Chapter 3 - Brick
She's digging her nails into her arms hard enough to leave marks.
I can see it from the corner of my eye. She thinks she's being subtle about it, thinks nobody's paying attention, but I notice everything.
It's how I'm built. How I've stayed alive this long.
You learn to see the small things, the tells that mean someone's about to break, about to snap, about to do something desperate.
The way her fingers curl into her own flesh, the pressure she's applying, she's trying to ground herself. Trying to feel something real. I've seen soldiers do the same thing after firefights, after watching friends die, after coming back from places they left pieces of themselves behind.
I want to tell her to stop. Want to reach over and pull her hands away before she breaks skin.
But I don't. Can't. She already flinched when I moved earlier, already made it clear she doesn't want to be touched, doesn't want help from any man.
Forcing physical intervention would just prove her right about all of us.
So, I sit here like a useless piece of shit and watch her hurt herself because the alternative is worse.
The SUV rolls through empty streets. It's past midnight.
Most of Millhaven is asleep, unaware that six women just got pulled from a Viper trafficking warehouse.
Unaware that war is happening in their backyard.
That's how it always works. Normal people sleep while men like us do the violent necessary things that keep the world turning.
Judge sits across from me, his green eyes cataloguing each woman with the same attention he applies to everything.
Ex-military shows in every line of him, the way he positions himself to have clear sight lines to all exits, the way his hand rests near his weapon, the way he's calculating threat levels and escape routes without conscious thought.
He catches my eye and I see the question there.
I shake my head slightly. Not yet. Let them breathe.
Let them process. They've been through enough without us demanding answers.
The blonde girl in the middle seat hasn't stopped crying quietly. The girl next to her, dark hair, maybe twenty-two, keeps whispering to her, words too soft for me to hear. Comfort between survivors. The other three have gone silent, staring at nothing, processing trauma in real time.
And the girl beside me, the one with brunette hair and blunt bangs who threw a cup at my head and told me she doesn't need help from anyone, is slowly destroying her own arms while trying to pretend she's fine.
I pull my cut off and hold it out to her.
She looks at it like it might bite her.
"What are you doing?" Her voice is sharp. Defensive.
"You're cold," I say. It's not entirely a lie. She's been shivering since we got in the vehicle, though I don't think it's from temperature. Shock does that. Makes your body forget how to regulate itself.
"I'm fine."
"You're shaking."
"I said I'm fine."
I keep holding the cut out. "It's warm. It's clean. You can give it back when we get to the clubhouse."
She stares at me. Those dark eyes are trying to find the trap, the angle, the hidden cost. I keep my expression neutral. Show her nothing that looks like expectation or demand.
"Why?" she asks finally.
"Because you're cold and I'm not."
"That's not a reason."
"It's the only reason I've got."
She looks at the cut again. At the Iron Phoenix patch on the back. At the leather that's worn soft from almost three years of wear. Then she looks at her own arms, at where her nails have left red crescents in her skin.
Slowly, she reaches out and takes it.
The cut swallows her. She's small enough that it hangs past her hands, drapes over her shoulders like a blanket. She pulls it tight around herself, and I watch some of the tension leave her spine. Not much. Just a fraction. But it's there.
"Thank you," she says it like the words hurt to say.
"You're welcome."
She goes back to staring out the window. But her hands aren't digging into her arms anymore. They're wrapped in the leather of my cut, holding it closed, using it as armor between herself and the world.
Something in my chest does that thing again. That movement I don't understand and don't want. I force it down, force myself to focus on the practical. We're fifteen minutes from the clubhouse, and we have medical supplies ready.
Eden's probably already organizing. She does that, takes charge of situations like she was born for them. Canvas will be up despite his injury because he won't let Eden handle this alone. The whole club will mobilize to take care of these women because that's what we do. That's who we are.
And then we'll figure out how to burn the Vipers to the ground for what they did.
The rage is always there, right under my skin.
Controlled most of the time but never gone.
Tonight it's closer to the surface than usual.
I want to go back to that warehouse. Want to find every man who put those women in cages and make them understand exactly what they've done.
Want to take my time with it, make it last, make them beg.
That's the dark side of me. The part that thrives on violence.
The part I learned to channel in the military but never learned to kill.
It's useful most of the time. Makes me good at what I do, makes me the kind of enforcer every MC needs.
But sometimes it's too much. Sometimes I worry that the darkness will swallow everything else and I'll become exactly what my brothers became, men who let violence define them completely until there was nothing left inside worth saving.
Judge leans forward slightly. "How are you all doing?" he asks the group. His voice is gentle in a way that surprises people who don't know him.
Nobody answers.
"I know you don't trust us," he continues.
"I know you have no reason to. But I need you to understand something.
The Iron Phoenix MC isn't like the Vipers.
We don't traffic. We don't hurt women. We don't lock people in cages.
We're at war with them specifically because of shit like what you just went through.
You're safe with us. I know that's hard to believe right now, but it's true. "
"Why should we believe you?" the blonde girl asks. Her voice is hoarse but steadier now. Stronger than I expected.
"Because we just risked our lives to get you out," Judge says simply.
"And we're about to risk them again by bringing you to our clubhouse, giving you our protection, painting targets on our backs for the Vipers to aim at.
We don't get anything out of this except doing what's right. That's it. That's the whole reason."
The dark-haired girl who's been whispering to the blonde speaks up. "What happens to us after tonight?"
"That's up to you," Judge tells her. "We'll help you contact family if you want. Help you disappear if you don't. Get you medical care, legal help, whatever you need. But that's your choice. All of it. You're not prisoners here. You're under protection."
"For how long?" This from one of the other girls, voice barely above a whisper.
"As long as you need."
The girl beside me shifts. "What if we want to leave?"
Judge meets her eyes. "Then you leave. We'll make sure you're safe, set you up somewhere the Vipers can't find you, but we won't force you to stay. Your life is yours. We're just offering help while you figure out what comes next."
She doesn't respond. Just goes back to staring out the window, my cut wrapped tight around her shoulders.
Saint takes a turn. We're five minutes out now. I can feel the proximity to home, to safety, to the place where we can finally stop being on high alert for thirty seconds. The clubhouse is locked down, and Canvas and Wraith are on watch.
Phoenix's voice comes through the radio again.
"ETA three minutes. Canvas, we're incoming with six civilians. Female. All need medical attention and care. Eden ready?"
Canvas's response crackles back. "She's been ready for an hour. Got the common room set up like a triage center. Food's hot. Showers are prepped. Medical supplies staged."
"Copy that."
The girl beside me is shaking again. Harder now, like the closer we get to safety, the more her body realizes it can finally break down. I watch her hands tighten in the leather, watch her press her forehead against the window, watch her count breaths like each one is a battle she has to win.
"We're almost there," I say, and I’m not sure if I'm talking to her or myself.
She doesn't acknowledge that I spoke.
The clubhouse comes into view. All the lights are on, making it look like a beacon in the darkness. The gates are already open. Saint pulls through and the other two vehicles follow. We park in formation near the entrance.
Phoenix is out of the lead vehicle before it's fully stopped. Canvas emerges from the clubhouse, Eden right behind him. She's wearing scrubs and her hair is pulled back, looking every inch the trauma nurse she is. Nora follows with blankets. Ivy carries bags of what looks like clothes.
Judge opens his door. "Take your time," he tells the women. "Nobody's rushing you."
They don't move.
I look at the girl beside me. At the way she's holding herself together through sheer force of will. At the bruise on her jaw that makes me want to commit murder. At the way my cut makes her look even smaller than she is.
"You made it," I say. "You survived. Now comes the easiest part."
She looks at me finally. Those dark eyes are full of things I recognize, trauma, rage and determination all twisted together into something that could either make her stronger or break her completely.
"What's the easy part?" she asks.
"Letting someone help."
"I told you—"
"I know what you told me. I'm telling you that you don't have to do this alone. None of you do." I gesture toward the clubhouse. "There are women in there who've been through their own versions of hell. They survived. You will too. But you've got to get out of this vehicle first."
She looks toward the clubhouse. At Eden standing there in her scrubs, at Nora holding blankets, at Ivy organizing supplies. At women helping women. At proof that maybe not everyone in this world is determined to hurt her.
The blonde girl moves first. Opens her door, steps out on shaking legs. The dark-haired girl follows, then the others. One by one they emerge into the light.
The girl beside me is last.
She unwraps my cut from around her shoulders and holds it out. "Thank you," she says again. "For this. For getting us out. For—" Her voice cracks. "For everything."
"Keep it," I tell her. "Until you don't need it anymore."
"I don't want to owe you anything."
"You don't. It's a gift. No strings."
She studies me for a long moment. Looking for the lie, the trap, the inevitable betrayal. I let her look. Let her see whatever she needs to see.
Finally, she nods. Wraps the cut back around herself. "Okay."
I climb out first, then turn back to offer my hand.
She looks at it. At my scarred knuckles and tattooed fingers. At the hand that's broken bones, held weapons and done violent things.
She takes it.
Her grip is stronger than before. Less desperate.
Like she's choosing this instead of just surviving it.
I help her down from the SUV and she immediately lets go, putting distance between us.
I let her. Watch her walk toward the other women, toward Eden who's already doing initial assessments, toward the possibility of healing.
Judge appears at my side. "She's got fight in her."
"Yeah."
"You gave her your cut."
"She was cold."
"Right." Judge's voice is dry. "That's definitely the only reason."
I look at him. "Don't."
"I'm not doing anything. Just observing."
"Observe somewhere else."
He chuckles. "That's a story I'm going to enjoy watching unfold."
"There's no story."
"Sure, there's not."
Phoenix calls us over for debrief. I follow Judge toward the group of brothers, but my eyes track the girl with brunette hair and bangs.
She's standing with the others, Eden talking to all of them in that calm capable way she has.
The girl's still wearing my cut. Still wrapped in leather and protection that belongs to me.
Feelings make you weak. I've believed that my entire life, and still do.
So, I force myself to look away. Force myself to focus on Phoenix's debrief, on the tactical discussion, on planning our next move against the Vipers. Force myself to ignore the fact that every time I blink, I see her face.
It doesn't work.