Chapter 21 #2
He laughs, a deep, booming sound that echoes off the walls and makes my stomach twist. “You’re at the clubhouse, sweetheart.
You belong to us now. Tiny’s little toy.
We’re going to have some fun with you.” The way he says it, casual and cruel, makes bile rise in my throat. Fun. Like I’m a plaything to be broken.
Another man comes in behind him, holding a half-empty bottle of cheap liquor. His eyes are glassy, unfocused from whatever he’s been drinking or snorting. “She’s pretty,” he slurs, licking his lips. “I want first turn.”
I press myself back against the couch as far as I can, the rough fabric scraping my back. My mind floods with memories of Tiny. These men are nothing like him. “Don’t touch me,” I say, my voice shaking but defiant. I won’t let them see me crumble. Not yet.
The first man grabs my chin hard, his fingers digging into my jaw with bruising force, forcing me to look up at him.
His nails are dirty, his breath rancid. “You don’t get to say no here.
You’re in our house now. You do what we say.
” He squeezes once more for emphasis, then releases me with a shove that snaps my head back.
He walks out, leaving the second man behind with a parting smirk.
The second man stays, grinning as he sits heavily next to me on the couch.
The cushions dip under his weight, pressing me closer against him.
He puts a meaty hand on my thigh, sliding it upward with intent.
The touch burns like acid through my jeans.
I jerk away violently, scooting to the edge.
“Don’t,” I say, forcing the words out despite the tremor in my voice. “I’m not yours. I’ll never be yours.”
He laughs again, louder this time, the sound wet and ugly. “You are now.” He leans in close, his breath reeking of beer and decay, hot against my cheek. “Come on. Just a little fun. Tiny won’t mind sharing. Hell, he probably already has.”
Rage and fear mix in my chest, fueling a burst of strength.
I shove him hard with my bound hands, catching him off balance.
He falls back with a surprised grunt. I stand up quickly, my legs wobbly but determined, and run for the door.
My heart pounds so hard it feels like it might burst. He recovers fast, grabbing my arm and yanking me back with brutal force.
I stumble and fall to my knees on the hard floor, pain shooting through my legs like fire, the impact jarring my bones.
“Stupid bitch,” he snarls, his face contorted with anger. He pulls me up by my hair, the sharp tug making tears spring to my eyes. Strands rip free, but I bite back the cry. “You’ll learn.”
He drags me out into a bigger room, my feet barely touching the ground.
The music is louder here, some angry rock song with screaming guitars.
Men are everywhere, sprawled across couches and chairs, drinking from bottles and cans.
Some are snorting lines of white powder off a dirty table in the center, their laughter manic and unhinged.
Women sit on their laps, some willing, others with hollow eyes and forced smiles.
One woman is crying quietly in the corner, her makeup streaked down her face.
No one helps her. A man slaps her hard across the face, and she goes quiet, curling in on herself.
The sight makes my blood run cold. This is nothing like the Iron Reapers.
There’s no laughter that feels like family, no protective brotherhood.
Just chaos. Raw, ugly violence. The women look scared.
Broken. Defeated. The men look at me like I’m fresh meat thrown into a den of wolves, hungry, eager, stripping me bare with their eyes.
The man who grabbed me pushes me toward a sagging couch in the middle of it all.
Two more guys stand up immediately, their eyes lighting up with predatory interest. “Fresh meat,” one of them says, reaching for me.
His hand grabs the front of my shirt, yanking at the fabric.
I slap it away hard, my palm stinging from the contact.
“Don’t touch me!” I yell, my voice rising above the music. Heads turn, more laughter rippling through the room.
He laughs, deep and throaty. “Feisty. I like that. Makes it more fun when they break.”
He tries to pull me closer, his fingers twisting in my collar.
I knee him hard between the legs, putting every ounce of fear and fury into it.
He doubles over with a guttural groan, clutching himself.
The other guy grabs me from behind before I can run, his arms wrapping around my torso like iron chains.
His hands grope my chest roughly, squeezing with painful intent, his breath hot on my neck.
“Stop!” I scream, the sound raw and piercing.
I fight as hard as I can, kicking backward, elbowing his ribs, thrashing my head.
I bite down on the arm around me, tasting salt and blood.
He curses viciously and lets go with a shove.
I stumble forward, gasping for air, and bolt toward the door.
Adrenaline surges, making my limbs feel electric.
But someone sticks out a boot and trips me.
I hit the floor hard, pain exploding in my knee and palms as I catch myself.
The impact knocks the wind out of me, stars bursting behind my eyes.
They drag me back, their hands rough and invasive, laughter echoing all around.
They call me names, whore, Reaper slut, fresh pussy, each word like a slap.
They tell me in graphic detail what they want to do to me, their voices overlapping in a nightmare chorus.
“Gonna fuck that fight right out of you.” “Tiny’s gonna hear you screaming our names.
” I keep fighting, shoving, spitting, my body screaming in protest but my spirit refusing to yield.
I think about Tiny constantly now, how he always asks, his voice soft and reverent in my ear: “Tell me what you want, Lucy. I got you.” How he waits, patient and strong, making me feel safe enough to let go.
These men don’t care. They just take. They consume.
One of them pulls me onto his lap despite my struggles, his hands roaming everywhere, thighs, waist, breasts, groping with greedy entitlement.
I fight harder, my nails raking down his face, drawing bloody lines.
He slaps me hard across the cheek, the sting blooming hot and immediate.
My head snaps to the side, ears ringing.
“You’ll learn your place,” he hisses, his grip tightening.
I spit in his face, the action defiant and impulsive. “I’ll never be yours. Never.”
He shoves me off with a roar. I hit the floor again, the breath whooshing from my lungs.
They laugh louder, the sound surrounding me like a cage.
Someone kicks me in the side, a boot connecting with my ribs.
Pain flares white-hot, forcing a whimper from my lips.
I curl up instinctively, protecting my head and torso, tears burning at the corners of my eyes.
But I hold onto thoughts of Tiny. He would lose it if he saw this, that protective rage in his eyes, the way he’d tear through anyone who hurt me.
He’s probably looking for me right now, rallying the brothers, his voice booming with commands.
I hold onto that thought like a lifeline.
It’s the only thing keeping me from breaking completely.
The night drags on in a blur of exhaustion and terror.
They keep me in the room, circling like sharks.
They offer me drinks, cheap beer in dirty glasses, and I refuse every time, turning my head away.
“Drink up, princess. Loosen up,” one sneers, but I clamp my mouth shut.
They offer drugs next, pills, then powder on a tray, waving it under my nose.
The chemical smell makes me gag. “No,” I whisper hoarsely. “Get that away from me.”
They try to touch me again and again, hands reaching, bodies pressing close.
I fight every single time, slapping, kicking, screaming until my throat feels shredded.
My body hurts everywhere, wrists raw from the rope, knee throbbing, side aching with every breath.
Bruises bloom across my skin like dark flowers.
But I don’t stop saying no. I won’t give them that satisfaction.
At some point, when my struggles weaken from pure fatigue, they tie me to a chair in the center of the room.
The rope cuts deeper now, circulation slowing in my hands until they tingle numbly.
They sit around me in a loose circle, drinking and watching like I’m entertainment.
One of them, a scarred man with a missing tooth, starts telling stories, graphic, horrifying tales of what they do to girls who fight back.
“Broke the last one in a week,” he boasts, his voice slurred.
“She begged by the end.” The others laugh, adding their own sick details.
I listen, feeling sick to my stomach, bile threatening to rise.
This is not the Iron Reapers. This is a pit of depravity where humanity goes to die.
I close my eyes against the leering faces, the haze of smoke, the pounding music that never stops.
Instead, I think about Tiny. About his arms around me, solid and warm, wrapping me up after a long shift and whispering, “Missed you, baby girl. Tell me about your day.” About the way he says my name like a prayer, soft and full of wonder.
About how he makes me feel cherished, desired, safe enough to explore every part of myself without shame.
I replay our moments in my mind. Those memories are my armor now.
They’re the only thing I have left in this nightmare.
I don’t know how long I’ve been here, hours? The whole night bleeding into dawn? My body sags against the ropes, every muscle screaming, but my mind clings fiercely. Tiny will come. He has to. He always does. I’ll hold on. For him. For us. No matter what they throw at me.