“Yes.” “They were waiting.”
I sit on the edge of the infirmary bed, one hand wrapped around a cup of water Brooke pressed into my palm, even though I haven’t taken more than a few sips. The room feels smaller now that I’m not fighting to stay awake. The walls feel closer. The air feels heavier.
Everything feels too… real.
Brooke leans against the counter, watching me without staring.
She’s good at that. It’s the same steady presence she had when I woke up, when I tried to leave, when everything in me was unraveling and she didn’t try to grab it or force it back together.
She just stayed. That’s harder to ignore than anything else.
I stare down at the water in my hand. The surface ripples slightly from how tight my grip is. “They had a file on me.” The words come out quieter than I expect. Not shaky.
Just…heavy.
Brooke doesn’t pretend not to know what I’m talking about. “Yes.”
I swallow. “What kind of file?”
She takes a second before answering, like she’s choosing how much to give me without throwing everything at me at once. “Your name,” she says. “Where you work. Your schedule. Photos.”
My fingers tighten around the cup. “My family?”
Her hesitation is small. But I see it. “Yes.”
That’s worse than anything else. Worse than the hands. Worse than the needle. Worse than the way the world dropped out from under me in a second. Because that means it wasn’t chance. It wasn’t bad luck. It wasn’t wrong place, wrong time. It was me.
Chosen.
I set the cup down before I drop it. “They knew where I’d be.”
“Yes.”
“They were waiting.”
“Yes.”
The word sits in my chest like something solid and sharp. I press my hand flat against my thigh, grounding myself against the feeling before it can spiral into something worse. “I don’t understand,” I say. “Why me?”
Brooke doesn’t lie. “We don’t know yet.”
That should make it easier. It doesn’t. It makes it worse. Because if there isn’t a reason, then there doesn’t have to be one next time either.
My stomach twists. I push the thought away before it can root. “I need to call my mom.” The need hits suddenly, sharp and urgent. I need to hear her voice. I need to hear something normal. Something that isn’t this room, these walls, these people.
“Okay,” Brooke says gently. “We can do that.”
I look up at her. Relief hits first. Then hesitation.
“What do I say?” That’s the problem. Not the call.
The words. “I was almost abducted, drugged, and now I’m in a biker clubhouse with men I don’t know and a woman I just met telling me I’m safe.
” The thought is so ridiculous it almost makes me laugh.
Almost.
But there’s nothing funny about it. “I can’t tell them that,” I say.
“No,” Brooke agrees.
“They’ll panic.”
“Yes.”
“They’ll come here.”
“Probably.”
“They’ll call the police.”
“Most likely.”
“And then what?” I ask, my voice tightening. “What happens then?”
Brooke doesn’t answer right away. That’s answer enough.
I let out a slow breath, dragging a hand through my hair. “I don’t lie to them,” I say. “I don’t… hide things like this.”
“I get it,” Brooke says quietly. “But right now, it’s not about lying. It’s about buying time.”
I look at her. “Time for what?”
“For us to figure out who has your name,” she says. “For you to not walk back into something you don’t see coming.” That lands. Harder than I want it to.
I lean back slightly against the bed, staring at the opposite wall without really seeing it. “So what do I say?”
“Something simple,” Brooke says. “You’re safe. You had an emergency. You’ll call them soon. You’re with people who are helping you.”
“That’s not a lie,” I mutter.
“No,” she says. “It isn’t.”
I let out a breath that feels like it’s been stuck in my chest since I woke up. “I hate this.”
“I know.”
“I hate not telling them.”
“I know.”
“I hate that they knew my family’s names,” I add, my voice dropping.
Brooke’s expression softens. “Yeah,” she says. “That part’s the worst.”
Silence settles between us for a second. Not uncomfortable.
Just… full.
My mind doesn’t stop moving. It shifts. Starts lining things up whether I want it to or not.
Leave.
Stay.
The options sit in front of me like something I can’t ignore anymore.
If I leave, I go home. I lock the doors.
I call my family. I call the police. I try to pretend I can put this back into something normal.
But they had a file. They knew where I work.
They knew when I leave. They knew where I walk.
They were waiting. If I leave, I walk back into that.
Knowing it’s there. Not knowing when it’s coming. My stomach tightens again. I shift.
Stay.
I look around the infirmary again. The bed. The cabinets. The half-open door. This place isn’t normal. Nothing about it is. The rules aren’t clear. The people aren’t familiar. The environment should scare me more than it does.
And him…
My thoughts stop there. Because that’s the part that doesn’t make sense. He should scare me. Everything about him says he should. The way he moves. The way he talks. The way the room shifts when he walks into it like something has just… locked into place. He should feel dangerous. He is dangerous.
I’ve seen it. I saw the blood on his hands. I see it now, dried along his knuckles, split skin that hasn’t been cleaned yet because he doesn’t care about himself the same way he cares about me. My chest tightens.
He doesn’t scare me. That’s the problem. Or part of it. Because there’s something else under that. Something that doesn’t make sense. Something that feels…
No.
I don’t finish that thought. I don’t want to.
The door shifts slightly.
I look up.
He’s there. He fills the doorway without trying, like the space adjusts around him instead of the other way around. The air changes when he steps in. Not louder. Not heavier. Just… focused.
My body reacts before my mind catches up. My spine straightens. My breath pauses. My attention locks.
He looks at me. Not over me. Not through me.
At me. His eyes flick once to my arm where the IV used to be, then to the gauze, then back to my face.
He takes in the room in a single sweep, Brooke, the door, the position of the chair, then settles again.
Contained. “You okay?” The question is simple. Direct.
I hesitate. Then nod. “I think so.”
He doesn’t question it. Doesn’t push. He just accepts the answer for what it is. That matters more than it should.
“Did you find out why?” I ask. The question sits between us.
He doesn’t answer right away. For a second, I think he won’t. Then, “not yet.”
Two words. No fluff. No lies. Just truth. Something in my chest loosens.
I don’t know why that matters so much. It just does. “You will?” I press.
“Yes.” Again. Simple. Certain. Like it’s already done.
I swallow. “Can I leave when I want?” The question comes out before I can stop it.
His gaze doesn’t shift. “No.” The word hits like a wall. Immediate. Solid.
My stomach flips. Anger sparks. “Excuse me?”
He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t move closer. “Not until we know who has your name.” The explanation follows. Not softening. Clarifying.
“That’s not your decision,” I say, my voice sharpening.
“It is right now.”
“That’s not how this works.”
“It is here.”
Frustration burns hotter. “You don’t get to just… decide things for me.”
His expression doesn’t change. “They tried to take you,” he says. “They had your life on paper. You walk out that door, you walk back into their plan.”
“That doesn’t mean I stay here with people I don’t know.”
“It means you don’t go back alone.” The words land differently. Not controlling. Not random. Focused. Something shifts again.
I don’t like how much it affects me. I look at him for a long second. Trying to figure him out. Trying to understand what he is in this situation. Threat. Protection. Both. Something else. “I’m not staying here forever,” I say finally.
He doesn’t argue. “For now works.”
The same words from before. They hit the same way. Worse, maybe. Because now I understand them better. Because now I know he means them. I exhale slowly. “I’m only staying because I don’t have a choice right now.”
He doesn’t respond to that. Doesn’t argue. Doesn’t correct me. He just… accepts it. Then he says, “you’re not staying in here.”
I blink. “What?”
“The infirmary,” he says. “You’re done with it.”
My stomach tightens again. “Where am I staying then?”
His answer doesn’t hesitate. “With me.”
Everything in me reacts at once. Alarm. Confusion. Something deeper I don’t want to touch. “That’s not… no. That’s not happening.”
“It is.”
“You don’t even know me.”
“I know enough.”
“That’s not how this works.”
“It is now.” Again. That same final tone. That same certainty.
I push up slightly from the bed, ignoring the weakness in my legs. “I am not just moving into your room because you decided it.”
His eyes don’t leave mine. “No one else is watching your door the way I will.” That stops me. Because it’s not a threat. It’s not control for the sake of control. It’s… logic. Protection. Focused and deliberate.
“I don’t need you to watch me,” I say, even though it sounds weaker than I want it to.
“You do right now.”
“I don’t even know your name.”
He doesn’t react to that. “Doesn’t change it.”
I stare at him. Frustration. Fear. Confusion. All of it tangles together. And under it, that same steady feeling. That same pull I don’t understand. “This is insane,” I whisper.
“Yeah.” The agreement throws me off. “You’re still coming,” he adds.
I let out a breath that feels like I’m giving something up. Not everything. Not even close. But something. “Fine,” I say finally. “For now.”
“For now,” he echoes with a slight smile. But it doesn’t sound temporary when he says it.
And that…
That might be the most terrifying part of all.