4. Razor #2
She wriggles harder, getting her hips almost through. Another few seconds and she’ll be committed to the drop, and there’s nothing below that window but a thirty-foot fall onto rocks and broken ground.
She’ll break her neck. Or her back. Or both.
Time to intervene.
I push the door open fully and lean against the frame. “That’s a long drop.”
She freezes. Then she twists, trying to see behind her, and nearly loses her balance. For a second I think she’s going to fall forward out the window, and I surge forward to grab her, but she catches herself on the window frame.
Slowly, carefully, she extracts herself from the window. Climbs down from the toilet. Turns to face me.
Her face is flushed from exertion, her hair wild around her face. There’s a scrape on her forearm from the window frame, a thin line of blood welling up. Her chest heaves with rapid breathing, and I force myself to keep my eyes on her face.
Her very angry face.
We have a silent standoff. She’s assessing me, trying to figure out if I’m a threat, what I’m going to do. Her hands are shaking—I can see them trembling at her sides—but her chin is up, defiant.
I recognize that look. Seen it before in war zones, in people who’ve been pushed to their limit but refuse to break. Fear mixed with determination mixed with pure survival instinct.
This woman’s been hurt before. Recently. The kind of hurt that leaves marks.
I notice bruises on her arms. Old ones, faded to yellow-green. One on her upper arm in the distinct shape of finger marks. Another on her forearm. A third peeking out from under her tank top strap, on her shoulder.
Someone put their hands on her. Someone hurt her.
It’s not my business, or my fight, but fury flickers in my chest.
“Who hurt you?” The question comes out before I can stop it.
Her eyes narrow. “Fuck off.”
“Those bruises aren’t from last night.”
“I said fuck off.”
Fair enough. None of my business.
But it pisses me off anyway.
“You run,” I say quietly, “you die. Maybe not immediately. Maybe you make it a few miles into the woods before exposure gets you. Maybe you even find the road. But the Ruthless Saints are hunting witnesses. They will find you. And when they do, they won’t be as gentle as we’ve been.”
“Gentle?” She laughs, sharp and bitter. “You kidnapped me. Tied me up. Dragged me to the middle of nowhere. That’s your definition of gentle?”
“You’re alive. You’re unharmed. That’s gentle by club standards.”
“What wonderful standards.”
I can’t argue with that.
She shifts her weight, clearly trying to decide if she can bolt past me. She can’t. I’m blocking the only exit, and I’m faster than she is, trained in ways she isn’t.
But I respect that she’s considering it anyway.
“I need to make a call,” she says suddenly. Desperately. “Please. My family. They’ll be worried. If I don’t check in?—”
“Can’t do that.”
“Why not? You can listen to the whole conversation. Screen it or whatever. Just please. I need to—” Her voice cracks. “They need to know I’m okay.”
There’s something in her voice. Something beyond fear. Panic. Real, deep panic that goes beyond self-preservation.
She’s not just worried about herself. She’s worried about someone specific.
Someone she needs to protect.
“Who?” I ask.
“None of your business.”
“If you want to make a call, it is my business.”
She presses her lips together, jaw tight. Not giving an inch.
Stubborn. I respect that too.
“Look,” I say, gentler now. “I know this is fucked up. I know you’re scared. But right now, staying here is what keeps you alive. The people looking for you aren’t interested in asking questions. They’re interested in eliminating problems.”
“I’m not a problem. I’m just—” She stops herself. Swallows hard. “I didn’t ask to see what I saw. I didn’t ask for any of this.”
“I know.”
“Then let me go.”
“Can’t do that either.”
“Why not?”
“It’s complicated,” I say, hating how insufficient that sounds.
“Everyone keeps saying that.” Her hands curl into fists at her sides. “I have a life. I have people depending on me. I can’t just disappear.”
“You won’t. We’ll figure something out.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
“That’s not good enough.”
“It’s what I’ve got.”
She stares at me, and I see the moment she makes a decision. See it in her eyes, in the set of her shoulders. She’s going to try to run. Not now, but soon. First chance she gets.
I should warn her not to. Should make it clear that running gets her nowhere except hurt or dead. But looking at the fear and desperation and fierce determination in those green eyes, I understand.
She’s got someone she needs to protect. Someone she needs to get back to. And she’ll do whatever it takes, consequences be damned.
I know that feeling. That desperate, clawing need to protect someone you love even if it kills you in the process. I felt it once, with my daughter. Before I lost her to the same demons I’ve been fighting for years.
This woman has that same look Sarah had. That same fire. That same refusal to give up.
“Stay put,” I tell her, my voice rougher than I intend. “Give us time to figure this out. Running gets you killed. Staying alive gives us options.”
“Options for who? For you? For your club?”
“For everyone.”
She doesn’t believe me. I can see it written all over her face.
Can’t blame her for that.
“Get cleaned up,” I say, nodding to the scrape on her arm. “First aid kit’s under the sink. You need anything, I’ll be right outside.”
“My freedom would be nice.”
“Yeah, well, fresh out of that today.” I turn to leave, pausing in the doorway. Can’t help myself from saying, “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. About all of this.”
She doesn’t respond. Just stands there, arms wrapped around herself, looking small and alone and absolutely refusing to break.
I close the door behind me and lean against the wall, breathing through the tightness in my chest.
This woman is going to be a problem. Not because she’s difficult or demanding, but because she’s the kind of person who makes you want to help her. Want to protect her. Want to fix the broken things in her life even though you know you can’t fix your own.
Dangerous. That’s what she is.
Not to the club. Not to our operation.
To us. To me and Hawk and Shadow. Because all three of us have a weakness for people who need saving, and this woman needs saving in the worst way.
I push off the wall and head back downstairs. Hawk’s still on the phone, his voice low and tense. Shadow’s probably still doing perimeter checks.
Forty-eight hours, Viper said. Forty-eight hours to figure out what the hell we’re going to do with Jade before the club comes asking questions we don’t have good answers for.
Forty-eight hours to decide if we’re going to follow orders or follow our conscience.