Chapter 6 - Nora
What the fuck just happened in the past twenty-four hours?
The question loops through my mind on repeat as I sit in the passenger seat of Rampage's truck, watching Blackwater Falls blur past the window.
Street lights paint everything in streaks of gold and shadow.
Empty roads. Closed storefronts. A town that's asleep while my entire world has been turned inside out.
Is this real?
It has to be real. The two duffel bags at my feet with everything I own are real. The ache in my jaw from clenching it so hard is real. The way my hands won't stop shaking, that's definitely real.
But the rest of it?
Twenty-four hours ago, I was hiding in my apartment, eating canned soup, convinced I could disappear if I just stayed quiet enough. Invisible enough. Small enough.
Now I'm running from Castellano's armed men with a motorcycle club as backup and a man who fights in illegal underground matches as my—what? Protector? Guardian? I don't even know what to call Marcus.
I glance at him.
He's driving with the same calm focus he does everything else. Hands steady on the wheel. Eyes scanning the road, the mirrors, every shadow we pass. Looking for threats. Always looking.
The man took down three armed men with a baseball bat.
I watched it happen. Watched him move like violence was a language he spoke fluently. No hesitation. No fear. Just action. Pure, devastating action.
And then he stood there afterwards, not even breathing hard, holding a gun he'd taken off one of them, asking if I was okay.
Like he hadn't just—
I press my hands against my thighs to stop them shaking.
"You doing okay?" Marcus's voice cuts through my spiral.
"I don't know." Honest. Too honest maybe. "I don't know what I'm doing. What any of this is."
"You're surviving."
"Am I?" I laugh. It sounds broken. "Because it feels like I'm in some kind of fever dream. Yesterday I was nobody. Just Nora Hayes, failed runaway, hiding in a shitty apartment waiting for the inevitable. And now there's—"
I gesture helplessly at everything. At him. At the truck. At whatever the hell we're driving toward.
"Now there's a motorcycle club involved. And you. And, Marcus, you fought three armed men. Three. With a bat."
"Four if you count Buzz Cut."
"That doesn't make it better!"
"Wasn't trying to make it better. Just accurate."
I stare at him. He's not joking. Not trying to downplay what happened. Just stating facts.
"How are you so calm?" The question comes out desperate. "How are you not… I don't know, freaking out?"
"Been in worse situations." He takes a turn. We're heading toward the edge of town. Away from the apartments. Away from everything familiar. "This? This is manageable."
"Manageable." I repeat the word like it's foreign. "Thirteen armed men hunting me is manageable."
"Twelve now. One of them's got broken ribs and probably a concussion. He's not hunting anyone for a while." Marcus glances at me. "And they're not hunting you anymore. They're running from the Riders."
The Savage Riders MC.
A motorcycle club that apparently owns Blackwater Falls. That protects an underground fighting ring. That showed up with enough men to chase off Castellano's entire team.
"I can't believe this is real," I whisper. "Any of this."
"It's real."
"When you said you don't feel pain—" I stop. Start again. "Earlier, when you told me that. Were you being honest or were you just trying to make me feel safer?"
He's quiet for a moment. The only sound is the engine and the tires on asphalt.
"I was being honest," he says finally. "It's not like I don't feel pain at all. I do. But most of it registers as—" He pauses, searching for words. "Like tiny slaps. Irritating but not debilitating. Something that should put me down just doesn't."
"That's not normal."
"I know." His jaw tightens. "I've been to doctors.
Several of them. Army docs first, then civilian specialists after I got out.
They all say the same thing, something in my brain got rewired.
Trauma response, they called it. Something from what I saw, what I endured overseas. There's no way to solve it."
My chest tightens. "So, you just live with it?"
"Yeah. And I use it." He glances at me. "In the Pit, not feeling pain like normal people? That's an advantage. Makes me harder to beat."
An advantage that's slowly destroying him, probably. Trading one kind of damage for another. But I don't say that. Don't have the right to comment on how he's choosing to survive his own demons.
God knows I've made my share of questionable choices trying to survive mine.
The building gets closer. There are motorcycles parked outside. A lot of them. Men standing guard at the entrance. They straighten when they see the truck. One of them, massive, with a beard that reaches his chest and arms like tree trunks, approaches as Marcus parks.
"Reckless." The man's voice is a rumble. Deep enough to feel in my chest. "Rampage said you were coming. This the girl?"
"Yeah." Marcus kills the engine. Looks at me. "Stay close. These are Riders. They're on our side, but don't wander off."
Our side.
When did I get a side? When did I stop being alone in this? I grab my duffel and follow Marcus out of the truck. The night air is cold. I'm still wearing his t-shirt under my hoodie. It still smells like him.
The bearded man, Beast, according to the patch on his cut looks me over. Not leering. Assessing. Like he's cataloging threat level and vulnerabilities in one glance.
"You're the one Castellano wants."
"Yes." My voice is steadier than I expect.
"Riders don't take kindly to people hunting on our territory." He says it flat. Absolute. "You're under our protection now. That means anyone who comes for you comes through us first."
I don't know what to say to that. Don't know how to process that a motorcycle club I didn't know existed twelve hours ago is now standing between me and a man with enough money and power to make people disappear.
"Thank you," I manage.
Beast just nods. Looks at Marcus. "Room's ready. Stocked it with supplies. You need anything else, radio down."
"Appreciated."
Marcus puts his hand on my back. Gentle. Guiding. I follow him toward the entrance, aware of Beast's eyes tracking our movement. Aware of the other Riders watching. Evaluating.
I believe him—Marcus, I mean. When he said the Riders would protect their territory. I saw those men tonight. The Savage Riders who showed up at the apartment. Hard faces and harder eyes. Men who looked like violence was a second language.
Men like Marcus.
The building is bigger inside than it looks from the outside. We walk down a hallway. Concrete floors, fluorescent lights, doors marked with numbers. I can hear voices somewhere deeper in. Music. The sound of impact.
"Is there a fight happening?" I ask.
"Training session, probably. Some of the fighters like to work at night." Marcus stops at a door marked with a simple "7". Unlocks it with a key Beast handed him. "This is us."
Us. That word keeps showing up. Like we're a unit now. Like I'm not alone anymore. The room is sparse but functional. A bed. A small bathroom. A mini-fridge. A table with two chairs. No windows like Marcus said.
A cage, my mind supplies. A very comfortable cage.
But safer than anywhere I've been in a week.
"Not much," Marcus says. "But it'll work until the Riders handle Castellano's men."
"It's perfect." I set my duffel down. Look at him. There's blood on his knuckles. "You're bleeding."
"Not my blood."
"Still." I gesture toward the bathroom. "You should wash up."
He looks at his hands like he forgot about them. Nods once. "Yeah. Probably."
He disappears into the bathroom. I hear water running. Hear him moving around. When he comes back out, his hands are clean. The scars on his knuckles stand out more without the blood.
Evidence of every fight. Every hit. Every time he traded pain he couldn't feel for survival.
"You should sleep," he says. "It's late. You're exhausted."
"So are you."
"I'll sleep when I know you're settled." He leans against the wall. Arms crossed. "Take the bed."
"Where will you—"
"Chair's fine. Or the floor. Doesn't matter."
"Marcus—"
"Nora." He looks at me with those dark eyes. "Please. Just let me make sure you're okay. Then I'll rest. Deal?"
It's not a deal. It's him giving everything and asking for nothing.
But I nod anyway. Because arguing feels wrong when he just saved my life. When he's standing there like a wall between me and everything that wants to hurt me.
"Okay," I whisper.
I change in the bathroom. Wash my face with cold water that makes me feel almost human.
When I come back out, Marcus is exactly where I left him.
Watching the door. Always watching. I climb into the bed.
The sheets are clean and smell like detergent.
Nothing like home because I don't have a home anymore, but Marcus is three feet away.
And for the first time since I ran, that feels like enough.
"Marcus?" My voice is almost like a whisper.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you." Before he can tell me to stop, I add, "I know you don't want to hear it. But I need to say it anyway. You didn't have to do any of this. And you did. So, thank you."
He's quiet for a long moment. Then—
"Get some sleep, Nora."
Not *you're welcome*. Not *it's nothing*. Just an acknowledgment that I spoke. That he heard.
It's enough.
I close my eyes.
Try to sleep.
Can't.
My brain won't shut off. Won't stop replaying the past twenty-four hours on an endless loop. The men in the parking lot. Marcus stepping between us. Dinner in his apartment. His broken front door. Three men on the floor. Blood. Motorcycles. The Savage Riders.
All of it crashes together until I can't tell where one moment ends and another begins. I roll onto my side. Then my back. Then my other side.