Chapter 4 - Kelly
"Stay close to me. Don't speak unless spoken to."
Blade's command should piss me off. I'm not a child or a dog to be ordered around. But right now, wrapped in his oversized leather cut that smells like cigarettes, gasoline, and something distinctly male, I can only nod.
My earlier bravado is fading fast, reality crashing down as we stand in front of this dark building with yet another dangerous-looking man staring at me like I'm a bomb that might detonate.
Holy shit. I just helped dispose of a car in a pond.
I actually drove a vehicle into water, watching through the windshield as murky darkness swallowed the hood, feeling the car rock beneath me as I scrambled out the door before it sank too deep.
The weight of what I've done, what I've been a witness to tonight, hits me all at once.
Four men are dead. I watched Blade kill them, and I didn't try to stop him. I said it was *good*.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
My legs suddenly feel like they might give out. I've been running on pure adrenaline for hours, maybe days. When was the last time I actually slept? Before the "rehearsal dinner" where I realized what my "wedding night" would truly entail. Before I decided to run rather than become Mike's property.
Blade's hand on my lower back steadies me, guiding me forward. It's not gentle, but it's solid, grounding. I focus on that touch as we approach the building.
The younger biker—Ace, Blade called him—holds the door open, watching me with an eyebrow raised. He can't be much older than me, with sharp features and wary eyes that miss nothing.
"Nice dress," he says as I pass, the corner of his mouth quirking up.
I don't respond, remembering Blade's instructions.
Don't speak unless spoken to. The old, obedient Kelly would have followed such a command without question.
The Kelly who survived the Vultures MC wants to tell this guy to go fuck himself.
But the exhausted, confused Kelly who just helped hide evidence of multiple murders?
She just wants to stay alive until morning.
The inside of the clubhouse is dimly lit and smells like beer, leather and gunpowder.
It's a large open space with a bar along one wall, pool tables, and mismatched furniture grouped around a big-screen TV.
Motorcycle parts and tools are scattered on tables, and the walls are covered with flags, road signs, and framed photographs of men in leather cuts similar to the one I'm wearing.
Two men sit at the bar, their conversation stopping abruptly as we enter. One is massive, broad-shouldered with a thick white beard. The other is leaner, with haunted eyes, dark beard and a quieter presence that somehow seems more dangerous than the bigger man's obvious strength.
"The fuck is this?" the white bearded one demands, standing up. His voice is deep, authoritative. This must be Reaper, the one Blade mentioned.
"Found her on Route 16," Blade says, his hand still on my back. "Running from Vultures MC. Wearing a wedding dress."
The other man's eyes narrow as he looks me over. "And you brought her here why?"
"She was supposed to marry one of Charles's men today. Ran instead."
That gets both men's attention. They exchange a look I can't interpret.
"She told you that?"
"Yeah. Then we got followed. Had to detour to the old Fuller warehouse. Four Vultures MC showed up. They're not showing up anywhere else."
Jesus Christ. He's talking about killing four men like it's nothing more significant than taking out the trash. And these men are nodding like it's a perfectly reasonable thing to report.
What kind of world have I stumbled into?
The white-bearded man—Reaper—approaches me slowly, like I'm a wild animal that might bolt. "What's your name?"
I glance at Blade, who gives a slight nod. Permission to speak, I guess.
"Kelly Stone," I answer, proud that my voice doesn't shake.
"And who were you supposed to marry, Kelly Stone?"
"Mike. He's one of Charles's lieutenants."
Reaper's eyebrows rise slightly. "Mike. Vicious bastard. How'd you end up engaged to him?"
The question is loaded with suspicion. I can feel Blade tensing beside me, his hand still on my back but no longer supportive. Now it feels like he could shove me forward or yank me back depending on my answer.
"My sister and I..." I swallow hard, trying to organize my thoughts.
"We were in a group home after our parents abandoned us.
When Amy turned eighteen, she aged out of the system.
I was sixteen. She met some Vultures MC at a club, thought they were legitimate businessmen.
By the time we realized what they really were, it was too late.
They had her hooked on drugs and me..." I trail off, shame burning my cheeks.
"You what?" the quiet one—Ghost, I think Blade called him—prompts.
"I was stupid. I thought they actually liked me.
They gave me nice things, told me I was beautiful.
I'd never had that before." The words taste bitter.
"Three months ago, they told Amy that Mike had chosen me to be his wife.
She said it was an honor, that we'd be set for life.
But last week, I overheard them talking about what would happen after the 'ceremony.
' Mike was going to—" I stop, swallowing bile.
"He was going to pass me around to his friends.
Record it. Then he'd decide if I was 'worth keeping. '"
The room is silent when I finish. Reaper's expression hasn't changed, but something in his eyes has.
"So, you ran," he says finally.
I nod. "I tried to get Amy to come with me. She wouldn't. Said I was being ungrateful, that Charles protects us. She's been with them longer. They've done something to her mind, with the drugs and the..." I can't bring myself to say what else they might have done to my sister.
"And how do we know you're not working for them?" Ghost asks, his voice soft but dangerous. "Could be a trap. Wouldn't be the first time Charles sent a pretty girl to infiltrate an enemy."
"If I was working for them, why would they send four men to kill me?
" I snap, fear giving way to anger. "I've been running for almost twenty-four hours in a fucking wedding dress.
I watched this man—" I jerk my thumb toward Blade "—crush a man's windpipe and not even blink.
I helped sink a car in a pond. You think I'd do all that as some elaborate setup? "
As soon as the words leave my mouth, I regret them. These men don't know me. They have no reason to trust me. And I just mouthed off to them like an idiot.
But to my surprise, Reaper's lips twitch in what might almost be a smile.
"She's got a point," he says to Ghost. Then to me: "But so does he. We're in the middle of a war with Charles. Trust doesn't come easy."
"I don't expect you to trust me," I say, suddenly bone-tired. "I don't trust you either. But I've got nowhere else to go, and your man killed four Vultures MC to keep me alive, so here I am."
Reaper studies me for a long moment, then nods. "Here you are."
He turns to Blade. "What else?"
Blade reaches into his pocket and pulls out two phones. "Took these off the Vultures MC. And this." He sets the laptop on the bar. "They were carrying about fifty grand in cash, too."
Ghost picks up one of the phones, turning it over in his hands. "Burners. Might be useful."
Reaper examines the laptop without opening it. "Could be nothing. Could be everything." He looks back at me. "Did you know they were carrying this?"
I shake my head. "I didn't know anything except that I needed to get away from them."
"And your sister? Where is she now?"
"At the compound, I think. It's a few hours from here. I don't know exactly where. They kept us blindfolded whenever we traveled."
Reaper exchanges another look with Ghost, then sighs. "Alright. You'll stay here tonight. Tomorrow we'll figure out what to do with you."
I stiffen at his wording. *What to do with you.* Like I'm a problem to be solved, not a person.
Blade must feel my reaction because his hand presses more firmly against my back. "She can stay in my room," he says.
All eyes turn to him, including mine. Blade offering his private space seems to surprise everyone.
"You sure about that?" Reaper asks, his tone suggesting there's more to the question than I understand.
Blade shrugs. "Makes the most sense. I found her, I'll keep an eye on her."
There's a moment of tension I don't fully grasp, then Reaper nods. "Your call. But she's your responsibility."
"I know."
I want to object to being discussed like I'm not standing right here, but exhaustion is winning out over indignation. I'm swaying on my feet, the events of the day finally catching up to me.
"Come on," Blade says, steering me toward a hallway off the main room. "You need to clean up and sleep."
I follow without argument, too tired to care where he's taking me as long as it involves a shower and a bed. We pass several closed doors before stopping at one at the end of the hall. Blade pushes it open and flips on a light.
The room is surprisingly neat. A king-sized bed dominates the space, with plain black sheets and a dark gray comforter.
There's a dresser, a desk with a laptop, and a door that I assume leads to a bathroom.
No personal touches that I can see. No photos, no decorations, nothing that reveals anything about the man who sleeps here.
"Bathroom's through there," Blade says, confirming my guess. "Shower, get cleaned up. I'll find you some clothes."
I nod, too exhausted to speak, and move toward the bathroom. But before I can enter, his hand catches my wrist, stopping me.
"Kelly."
I turn to look at him, suddenly aware of how close we're standing. His dark eyes bore into mine, searching for something.
"If you're lying about any of this, I'll know. And I'll deal with it personally. Understand?"
It should sound like a threat. It is a threat. But it's also the most honest thing anyone has said to me in months. No false promises, no manipulation, just plain truth.
"I understand," I whisper.
He releases my wrist and steps back. "Good. Go shower."
I close the bathroom door behind me and finally let out the breath I've been holding.
My reflection in the mirror is a shock: tangled blonde hair, dirt-streaked face, eyes wide with a combination of fear and exhaustion.
I still wear Blade's cut over my ruined wedding dress, the leather hanging loose on my frame.
I look like a victim. Like prey.
I hate it.
Stripping off the cut, I slowly hang it on the back of the door. The wedding dress follows, and I take great satisfaction in leaving it in a heap on the floor. I'll burn it later if I get the chance.
The hot water of the shower is blissful, washing away dirt, blood (none of it mine), and some of the fear that's been my constant companion. I use Blade's soap and shampoo, surrounding myself with his scent, something clean and masculine without being overpowering.
As I scrub my skin raw, I can't stop the thoughts that have been hovering at the edges of my consciousness.
I helped hide evidence of multiple murders tonight.
I watched a man kill without hesitation and felt something other than horror.
I'm now in the home of what is clearly another outlaw motorcycle gang, wearing a member’s cut, about to sleep in his bed.
But the alternative was becoming Mike's "wife", his possession to use and abuse and share as he saw fit.
I close my eyes, letting the water pound against my face. What the fuck have I gotten myself into? And more importantly, how am I going to get my sister out of the Vultures MC's clutches?
When I finally emerge from the bathroom, a towel wrapped around me and another around my hair, I find clothes laid out on the bed—a black t-shirt that will hang like a dress on me and a pair of boxers with a drawstring that I might be able to tighten enough to stay up.
Blade is nowhere to be seen.
I dress quickly, grateful for the clean clothes even if they swallow my frame. The shirt falls to mid-thigh, and I have to roll the boxers' waistband several times, but they'll do for sleeping.
Just as I'm wondering where Blade has gone and what I'm supposed to do now, the door opens. He enters carrying a bottle of water and what looks like a first aid kit.
"Thought you might be thirsty," he says, setting the water on the nightstand. "And those scratches on your legs need cleaning."
I'd almost forgotten about the cuts and scrapes I'd acquired running through the woods in my escape. Now that he mentions them, they sting beneath the borrowed boxers.
"Thanks," I say, taking the water and drinking deeply. I haven't had anything to drink since before my escape, and my body suddenly realizes how dehydrated it is.
Blade watches me drain half the bottle in one go, his expression unreadable. When I finish, he gestures to the bed.
"Sit. Let me see those cuts."
I hesitate only briefly before perching on the edge of the mattress. He kneels in front of me, opening the first aid kit and taking out antiseptic wipes.
"This will sting," he warns, before lifting the hem of the boxers just enough to expose the worst of the scratches on my thighs.