8. Hawk
Hawk
Shadow’s still in the bathroom when I hear it.
A scream. High-pitched, furious, coming from Jade’s room upstairs.
I’m moving before my brain fully processes it, taking the stairs two at a time. Razor’s right behind me, hand already on his weapon out of instinct.
We hit the hallway to find Jade standing in her doorway, face flushed with rage, eyes wild. She’s shaking—from fear or anger or both, I can’t tell. Her hair’s a mess, falling loose from the ponytail, and there are tear tracks on her cheeks.
But it’s the fury in her eyes that stops me cold.
“You want to use me?” She’s screaming at the closed bathroom door where Shadow disappeared. “That’s what this is about? You sick fucks kidnap me, and now you want to—to?—”
“Jade—” I start, keeping my voice level.
She spins on me, and the look in her eyes is pure fire and rage.
“Don’t. Don’t you dare try to explain this away.
I heard you. Downstairs. ‘We want something else.’ And then he—” She points at the bathroom door.
“He got hard from watching Razor spank me. I saw it. I’m not stupid. I know what that means.”
Understanding crashes over me like cold water. She thinks we’re going to rape her.
“That’s not what?—”
“Save it!” Her voice cracks, but she doesn’t back down. “You’re all the same. Every single one of you. My ex, you, it doesn’t matter. Different faces, same shit. You all just want to use women and throw them away when you’re done.”
She’s crying now, tears streaming down her face, but there’s still fight in her stance. Her hands are clenched into fists at her sides, shoulders squared. Ready to go down swinging.
“I have a son!” The words come out raw, desperate, torn from somewhere deep.
“I have a four-year-old son who needs me! You can’t—you can’t just kill me or use me or whatever the fuck you’re planning!
He’s just a little boy! He doesn’t deserve to lose his mother because you’re all disgusting pieces of shit who can’t keep it in your pants! ”
She’s sobbing now, full-on, but the fury hasn’t left her eyes. If anything, it’s burning brighter. This woman’s been pushed to her limit, and she’s not going quietly.
“Jade, listen to me?—”
“No! You listen!” She takes a step forward, finger jabbing at my chest. “I heard the phone call. I heard everything. Your president wants me dead. You’ve got twenty-four hours to eliminate the witness, or you’re all in violation. So either you’re going to kill me, or you’re going to—to?—”
She can’t say it. Can’t voice what she’s thinking. But I can see it written all over her face.
She thinks we’re going to rape her before we kill her. Thinks that’s what “we want something else” meant.
“And I won’t,” she continues, voice breaking. “I won’t let you. I’ll fight. I’ll scratch your eyes out. I’ll bite and kick and scream, and you’ll have to knock me unconscious because I will not just lie there and let you?—”
“We’re not going to rape you.” I say it flat. Hard. Make sure she hears every single word.
She stops mid-rant, chest heaving, tears streaming down her face. Stares at me like she’s waiting for the punch line.
“What Shadow did,” I continue, keeping my voice level and controlled, “was inappropriate. He got turned on watching Razor discipline you. That’s on him. That’s his problem to deal with. But that doesn’t mean we’re going to touch you. That’s not what’s happening here.”
“Then what did you mean?” Her voice is hoarse from screaming. “You said ‘we want something else.’ What else is there? You’re either going to kill me or—” She stops again, unable to finish.
Good fucking question.
I don’t have a good answer. Don’t know what the play is yet. Don’t know how to explain that I’m making this up as I go, trying to find a way to keep her alive without getting us all killed in the process.
All I know is that killing her isn’t an option I’m willing to take. And using her sexually? That’s so far off the table it’s not even in the same room.
“We want you alive,” I say finally. “That’s what else. Alive and cooperative until we figure out how to get you home without getting everyone killed in the process.”
She laughs. It’s not a happy sound. More like something breaking. “Cooperative. You want me to be a good little hostage while you decide my fate. While you figure out whether it’s worth the risk to keep me breathing.”
“Yeah. That’s exactly what I want.”
“And if I refuse? If I keep trying to escape, keep fighting you every step of the way?”
“Then this gets a lot harder for everyone. You included.”
We stare at each other. She’s still shaking, still crying, but that defiance hasn’t left her eyes. This woman’s been beaten down by life, and she’s still standing. Still fighting.
I respect the hell out of that, even if it’s making my job harder.
“You overheard the phone call,” I say.
“Every word.” She wipes at her face with the back of her hand. “The prospect getting tortured. The Feds raiding your clubhouse. Reaper giving the order to eliminate me. All of it.”
“Then you know where we stand. Reaper gave an order. I’m not following it.”
“Why not?” She wraps her arms around herself, making herself smaller. “Why risk your life, your standing in the club, for a stranger? It doesn’t make sense. You don’t even know me.”
“Because I made the call to grab you. That makes you my responsibility.”
“That’s not a reason. That’s an excuse.” Her eyes narrow. “You could’ve left me at the gas station. Could’ve let the Feds pick me up, or the Ruthless Saints shoot me. But you didn’t. You grabbed me. Put me on your bike. Brought me here. Why?”
She’s right. It’s more complicated than responsibility.
It’s guilt. It’s regret. It’s the ghost of Tyler haunting every decision I make, reminding me that I fucked up as a father, and I don’t get to fuck up again.
It’s seeing a woman who’s been through hell and refuses to break, and recognizing that strength because I’ve seen it before.
In Marines who held their ground under fire.
In brothers who took bullets for the club.
In people who should’ve quit but didn’t because quitting meant failing someone who needed them.
But I don’t say any of that.
“Come downstairs,” I tell her instead. “We need to talk. Really talk. No bullshit.”
“So you can convince me to trust you? So you can make promises you won’t keep?”
“So I can be straight with you about what we’re dealing with. Give you the full picture instead of letting you fill in the blanks with worst-case scenarios.”
She hesitates. I can see her weighing options. Cooperate or fight. Trust or resist. Believe or assume the worst.
Finally, she nods. Just once. “Fine. But if you try anything?—”
“I won’t.”
“You say that now.”
“And I’ll keep saying it until you believe me.”
I turn toward the stairs. She doesn’t follow immediately, so I stop and look back.
“I’m not going to run,” she says quietly. “Where would I go? You’ve made it very clear that everyone wants me dead. You, your club, the Ruthless Saints, probably the Feds too once they figure out I’m a liability.”
“The Feds want you as a witness, not dead.”
“Same difference if I can’t survive long enough to testify.” She pushes hair out of her face with a shaking hand. “So no. I’m not running. Not right now. Not until I understand what my options actually are.”
Can’t argue with that logic.
She follows me downstairs, keeping distance between us, one hand on the railing like she needs the support.
Razor’s already in the main room, standing by the window, keeping watch like he always does.
Shadow’s emerged from the bathroom, looking sheepish, staying on the far side of the room like he knows he fucked up.
I point to the couch. “Sit.”
Jade sits, perched on the edge like she’s ready to bolt any second. Her hands are in her lap, fingers twisted together so tight her knuckles are white.
That’s when I notice the blood.
“You’re bleeding.”
She looks down at her hands like she’s just noticing. There’s a cut across her left palm, still seeping red. Shallow but long, running from the base of her thumb to her pinkie.
“Must’ve cut it on the window frame,” she says, voice distant. Like she’s talking about someone else’s hand.
Shock, probably. Adrenaline crash. The human body can only sustain fight-or-flight for so long before it starts shutting down.
I move to the kitchen, grab the first aid kit from under the sink. We keep it stocked—occupational hazard of the lifestyle. Bandages, antiseptics, gauze, and pain meds. Everything you need to patch someone up when going to the hospital means answering questions you don’t want to answer.
When I come back, she’s still sitting in the same position, staring at her bleeding hand like it belongs to someone else.
“Give me your hand.”
She hesitates, then slowly extends her left hand toward me. It’s trembling. Small and pale in the dim light, blood dark against her skin.
I sit beside her on the couch. Not too close. Don’t want to crowd her, don’t want to make her feel trapped. But close enough to work. I open the first aid kit, pull out antiseptic wipes and gauze. Start cleaning the cut.
She winces but doesn’t pull away as I wipe away the blood, revealing the full extent of the damage. It’s not deep. Won’t need stitches. But it’s going to hurt for a few days.
“Reaper gave the order,” I say, keeping my voice level. Factual. No emotion. “Eliminate the witness. That’s you.”
“I know.”
“He gave us twenty-four hours. After that, if you’re still breathing, we’re in violation of a direct order.”
“I know that too.”
I glance up at her. She’s watching me work, eyes tracking the movement of my hands. “Violation means losing our patches. Getting beaten. Possibly killed, depending on how pissed off Reaper is and whether he thinks we betrayed the club.”
“So keeping me alive could get you killed.”
“Yeah.”
“Then why do it?”
I go back to cleaning her hand, working methodically. “Because I’m not following that order.”
“That’s not an answer. That’s just restating the problem.”
She’s not wrong.