Blood and Grace (Book of Legion: Badlands MC #2)

Chapter 1

I wake slowly to bright light and soft piano music. The kind of light one finds in hospitals and forces you to squint, the kind of music one finds in elevators that forces you to forget.

My head is throbbing and feels… too full. Like it’s stuffed with cotton. The nasty taste in my mouth has me craving water. I try to move my hand to my face, but I can’t.

I'm tied down.

The panic is immediate. My eyes fly open. The ceiling swims into focus—knotty pine beams. A chandelier made from antlers. Hunting cabin.

An Ashby hunting cabin.

I pull against whatever's holding my wrists.. Hard and unyielding. Not rope. Zip ties.

I can move my legs a little and I feel air on my thighs. I’m still wearing my dress, but it's hiked up and this is when I remember.

I’m not wearing underwear.

Legion.

The silo.

Oh God.

"Legion," I whisper, my voice cracking. The memory slams back—flashlights cutting through darkness. Cash's voice. Men dragging Legion away. His body hitting the ground. Blood.

"He can't hear you, darling." Marcus's voice makes my skin crawl. I turn my head and there he is, sitting in an armchair by the fireplace. Watching me. Smiling.

"Where is he?" My throat feels raw. From screaming. I was screaming for Legion.

"Don't worry about him." Marcus rises, straightens his slacks. Still dressed like we're at a country club. "Are you thirsty? You must be parched."

Wrong. This is wrong. All wrong.

"Untie me." I try to sound firm, but my voice trembles.

"In time." He moves to a small table, pours water into a glass. "You need to rest first. You've had quite the shock."

Shock?

I test the restraints again. Tight. Professional. "Marcus, this isn't funny. Untie me now."

He approaches with the glass, a bendy straw poking out the top. Like I'm in a hospital. Like he's helping.

"Careful now," he says, holding the straw to my lips. "Small sips."

I'm so thirsty I drink despite myself. The water tastes clean, at least.

"Where am I?" I ask, when he pulls the glass away.

"Somewhere safe." He smiles. That campaign smile. Perfect teeth. Dead eyes. "The north ridge cabin. No one will bother us here."

North ridge. Miles from the main house. Miles from anyone.

"My brothers—"

"—know you're with me." He sets the glass down, then brushes hair from my forehead with cool fingers. I flinch. "Everyone's very concerned about your... episode."

"Episode?"

"Your breakdown, sweetheart. After what that criminal did to you."

The fire crackles as logs shift. I'm suddenly aware of framed photographs on the walls. My face. Over and over. Childhood shots. Riding competitions. One of us at a charity gala. All perfectly arranged.

Like a shrine.

"I didn't have a breakdown," I say carefully. "And Legion didn't do anything to me I didn't want."

Marcus's smile doesn't waver, but something flickers behind his eyes. "You're confused. That's understandable after trauma."

"I'm not confused, Marcus. I want you to untie me. Right now."

He ignores this, moving to retrieve a tray from the small kitchenette. "You should eat something. I made your favorite."

The tray holds a plate of food. Mashed potatoes. Roast chicken. Green beans. A meal I've never once told him I liked.

"Marcus, please." I soften my voice. Sunday manners. The ones Mama taught me for dealing with difficult men. "I'd feel much better if I could sit up properly."

"Soon." He sits on the edge of the bed. Too close. "First, let me take care of you."

He scoops up mashed potatoes with a silver spoon. Holds it to my lips.

"I can feed myself if you untie me."

"Open wide," he says, like I'm a child.

I press my lips together. His eyes harden.

"Savannah." The single word is a warning. "Don't be difficult."

My survival instinct kicks in. Play along, Savannah. For now.

I open my mouth. The potatoes are still hot. Not terrible. Butter and garlic. But my stomach turns as he watches me chew with naked satisfaction.

"Good girl," he murmurs, wiping a bit from the corner of my mouth with a cloth napkin. "See? I take good care of what's mine."

Mine.

I swallow hard. "Marcus, what happened to Legion?"

He feeds me another spoonful before answering. "That's not important."

"It is to me."

"He got what was coming to him." His voice remains pleasant. Conversational. "Men like that always do."

Fear claws up my throat. "Is he—"

"Let's not talk about him." Marcus cuts a piece of chicken. "Let's talk about us. Our future."

"There is no us." The words slip out before I can stop them.

His hand freezes midair. "Don't say that, darling. Not after everything I've done for you."

"What have you done, Marcus?" My voice sounds strange to my own ears. Distant. "Tied me to a bed? Drugged me?"

"Protected you." He sets the fork down, leans closer. "Saved you from yourself." His breath smells like mint and whiskey. His cologne—expensive, sandalwood—fills my nostrils.

"I don't need saving."

"Oh, but you do." He traces my jawline with one finger. "You always have. That's why your mother chose me."

"My mother is dead."

"But her wishes live on." His finger trails down my neck. "And I promised her I'd take care of her little girl."

My skin prickles up. "When did you ever speak to my mother?"

"We had an understanding." His smile turns secretive. "About what was best for you."

Lie. Has to be. Mama never even met him.

"Please." I try again, making my voice small. Helpless. The way men like him want women to sound. "I really need to use the bathroom."

"There's a catheter for that."

My blood turns to ice. "A what?"

"I thought of everything." He resumes feeding me, as if discussing the weather. "We might be here a while. Until you're better."

"Better from what?" Panic rising. Chest tight. And suddenly, that feeling like I need to pee, isn’t the need to pee but… he put a fucking tube up inside me? What. The hell.

"Your confusion," Marcus says. He wipes my mouth again. "Your rebellion."

"Marcus, this is kidnapping."

He laughs, genuinely amused. "You can't kidnap your own fiancée, silly."

"I'm not your fiancée anymore." I look pointedly at my bare finger. "I left the ring at home."

His smile doesn't falter. "It's right here." He pats his pocket. "Ready when you are."

"And if I'm never ready?"

Something shifts in his eyes. Something cold and patient.

"Then we wait," he says simply. "I have all the time in the world."

Marcus circles the bed with the measured steps of a preacher delivering his most important sermon, each footfall echoing his righteous certainty.

"You've been under his influence for years, Savannah.

That kind of manipulation runs deep in the psyche.

But we'll work through this together, step by step, until you're cleansed of it. "

Together. Like we're equal partners in my salvation. Like these ropes binding me to this bed are just loving restraints for my own protection.

"He's dangerous," Marcus continues, voice dripping with feigned concern.

"A criminal. The way we found you two, Savannah.

Together." His lip curls with such disgust, it almost comes off rehearsed.

"He was inside you. You had his come all over your legs.

That's not love, darling. That's fucking. Possession. Predatory grooming."

Grooming. "What the hell are you talking about? He didn't groom me. We were childhood sweethearts."

Marcus makes a sad face at me. He's insane. "Your mother warned me about him extensively. Said he'd been fixated on you since childhood. Stalking you. Taking advantage of your innocent nature."

Well, that's definitely a lie. Eleanor Ashby loved Legion Kane. Maybe in ways I don't want to think about. She's got twenty or thirty thousand pictures of him to prove it.

Marcus has lost his mind.

"We'll get you the absolute best help, darling," he continues. "Intensive therapy. Specialized trauma counseling. Whatever resources you need to process and heal from the psychological damage Legion Kane inflicted on you."

He's the trauma. He's the one damaging me. I am kidnapped. Tied to a bed by my fiancé. Former fiancé, I correct myself.

Suddenly, his hand is on my thigh, proprietary and cold as marble. He slides it up under my dress hem with entitled certainty.

I go rigid, bile burning up my throat.

Oh, God.

Again, the realization that I have no underwear on hits me.

I didn't wear any because... well, there's exactly one reason I meet Legion Kane at the Silo.

And it's so he can claim me completely, desperately, anyway he wants.

My eyes squeeze shut, heart racing as forbidden memories surface of his rough hands, his hungry mouth, his—

Marcus's fingers trace clinical patterns on my bare skin. Goosebumps rise in pure revulsion. I want to scream until my throat bleeds. To kick until bones break. To bite until I taste blood.

But I remain perfectly still. Motionless as a photograph in Eleanor's portfolio.

He's touching places Legion just—No. Lock that memory away. Don't let him taint it. Keep it sacred. Keep it yours alone.

"It's all right," Marcus says. "He defiled you, I totally understand your revulsion. But I took care of that."

"Took care of what?" I blurt. My heart is breaking. Have they killed Legion? "Where is Cash? Where are my brothers?"

"They helped me, Savannah."

"Helped you do what?"

"Clean you. Bring you up here so you could rest."

"Clean… clean me? What the hell does that mean?"

"I washed you, darling. I washed away all traces of him. Inside and out."

Oh, god. I actually turn my head to the side and almost puke. He was touching my body while I was unconscious. He cleaned me!

I've never felt so utterly exposed. So deeply violated. Never, in my entire life.

Marcus either doesn't notice my visceral reaction or simply doesn't care. He withdraws his hand and turns to study the photos he's meticulously arranged on every wall like some twisted gallery.

My entire life displayed like art.

Me at six, clutching a blue show ribbon with gap-toothed pride.

Me at twelve, weaving wildflowers into delicate crowns with sun-browned fingers.

Me at sixteen, caught in a rare moment of genuine laughter, bathed in golden prairie light.

He moves between them like a possessive curator, adjusting frames with precise fingers, wiping away invisible dust with reverent care.

What kind of sick set up is this? Why are all these pictures of me on the walls? They do not belong here. This is a hunting cabin. No one comes up here.

Which makes it the perfect place for a kidnapping.

He must be lying about Cash and Wyatt helping. He has to be. And there is no way—no fucking way in hell—that Colt would have anything to do with this.

Where is Colt?

Where is Legion?

I might never know the answers to these questions if I don’t get out of here. Who can tell how crazy Marcus is right now? He put a fucking tube up inside me to collect my urine so he doesn’t have to let me out of bed!

I pull against the restraints, testing. "I will never be with you again, Marcus."

His smile doesn't falter. Just shifts—a careful rearrangement, like adjusting a tie before stepping onto a stage. "You're confused, Savannah. That's perfectly natural after trauma."

"The only trauma here is being tied to a bed by you."

He leans forward, fingertips pressed together like a therapist I never asked for. "Your mother warned me this might happen. That if he ever got to you again—"

"My mother is dead."

"But her wisdom lives on." His voice softens to that political cadence he uses at fundraisers. "You're Savannah Ashby. Not some biker's plaything."

"I chose him."

"You chose escape. Rebellion. It's textbook, darling."

I stare at the ceiling. The knotty pine beams are unfinished. Rough. Like Legion's hands. "Untie me."

"When your mind is stable, my love. I’m going to help you recover. And then we can talk about letting you make your own decisions."

“Decisions like… when I’d like to go to the bathroom? Decisions like… holding a spoon to feed myself? I'm not an infant, Marcus. I’m not crazy."

"Of course not." He stands, smoothing invisible wrinkles from his slacks. "You're wounded. And I'm patient enough to wait."

"For what?"

"For you to remember who you really are."

"I know exactly who I am."

His laugh is gentle, practiced. "The woman I know wouldn't spread her legs against a silo wall for a convicted felon."

The words don’t even register. He thinks this is embarrassing me? It’s not. I have ‘spread my legs’ for Legion Kane hundreds of times. I’m ashamed of none of them.

"I'm going to bring you dessert later," Marcus says, like we're discussing normal plans. "Something sweet. Your body needs care after what it's been through."

"What have you done to Legion?"

He ignores me, straightening a photo frame. "Your mother built something beautiful with you, Savannah. A legacy. I won't let him destroy that."

"What did you do to him?"

"What needed to be done." He walks to the door and opens it. "Rest now. We'll talk when you're more yourself."

He walks through and the lock clicks behind him.

Heavy. Deadbolt.

I wait thirty seconds, counting heartbeats, making sure he's gone. Then I pull hard against the restraints, methodical now. Testing their give.

Zip ties. Not rope. Wrapped around each wrist, secured to the headboard's wooden slats. My ankles too, spread just wide enough to make me feel vulnerable. Clinical. Like I'm prepped for examination.

The plastic bites when I twist my wrists, but there's a technique to breaking zip ties. I saw it once in a crime documentary. You raise your hands above your head, then bring them down hard against your chest, using the momentum to snap the plastic.

But my hands are secured separately. No momentum possible.

I need another way.

The cabin's familiar. I've been here for family hunting trips, summer escapes, winter holidays. No cell service. One bathroom. Two bedrooms. Kitchen. Living area.

And tools. Always tools in a hunting cabin.

I study the restraints again. The zip ties connect to rope, which threads through the headboard slats. Smart. Harder to break free this way.

I rotate my wrists slowly, feeling for weakness. There isn't much, but the plastic will eventually fatigue if I work at it consistently. Plastic always does.

I close my eyes and listen. No sounds outside. No vehicles. No voices. Just wind in pine needles and distant water—the creek that runs behind the property.

Breathe. Think. Plan.

I start working my right wrist in slow, methodical circles. The plastic doesn't give—not yet—but it will.

It has to.