Chapter 6 - Evelyn #2
The name jolts me back to reality. Naomi. The woman who humiliated us daily, who picked which girls would be "sampled" by guards, who taught us to be marketable like we were products rather than people.
"I'm ready now," I say, pushing my plate away despite being only half finished.
Reaper looks like he wants to argue but thinks better of it. "Your choice."
He leads me through the compound to a small outbuilding separated from the others. Two prospects stand guard outside, stepping aside as we approach.
"Status?" Reaper asks.
"Ghost is with the suit," one responds. "Blade has the other guy. This one's alone, prepped and waiting."
Prepped. I don't ask what that means.
Reaper turns to me, his expression serious. "Last chance to back out."
"I'm not backing out." My voice is steadier than I feel.
"Remember the rules. You observe. You don't participate. You leave if I tell you to."
"I remember."
The shed's interior is dimly lit and smells of metal and something coppery that I recognize as blood. Naomi sits zip-tied to a chair in the center, her makeup smeared, her expensive outfit torn at the shoulder. She looks up as we enter, her eyes widening when she sees me.
The gag has been removed, but she says nothing, her gaze darting between Reaper and me.
"You know who this is," Reaper says to her, his voice deceptively casual as he circles her chair.
Naomi spits on the ground. "Damaged goods. Not worth the trouble."
Her voice is strained with fear she's trying to mask.
"And yet," Reaper continues, "she's standing while you're tied to a chair. Interesting how things work out."
"I tell you nothing," she hisses. "You think you scare me? I work for people who would make you piss yourself."
Reaper smiles, and it's the most terrifying thing I've ever seen. "Let's test that theory."
He moves with the calculated precision of someone who has done this before. Too many times. He pulls on a pair of black leather gloves, the soft leather creaking as he flexes his fingers.
"You have information we need," he tells Naomi, his voice eerily calm. "The faster you provide it, the easier this goes for you."
Naomi's eyes dart to me, then back to him. "I don’t know what she told you, but she’s wrong. Stupid girl. She doesn’t know anything and neither do I!"
"That's where you're wrong," Reaper says. "She knows plenty. And so do we. We know about Charles. We know about the warehouse by the railway. We know about the shipments from Eastern Europe."
Fear flickers across Naomi's face before she masks it with defiance. "Then what do you need me for? Kill me and get it over with."
"We know the outline," Reaper continues, ignoring her question as he selects a knife from a table that I hadn't noticed before. "What we need are the details. Names. Contacts. The entire network."
He tests the blade against his thumb, and I flinch at the casual display of what's to come.
"Last chance to cooperate," he says.
Naomi spits again, this time aiming for his boots. "Fuck you."
Reaper's expression doesn't change as he moves toward her. "Your choice."
What happens next unfolds with a methodical horror that makes my stomach turn. He doesn't start with the knife as I expected. Instead, he begins with questions—specific, targeted questions about names, locations, contacts—punctuating each refusal with a small but precise act of pain.
A finger bent back just to the breaking point. Pressure applied to nerve clusters I didn't know existed. The flat of the blade pressed against her skin, not cutting, just threatening.
Naomi's defiance crumbles faster than I expected. She begins answering, names and locations spilling from her lips between sobs and pleas.
"The Chicago connection—who runs it?" Reaper asks, his voice still unnervingly calm.
"Charles's nephew. He handles all midwest distribution."
"The buyers at the auction. Were they regulars or new clients?"
"Mix. Some regulars. Some new. Rich men from all over who pay premium for young girls."
I feel bile rising in my throat as she continues, describing the operation with the detached practicality of someone discussing a legitimate business. Girls categorized by age, appearance, virginity status. Price points. Special requests.
"She was bottom tier," Naomi says, nodding toward me with contempt despite her situation. "Too old. Too damaged. Not obedient."
Something in me snaps at her words. The room suddenly feels too small, the air too thick. I can't breathe. Can't watch this continue, even though part of me—a dark, vengeful part I don't want to recognize—wants to see her suffer more.
"I need air," I manage to say, turning toward the door.
Reaper glances at me, something like concern flickering across his face, but he doesn't stop me as I push past the guards outside and gulp in the cool evening air.
I make it several yards before my legs give out and I sink to my knees in the dirt, retching though there's little in my stomach to expel. Tears burn my eyes. Not for Naomi, but for myself, for what I've become. For wanting to hurt her the way she hurt us.
I don't know how long I kneel there, shaking, before I sense a presence behind me. I don't need to look to know it's him.
"You shouldn't have come out alone," Reaper says, his voice gentler than I've heard it before. "The compound is secure, but still."
"Is she—" I can't finish the question.
"Alive. Talking. She'll face justice, Evelyn. Not just ours."
I nod, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. "I thought I wanted to watch. I thought it would help."
"Revenge rarely does what we think it will." He doesn't touch me, but I feel his presence by my side. "Can you stand?"
I push myself to my feet, unsteady but determined not to appear weak. "I'm fine."
"No, you're not." He states it as simple fact. "No one would be."
The absence of judgment in his tone breaks something loose in my chest.
"I wanted to hurt her," I confess, the words painful to admit. "I wanted to be the one causing pain instead of receiving it. What does that make me?"
"Human." He gestures toward the main building. "Come on. Ghost and Blade will finish this later. You've seen enough."
I follow him without argument, grateful to be away from the shed and what continues inside it. He leads me through the clubhouse, past curious eyes that quickly look away when he glares, and back to his quarters.
The room feels different now. Less threatening, almost familiar after just one night. He closes the door behind us, giving us privacy, but doesn't move further into the space, as if understanding my need for distance.
"Sit," he says, nodding toward the edge of the bed. "You look ready to collapse."
I perch on the mattress, exhausted. The adrenaline of the warehouse raid, the confrontation with Naomi, it's all catching up with me at once.
Reaper stays by the door, leaning against the wall, giving me space. "Do you want water? Something stronger?"
"Water," I say, not trusting myself with alcohol in this state.
He disappears briefly, returning with a glass of water and something clutched in his other hand. He hands me the water, then offers what appears to be a chocolate bar.
"Sugar helps," he explains when I look confused. "With shock."
I accept both, sipping the water slowly. "Is this what you do? After?"
He understands the question I'm struggling to articulate. "Sometimes. Depends on what needs doing."
"How do you..." I search for words. "How do you live with it? The things you have to do?"
He doesn't pretend to misunderstand. "You compartmentalize. You remember why it's necessary. You find ways to balance the darkness."
"Is that why you saved me? For balance?"
"No." His answer is immediate, certain. "That had nothing to do with balance."
"Then why? I need a reason why someone would save me when no one else did. I’m not special. I’m worth nothing."
"Because when I saw you on that stage, something in me recognized something in you."
"What?" I ask, genuinely curious.
"Resilience. Defiance. Dignity they couldn't take, no matter how hard they tried." He shifts his weight, uncomfortable with the admission. "And because you reminded me that I'm still capable of feeling something besides anger."
The honesty of his answer leaves me speechless. I take a bite of chocolate to buy time, the sweetness almost shocking after months of bland captivity food.
"How did you end up here?" I ask finally. "Leading the Outlaw Order?"
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "That's a long story."
"I'm not going anywhere." The words come out before I can consider their implications.
“Military first. Special forces. Did things I can't talk about in places that don't officially exist." He crosses his arms. "Got out when Emma was five. Her mother had already left. She couldn't handle what I became overseas."
"So you raised her alone?"
"As best I could. Worked security jobs. Tried to be normal." His mouth twists. "Failed at that part."
"What happened?"
"Met Blade during my last tour. We stayed in touch. When civilian life wasn't working out, I suggested we channel our skills into something that would. The MC started small. Just protection work for legitimate businesses getting squeezed by organized crime."
"And now?"
"We control territory, keep out the worst elements, provide security for those who need it." He shrugs. "Some of what we do falls into gray areas legally. But we have lines we don't cross."
"Like human trafficking."
"Like human trafficking," he confirms. "Like hurting innocents. Like preying on the vulnerable."
I take another sip of water, processing this. "And Emma? Your daughter? How does she feel about all this?"
Something painful crosses his face. "She keeps her distance. Smart girl. Saw too much when she was sixteen. A rival club attacked our old compound. I had to... handle it. She saw what her father really is."
The regret in his voice is unmistakable. "You miss her."
"Every day." He straightens, clearly uncomfortable with the personal turn of the conversation. "What about you? Before all this."
I look down at my hands, at the healing marks around my wrists. "Nothing exciting. Foster care from age seven when my mother OD'd. No father in the picture. Aged out at eighteen with nothing but a GED and whatever I could fit in a backpack."
"No one helped you transition?"
I laugh, the sound hollow. "The system isn't big on aftercare.
I worked whatever jobs I could find—waitressing, retail, cleaning houses.
Shared an apartment with three other girls until they moved out, and I couldn't afford it alone.
Was staying in a weekly rate motel when the Vultures MC grabbed me. "
"No one reported you missing?"
"Who would notice?" I shrug, trying for nonchalance but not quite achieving it. "I was between jobs. Had no family. The motel owner probably just thought I skipped out on the bill."
Reaper's expression darkens. "Three months. And no one looked for you."
"Story of my life." I attempt a smile. "Invisible girl."
"Not anymore," he says with certainty.