Chapter Four
THE ROOM WAS too big.
Too loud.
Too full of eyes.
I’d been buried in shadows so long that even the dim glow of neon signs made me squint. The hum of the speakers, the clack of pool balls, the scrape of boots on the floorboards, it all pressed in at once, heavy as chains.
And the stares.
Every man looked. Rough faces, tattoos inked across arms, cuts stretched over broad shoulders. They didn’t touch me, didn’t speak, but they watched. My skin crawled with it, every bruise and every streak of dirt burning under the weight of being seen.
I pulled my arms tight across my chest, hunched smaller, but it didn’t matter. I could feel the grime on my skin, the tangles in my hair, the stench of confinement clinging to me like rot. I hated it. Hated how much they could see.
The one they called Warden barked at them—“Eyes off”—and the sound cracked like a whip. They looked away, but not enough. Never enough.
Ashen moved closer, broad shoulders blocking out half the room.
He smelled of leather and smoke and the open road.
I could still feel the vibration of the motorcycle in my bones, the echo of wind in my hair.
I should’ve been afraid of him—he was still a man, but when I looked up and found those green eyes, the panic eased, just a little.
Then she came.
The woman with the braid, belly round beneath her shirt. Pregnant. Her steps careful, but her gaze unflinching, kind in a way that made something tight twist in my chest.
“Sweetheart,” she said softly, crouching in front of me, her voice steady as a heartbeat. “Why don’t we get you cleaned up? A hot bath, some fresh clothes. I know what it feels like, being stared at, feeling like you’ll never get the dirt off.”
Her words cut deep because they were true. I did feel it. Every speck of dirt, every mark Venom left behind. My silence had always hidden me, but it couldn’t hide that.
Then the older woman appeared again, her eyes fierce, dish towel still in her hand. Her presence shifted the air. Even the bikers backed up a step. She was no one’s ol’ lady, no one’s property. But she bled authority.
“You’ll feel better once you’re clean, baby girl,” she said, her voice warm but firm. “Let’s go wash the ghosts off.”
My throat locked. My fingers twisted the hem of my shirt until my knuckles ached.
Too many eyes. Too much dirt. Too much me.
I wanted to run back to the crawlspace. At least the dark hadn’t stared.
But then Ashen crouched low, close enough that his face filled my vision and blocked the rest. His voice was quiet, meant only for me. “They’ll take care of you. You’re safe with them.”
Safe.
I didn’t know what that word meant anymore. But I wanted to.
I looked at the pregnant woman. At the older one. Their hands weren’t reaching to grab, just waiting. I swallowed hard, lungs shaking.
And then I stood.
Not gracefully. My legs were stiff, my body clumsy from too much stillness. But I stood.
The bikers shifted, whispering low, but I kept my eyes down, hair falling like a curtain. I followed the women toward the hall, away from the neon, away from the stares.
***
THE BATHROOM SMELLED of soap and clean water. Tile chipped, mirror cracked at the corner, but the tub was full of steam. A folded stack of clothes sat on the counter, soft cotton, not rags.
Elara knelt awkwardly to check the temperature, her braid slipping over her shoulder. “It’s ready,” she murmured. “Take your time.”
Jewel set a towel within reach, her voice brisk. “Lock’s on the door. Use it if you want. Nobody comes in unless you let them.”
They didn’t crowd. They didn’t rush me.
When the door clicked shut behind them, the silence wasn’t heavy anymore. It was waiting.
I stripped slowly, skin crawling with the thought of all the eyes that had just been on me. The shirt, stiff with dirt, hit the floor with a sound that felt final. I stepped into the water and sank down, heat biting before it melted into my bones.
The grime lifted in clouds, swirling down the drain. My hair floated, heavy, tangles loosening under the water’s weight. I scrubbed until my skin ached, until red streaks burned across my arms, until I felt raw but lighter.
Steam curled higher, fogging the cracked mirror. For a heartbeat, it wasn’t steam I saw—it was the shimmer of heat waves on asphalt.
And the memory came.
The sun had been brutal that day, pressing down on my shoulders until sweat stung my eyes. The road shimmered with heat, gravel crunching beneath my shoes. I was nineteen, too tired from my shift at the diner to think much about anything but getting home.
Then I saw him.
An old man, slumped against the side of a truck with its hood propped open. His hat lay in the dirt, white hair plastered damp against his forehead. His chest rose shallow, wheezing, and when he groaned for help, it sounded so real it made my heart squeeze.
I didn’t stop to think. Didn’t question why the truck sat so far off the shoulder. Didn’t notice the other figure in the driver’s seat, slouched too low, pretending to sleep.
My mama raised me better than to ignore someone in need. So I went.
“Sir? Are you hurt?” I reached for him, crouched to steady his arm—
And the world snapped shut.
A rag jammed over my mouth, chemical-sweet and sharp, filling my lungs. Hands clamped down on me, too strong, too fast. My legs kicked, scraped against the gravel, but it didn’t matter.
The “old man” straightened, standing tall, laughing as the disguise fell away. “Got her,” he said, voice thick with triumph.
Another set of arms shoved me toward the truck. I fought. God, I fought. Nails tearing, lungs burning. The fumes filled me faster than I could fight them off.
The desert stretched wide and empty, no houses, no cars, no one to hear me. My scream never made it past the rag.
The last thing I saw was my reflection in the side mirror, eyes wide, terrified, already fading.
When I woke, it was in the dark. With Venom.
I gasped in the present, sitting up. Steam clung to my skin, water sloshing against porcelain. My chest heaved like the memory had stolen air all over again.
The bathwater rippled around me, cloudy with lifted dirt, but it couldn’t wash away what happened on that road.
And I hated myself for remembering the way I ran to help, because mercy had been the trap that damned me.