Chapter 9
I rest my cheek against Legion's shoulder, eyelids heavy. My body's gone liquid, muscles turned to warm honey as I melt against him. The room blurs at the edges. Drugs still haunting my blood, making everything feel like it's happening underwater.
I could sleep right here, right now. Skin against skin, his heartbeat under my palm. I don't care who watches.
Legion's hand slides down my back, cups my ass with a firm squeeze that jolts me halfway to consciousness.
"We're not done yet, princess," he murmurs, lips brushing my ear. "That was a good first step. Probably got half the members on your side, but the night is young. And that means—"
"For fuck's sake!" A voice thunders through the bar, sharp as a gunshot. "Are we at a goddamn wake or what?"
I jerk upright, arms instinctively crossing over my chest despite what everyone's already seen. A mountain of a man stands at the back of the room—wide-framed with wild eyes and an open shirt revealing a torso that's more ink than skin. He stares directly at me, beckoning with one massive hand.
"Hey, Diesel, shut your hole," someone calls from a corner table.
Diesel. The one who's been watching Mercy. The one who taught her to shoot.
He throws both arms up like he's conducting an orchestra, and the entire place goes silent. Even the ceiling fan seems to pause. He steps into that silence like it belongs to him, crossing the room in three long strides before slamming his palm on the bar hard enough to make bottles jump.
"Feels like a damn funeral in here," he announces, voice filling every corner. "Someone better pour this girl a drink before her nerves chew through the fucking cushion." He looks at me, eyes narrowed but mouth quirked up. "Time to welcome the girl who broke the bad boy's brain, don't you think?"
The scene shifts faster than I can track.
Music erupts from hidden speakers—something with a growl and a bass line that crawls up my spine.
I flinch at the sudden assault, curling closer to Legion.
The men at the corner table laugh, the sound rough like gravel.
Someone cranks the volume until I feel it in my teeth.
The room transforms like a beast waking.
Like the blood came back.
"Come on, pretty girl," Diesel yells, gesturing toward the bar. The way he says it sounds like an invitation wrapped in barbed wire.
Legion's hand finds my knee, squeezes once. "Go with it," he says quietly. "Try. Breathe." His eyes search mine, desperate for understanding. "This is our only chance, Savannah. This night is it. Once the vote is done, it's over. It's law. And if they don't let you stay—"
He doesn’t finish. But he doesn’t have to. It’s already been said.
"Come on," Legion says, cupping my face.
"Pretty Girl!" another man calls. "We're all waitin' on ya!"
"It's not that bad," Legion says. "I promise. They're good people."
I don't even respond with words, just a look.
Which makes Legion laugh. "I get it," he says.
"I know what you see. But that's because you're not family yet.
If we get the votes, you will be. And then you'll see.
Then you'll understand. These men will protect you ‘till the end of time.
You'll never know how you got along without them. "
And that's that. His speech is over because he doesn't even give me a chance to respond. He just gently pushes me off his lap, stands up, tucks his cock back into his jeans, and zips up like nothing happened.
Then he shoulders into his cut, the leather settling across his back like armor, and walks toward the bar without looking back.
I sit alone on the couch, naked.
The gaze of forty or fifty outlaw bikers tracking my every breath.
I stare at Legion's back as he walks away. I'm supposed to follow. I understand that much. But what waits for me at that bar, where the men gather with hungry eyes?
I have no idea.
Something inside me wants to say no. To curl up right here on this stained couch and refuse.
But if I do, we lose everything.
I won't be protected.
Won't be allowed to stay.
And Legion won't be allowed to leave.
The rational part of my brain understands they're not just gonna kick me through the gate and tell me to walk home. We're in the middle of absolute nowhere. I don't even know where the nearest town is. Hell, I don't even know where I am right now.
Legion wouldn't abandon me. He'd get me somewhere safe.
But then he'd leave. And I'd be alone.
I'd be fine, obviously. One phone call to my lawyer would get me money, clothes, a car—anything I needed. Eleanor Ashby's daughter is never truly stranded.
But I cannot go home. Not after what they did.
Legion is my home now.
I stand up slowly, deliberately, letting the room watch me gather myself. I pull on his t-shirt, slide into his jeans, zip up his hoodie. Like it never happened. Like I wasn't just naked beneath the gaze of fifty strangers.
My mother taught me how to smile through anything, and this is just one more performance.
I walk toward the bar, chin up, shoulders back. Every step feels like a mile. My bare feet stick to the floor—beer spills and God knows what else making each footfall a tacky reminder of how far I've fallen. The conversations around me dip and swell like prairie grass in wind.
"Rich girls slummin' it," someone mutters from a dark corner.
Another voice says something I don't catch—something that makes three men laugh low and mean.
I keep walking anyway.
The music kicks harder, some growling anthem about women and whiskey. The crowd shifts around me, bodies rearranging like I'm a stone dropped in still water. A few people lean in, curious, waiting to see what happens next.
I reach the bar where Legion stands with Diesel. Legion positions himself beside me, close enough that his body heat reaches through the borrowed clothes. He doesn't touch me. Doesn't speak. But his presence steadies me like a hand on a spooked horse's flank.
The night has started. Whatever happens next will decide if I get to stay or if I have to run. I grip the edge of the bar, feel the sticky wood under my fingertips. I breathe in through my nose. Hold it.
Make them like me? This has to be a joke.
These men don't want to like me. They want to own a piece of me, same as everyone else. Same as my mother with her camera. Same as Marcus with his ring. Same as Cash with his threats about inheritance.
But I'm still here.
Still standing.
And I've been making men like me since before I even knew what that meant. What's forty or fifty more?
Diesel's gaze cuts through me from behind the bar.
Not a smile or a nod. Just that stare, assessing me like I'm a filly at auction.
The glass he slides toward me is chipped along the rim, a jagged imperfection that might slice my lip if I'm not careful.
The whiskey inside catches light from the neon beer signs, turning gold, then amber, then something darker as it sloshes against the sides.
It reminds me of sunset through my bedroom window at home—a place that isn't mine anymore.
I lift the shot, feel its weight. Everyone's watching, waiting to see if Eleanor Ashby's perfect daughter will choke, or cry, or run.
I tip it back in one smooth motion.
The burn traces a map down my throat. The alcohol illuminates my injuries from the inside out, making me glow with hurt.
Before the sting fades from my tongue, Diesel places a second shot in front of me. No words. Just expectation.
I don't hesitate this time. Down it goes, chasing the first, pooling like liquid courage in my empty stomach. The drugs still lingering in my system dance with the whiskey, making my fingertips tingle and my cheeks flush.
A third glass appears. I can feel Legion watching me, his presence a gravity well I'm circling. I wonder if he's proud, or worried, or both.
I down the third shot, no longer tasting it.
The fourth glass arrives with a slight nod from Diesel, the barest acknowledgment that I'm exceeding expectations. The whiskey no longer burns—it warms, spreading through limbs that have been cold since Cash dragged me away from Legion at the silo.
And finally… it fades.
All of it.
it just fades and… it feels good.
Legion leans in as the men get rowdy. I think maybe they might like me. I think maybe I did OK.
And as these words form in my head, my mouth does something weird.
It smiles.
Not the smile my mother taught me—perfect teeth, practiced dimples, eyes that crinkle just enough to seem genuine on camera.
This smile is wilder, looser at the edges.
It belongs to the girl who used to meet Legion in secret, who gave herself to him under stars and grain dust while a dynasty waited at home.
This smile says: I'm not done yet.
This isn't over yet.
I'm here.
The whiskey settles into my bones, making everything soft at the edges. The room doesn't spin exactly, but it feels like I'm watching it through water. Colors blur. Sounds stretch. I lean against the bar, feeling the press of Legion's body beside me.
Across from us, Diesel laughs at something Legion says. I don't catch the words, just the low rumble of Legion's voice and the answering bark from Diesel. Their camaraderie feels strange—intimate in a way I've never understood.
Brotherhood, maybe.
Whatever it is, it makes Legion's face relax. The hard lines around his mouth soften.
He looks... happy.
And that—that single moment of seeing joy crack through his mask—makes something in my chest uncoil. If he can be happy here, with these men, maybe I can too. Maybe this isn't just survival. Maybe it's something else.
The music changes, shifting from something angry and pounding to a slower beat that feels like honey in my veins. I sway slightly, letting the rhythm catch me.
That's when I notice him.