a wild beard and wilder eyes.
"Boss," the tattooed one acknowledges, gaze sliding to me with open curiosity.
"Ghost," Reaper returns. "Viper. Any word from Blade?"
"Got our biker friend secured in the shed. He's not happy." Ghost, the tattooed one, smirks. "But he's alive and mostly unharmed."
"Good." Reaper turns to me. "This is Evelyn. She's under my protection. Spread the word."
Under his protection. But what does that mean? Protection in exchange for what?
"We got rooms ready for the other girls at the safe house," Viper offers. "Doc's checking them out now."
"The other girls?" I speak for the first time, my voice small but steady. "Are they okay?"
Three pairs of male eyes turn to me, and I resist the urge to shrink back.
"They're safe," Reaper answers. "Scared, but unharmed. Physically, at least."
I nod, relieved. Some of those girls were so young. So innocent. Not like me. I was already damaged goods when the Vultures MC took me.
"You need medical attention?" Ghost asks, his tone surprisingly gentle.
I shake my head. "No." Another lie.
I probably have broken ribs and definitely have infections where the restraints cut into my wrists and ankles. But hospitals ask questions. Take reports. I'm not ready for that.
"Food, then," Reaper decides. "And clean clothes."
He leads me through a door and down a hallway to what appears to be private living quarters. A large bedroom with an attached bathroom. His space, clearly. Everything is neat, minimal. A king-sized bed dominates the room. No personal photos. No clutter. Just the essentials.
"Bathroom's through there," he says, pointing. "Shower's got decent pressure. Towels in the cabinet."
I stand frozen, confusion washing over me. "I don't understand."
"What don't you understand?"
"Why am I here? In your room?" The question comes out sharper than intended, edged with fear.
His jaw tightens. "You're here because it's the safest place in the compound. You're in my room because it's the only one with a lock on the inside." He reaches into a dresser, pulls out a t-shirt and sweatpants. "You can wear these. They'll be too big, but they're clean."
He sets the clothes on the bed and steps back, giving me space.
"I'll get you food while you shower. Then we talk."
"About what?" I ask, my heart racing.
"About what happens next." He moves to the door. "Lock it behind me."
He leaves, closing the door quietly. I stand there for a long moment before moving to slide the deadbolt into place. The solid chunk of metal against metal is the most reassuring sound I've heard in months.
The bathroom is surprisingly clean. No beard trimmings on the sink, no dirty clothes on the floor. I avoid looking in the mirror as I peel off the filthy dress they forced me to wear for the auction. I don't want to see what I've become.
The water pressure is indeed good, just like he promised. I stand under the scalding spray until my skin turns pink, scrubbing with his soap until I'm raw. It smells like him, something woodsy and clean. I hate that I notice. Hate that I find it comforting.
My hair is a tangled mess, but I find a comb and work through it, focusing on the pain to ground myself. Pain is familiar. Pain I understand.
His clothes swallow me whole. The t-shirt hangs to mid-thigh, the sweatpants requiring multiple folds at the waist and ankles to stay up. But they're soft. Clean. Mine to wear, at least for now.
A knock at the door makes me jump.
"Evelyn? Food's here."
I hesitate, then unlock the door, opening it just enough to peer out. Reaper stands there with a tray loaded with what looks like a sandwich, fruit, and a steaming mug.
"May I come in?" he asks, as if this isn't his room, his space.
I step back, letting him enter, trying not to flinch as he moves past me. He sets the tray on a small desk in the corner.
"It's not much, but you should start slow. Your stomach's probably not used to regular food."
He's right. The Vultures MC kept us on one meal a day, usually broth and stale bread.
"Thank you," I manage, hating how those words feel in my mouth. Thanking my captor, even if he thinks himself my rescuer.
"We need to talk," he says, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. "But eat first."
I approach the food cautiously, perching on the edge of the desk chair. The sandwich is simple, turkey and cheese. I take a small bite, nearly groaning at the flavor. Actual food. I force myself to eat slowly, knowing he's right about my stomach.
"Why did you help us?" I ask between bites.
His eyes—cold gray, like winter rain—stare at me. "Because selling people isn't acceptable in my territory."
"Your territory," I repeat, testing the words. "So, it's not about helping us. It's about your... jurisdiction."
"Does it matter why, as long as you're free?"
"I'm not free," I counter softly. "I'm just in a different cage."
He doesn't deny it, which is oddly reassuring. At least he's not pretending.
"What do you want from me?" I ask, setting down the half-eaten sandwich. My stomach is already protesting.
"Information," he says. "About the Vultures MC. Their operation. How many girls they've moved through. Where they take them."
"And after I tell you everything I know?"
He shifts his weight, uncrossing his arms. "Then you decide. You can go to the sheriff. I'll take you there myself if that's what you want. Or you can disappear. New ID, new location. My club has connections."
"Just like that?" I can't keep the disbelief from my voice. "No strings attached?"
"Just like that."
"Why?"
"Because contrary to what you might think, I'm not in the business of forcing women to do anything they don't want to do."
I laugh, a harsh sound that hurts my throat. "No, you're just in the business of guns and drugs and who knows what else."
His expression doesn't change. "You've been watching too many TV shows."
"And you expect me to believe the president of an MC is running a charity operation?" I challenge, surprising myself with my boldness. Fear has a way of making you reckless sometimes.
"I expect you to believe I'm giving you a choice. More than those Vultures MC did."
He's right, and we both know it. I look down at my hands, at the raw marks around my wrists.
"I need to sleep," I say finally. "I can't... I can't think straight right now."
He nods. "Take the bed. I'll be in the main room if you need anything."
As he turns to leave, a sudden panic grips me. "Wait… The other men. Your club. Will they..."
"No one will come in here," he says, his voice hardening. "You're under my protection. That means something in this club."
"Until when?"
"Until you don't need it anymore."
The door closes behind him. The bed looks impossibly inviting, but I can't bring myself to sleep there, in his space, surrounded by his scent.
Instead, I take a spare blanket from the foot of the bed and make a nest in the corner of the room, back against the wall where I can see both the door and the window.
Old habits from the captivity. Always face the entrance. Always be ready.
As exhaustion pulls me under, one thought circles in my mind: I've escaped one monster's den only to find myself in another's. The difference is that this monster has gray eyes that sometimes look almost human when he thinks I'm not watching.
And that makes him infinitely more dangerous.