Chapter 3
THREE
AINSLEY
I wake to pain. Not the sharp, immediate kind that makes you scream. This is deeper. Duller. The kind that settles into your bones and reminds you with every breath that your body has been through hell.
For a second, just one blissful, disorienting second, I don't remember where I am.
Then it all crashes back.
Justin's fists. His voice in my ear telling me I'm nothing, that I'm worthless, that Owen would be better off without me. The frantic packing. The beater car. The highway. The smoke. The terror of being stranded with my baby in the backseat while the sun set and the world grew dark around us.
The brothers on their bikes.
The Old Ladies with their kind eyes and firm hands.
Perdition. The clubhouse. The backrooms.
I try to sit up and immediately regret it.
My ribs scream in protest, a sharp, breathless pain that makes me gasp and freeze halfway up.
I press a hand to my side, feeling the tender, swollen flesh beneath my shirt.
Justin kicked me there. Twice. Maybe three times.
I lost count after the first one knocked the wind out of me.
I force myself to breathe slowly. In through my nose. Out through my mouth. Shallow breaths. Anything deeper makes the pain flare white-hot.
My cheekbone throbs with a dull, persistent ache. I reach up carefully and touch it, wincing at the heat radiating from the bruise. The skin is tight and swollen, and I know without looking in a mirror that it's ugly. Purple. Yellow around the edges. A map of violence written across my face.
Every muscle in my body aches. My shoulders. My back. My thighs. Even my hands hurt from gripping the steering wheel so tightly yesterday, from holding Owen, from trying to hold myself together.
I turn my head slowly, carefully, and my heart stutters in my chest until I see him.
Owen.
He's asleep in the makeshift crib, a laundry basket lined with soft blankets, right next to the bed. His little chest rises and falls in that perfect, steady rhythm that only babies have. His dark curls are a mess against his forehead, his chubby fists curled near his face. He looks peaceful.
I exhale a breath I didn't know I was holding.
He's okay. We're okay.
For now.
I sit up slowly, every movement deliberate, and swing my legs over the side of the bed.
The floor is cold under my bare feet. I stand, ignoring the way my body screams in protest, and move to Owen's side.
I reach down and rest my hand on his back, feeling the warmth of him, the life of him. He stirs slightly but doesn't wake.
"We're okay," I whisper.
I don't know if I'm trying to convince him or myself.
The room is small but clean. A bed, a dresser, a chair in the corner. There's a window with bars on it and I don't know if that makes me feel safer or more trapped. The walls are plain, the floor scuffed. It's not much, but it's more than I had yesterday.
More than I've had in a long time.
I move to the window and peer out through the curtains. Bright morning light casts long shadows across the parking lot. I can see motorcycles lined up in neat rows, a few trucks, the main building of the clubhouse looming in the distance. It's quiet out there. Peaceful, almost.
But I can't relax. I can't let my guard down.
Justin is out there. Somewhere. Hunting.
I press my forehead against the cool glass and close my eyes. My hands are shaking. They haven't stopped shaking since I left. Since I grabbed Owen and ran. Since I realized that staying meant dying, or worse, watching Owen grow up in that hell.
I can still feel Justin's hands on me. His fists. His voice in my ear, low and venomous, telling me I'm nothing. That I'm worthless. That no one will ever want me. That Owen would be better off without me. That he'd make sure I never saw my son again if I tried to leave.
I squeeze my eyes shut tighter, trying to block it out, but it doesn't work. It never works.
The memories are always there, lurking just beneath the surface. Waiting to drag me under.
I force myself to breathe. In through my nose. Out through my mouth.
A soft whimper pulls me back.
Owen.
I turn and see him stirring, his little face scrunching up in that way that means he's about to cry. I move as quickly as I can, which isn't very quick at all, and scoop him up before he can fully wake. Pain shoots through my ribs and I bite down hard on my lip to keep from crying out.
I hold him close to my chest, breathing through the pain. He settles immediately, nuzzling into me, his tiny hand gripping my shirt.
"Hey, baby," I whisper, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "Mama's here. You're okay."
He blinks up at me with those big brown eyes, my eyes, and smiles. It's a sleepy, gummy smile that makes my chest ache in the best way.
This. This is why I ran. This is why I'll keep running if I have to.
For him.
I'm in the middle of changing Owen's diaper when the knock comes. I freeze. My heart slams against my ribs, ow, fuck, that hurts , and for a second, I can't breathe. My mind goes to the worst place immediately: Justin found us. He's here. He's going to take Owen. He's going to kill me.
"Ainsley?" A woman's voice. Soft. Familiar. "It's Lucy. Can we come in?"
We.
I force myself to breathe. To move. I finish fastening Owen's diaper and pick him up, holding him against my hip like a shield. Then I walk to the door and crack it open.
Lucy is standing there with a bright smile. Behind her are four other women, Tessa, Hadley, Erica, Scarlett, all looking at me with expressions that are equal parts concern and determination.
"Hey girly," Lucy says gently. "We need to talk."
I step back, and they file in. Within seconds, the small room feels even smaller. The women spread out, taking up space with an ease that makes me feel like I'm intruding in my own temporary refuge.
Lucy sits on the edge of the bed and pats the spot next to her. "Sit."
It's not a request.
I sit.
Tessa leans against the dresser, arms crossed. Hadley stands near the window. Erica hovers by the door. Scarlett pulls out a notebook and pen, all business.
"You can't stay here," Lucy says.
My stomach drops. "What?"
"Not like that," Hadley says quickly. "We're not kicking you out. We're moving you."
"Moving me where?"
"There's a cottage on the property," Scarlett says, flipping open her notebook. "Two bedrooms, one bathroom, small kitchen, wraparound porch. It's old, but it's clean. And it's yours."
I stare at them. "I can't—"
"You can," Tessa interrupts. "And you will. You're not staying in a backroom behind a bar with a baby. That's not happening."
"I don't have money for rent," I say quickly. "I can't afford—"
"Who's talking about rent?" Lucy looks genuinely confused.
"But—"
"The club always keeps a house ready," Erica says softly. Her voice is calm, steady, like she's done this before. "Sometimes people need somewhere to land. That's what it's for."
"It used to belong to Old Man Hank," Hadley adds. "He was one of the original members. After he passed, nobody could bring themselves to sell it. So it just... sits there. Waiting."
"For people like you," Scarlett finishes.
I don't know what to say. My throat is tight, my eyes burning. "I don't want to be a burden."
"Honey," Lucy says, reaching over and taking my hand. "You showed up with one diaper bag and a black eye. The only job you have this week is getting stronger. That's it."
"But I need to work. I need to—"
"You need to heal ," Tessa says firmly. "You can barely stand up straight. You think we didn't notice you wincing every time you move? You're not working. Not yet."
"I can help—"
"You will," Hadley says. "When you're ready. But right now, you need to rest."
I look down at Owen in my lap. He's playing with my fingers, oblivious to the conversation happening around him.
But the idea of accepting this much help, of letting these women, these strangers , take care of me... it terrifies me.
"What if I can't pay you back?" I whisper.
"You don't have to," Lucy says. "That's not how this works."
"Then how does it work?"
"You heal," Erica says. "You get stronger. And when you're ready, you help the next person who needs it. That's how it works."
I blink hard, refusing to cry in front of them.
"Come on," Tessa says, pushing off the dresser. "Let's get you moved."
Before I can protest, there's another knock on the door.
Scarlett opens it, and a woman steps inside. She's older than the others, maybe late forties, with soft curves, kind eyes, and an aura of calm competence that fills the room immediately.
"This is Bella," Lucy says. "She's a nurse. And she's going to check you over."
"I'm fine," I say automatically.
Bella smiles. "I'm sure you are. But humor me anyway."
She sets down a small medical bag and moves toward me with the kind of gentle authority that makes it impossible to argue. Owen reaches for her immediately, and she takes him with practiced ease, bouncing him on her hip while she studies me.
"Can you lift your shirt for me, sweetheart?"
I hesitate, then slowly pull up the hem of my shirt, exposing the bruises on my ribs. They're dark purple, almost black in places, with sickly yellow edges.
Bella's expression doesn't change, but I see the flash of anger in her eyes. She sets Owen down gently on the bed and kneels in front of me, her hands cool and steady as she presses carefully along my ribs.
I wince.
"Deep breath," she says.
I try. The pain flares, and I gasp.
"Okay. Shallow breaths. That's good." She continues her examination, her touch gentle but thorough. "Nothing's broken. But you've got some serious bruising. It's going to hurt for a while. A week, maybe two."
"I can work through it," I say.
Bella looks up at me, her expression firm. "No, you can't. You need to rest. Let your body heal. If you push yourself too hard, you'll make it worse."
"But—"
"No buts." She stands and pulls a small bottle from her bag. "Ibuprofen. Take it as needed for the pain. And rest . That's an order."
I take the bottle, my hands shaking.
Bella cups my face gently, her thumb brushing over my uninjured cheek. "You're going to be okay, sweetheart. Let us take care of you."
I nod, not trusting my voice.
They don't ask if I want to move. They just start packing.
Tessa grabs the diaper bag. Hadley folds the blankets from the laundry basket. Erica gathers the few toys scattered on the floor. Scarlett makes notes in her notebook, probably a list of things I'll need.
Lucy picks up Owen and holds him close, whispering something to him that makes him giggle.
And I just... stand there. Watching. Overwhelmed.
Within twenty minutes, everything I own is packed into two bags.
"Ready?" Lucy asks.
I nod.
We walk out of the backroom, through the clubhouse, and out into the bright afternoon sun. The women lead me across the property, past the main building, past the rows of motorcycles, to a small cottage tucked into the trees at the edge of the compound.
It's old.
The paint, once a cheerful yellow, is peeling in long strips, exposing weathered wood underneath.
The porch steps creak under our weight. The shutters hang slightly crooked, like they've been that way for years and nobody's bothered to fix them.
Wildflowers grow wild along the fence line, bright splashes of purple and white against the overgrown grass.
But there's a porch swing.
It's old and squeaky, the chains rusted, but it's there. Waiting.
"Here we are," Hadley says, opening the front door.
I step inside.
The cottage smells faintly of dust and old wood, but it's clean.
Hardwood floors stretch through the small space, scuffed and worn but solid.
The living room is tiny, just enough room for a worn couch, a coffee table, and a crooked fireplace that looks like it hasn't been used in years.
The kitchen is straight out of the 70s: avocado green cabinets, a chipped Formica countertop, outdated appliances that hum quietly.
A hallway leads to two bedrooms and a bathroom.
It's not much.
But it's more than I've had in a long time.
"The backyard is fenced," Scarlett says, pointing out the window. "Perfect for Owen when he starts walking."
"We'll get you set up," Tessa says, already moving toward the bedrooms. "Come on."
And I just stand there, holding Owen, watching these women create a home for me.
"Why are you doing this?" I ask quietly.
Lucy looks up from where she's folding blankets. "Because you need it. And because we can."
"But you don't even know me."
"We know enough," Tessa says. "And the rest? We'll figure out as we go."
By the time they leave, the cottage feels... livable. Not perfect. Not fancy. But livable.
And for the first time in what feels like forever, I'm alone with Owen in a space that's ours.
I sink down onto the couch, holding Owen close. The silence is overwhelming. For so long, silence meant danger. It meant Justin was thinking. Planning. Getting ready to explode.
But this silence is different. It's... peaceful. I look around the small cottage. The peeling yellow paint. The squeaky porch swing I can see through the window. The wildflowers swaying in the breeze. The crooked fireplace. The pale blue bedroom where Owen will sleep.
It's not much, but it's ours. And that thought breaks something open inside me. I hold Owen tighter and let myself cry. Not the silent, terrified crying I did in Justin's house, biting my lip so he wouldn't hear. Not the desperate, gasping sobs I choked back on the highway when the car broke down.
This is different. This is relief. And grief. And fear. And hope. All of it crashing over me at once. Owen squirms in my arms, and I loosen my grip, pressing kisses to his forehead.
"We're okay," I whisper. "We're going to be okay."
I don't know if I believe it yet.
But I want to.
Later, after I've fed Owen and changed him and rocked him to sleep in the laundry basket in his pale blue room, I stand in the doorway and just... watch him.
His little chest rises and falls. His tiny fists are curled near his face. He looks so peaceful.
I move to the living room and sit on the couch, pulling a blanket around my shoulders. The cottage is quiet. The only sounds are the faint hum of the refrigerator and the distant rumble of motorcycles somewhere on the property.
I should sleep. But I can't. Because even though I'm here, even though these women have been kind, even though the brothers promised to protect us...
Justin is still out there. And I don't know if I'll ever stop looking over my shoulder. I pull the blanket tighter and close my eyes. Tomorrow, I'll figure out what comes next. Tonight, I just need to survive.