Chapter 2 - Rage #2
Tank's expression doesn't change, but his posture shifts subtly. "And you brought her here."
It's not a question.
"She needed help," I say simply.
"Since when are we running a shelter for domestic violence victims?"
"We're not." I meet his gaze steadily. "But I wasn't leaving her out there for the Eagles to find. You know they're running patrols in our territory."
"King know about this?"
"Not yet." I pick up the plate. "Was going to talk to him after making sure she's not bleeding internally or something."
"King's with Luna tonight," Tank says. "Won't be back till morning." He pushes off from the doorframe. "Let me see her."
It's not a request. I nod and lead him back to the room, knocking softly.
"Claire? It's Rage. Got food. Tank's with me. He's VP of the club."
There's silence, then the sound of the deadbolt sliding back. The door opens a crack, revealing her pale face.
"Can we come in?" I ask.
She opens the door wider, stepping back to let us enter. In the harsh overhead light, her bruises look worse than they did in the moonlight. The one on her cheekbone is yellowing, but there's a fresher one near her jaw that's still dark purple.
Tank takes in her appearance with a single sweep of his eyes, his face unreadable. But I've known him long enough to see the slight tightening around his mouth. The only sign that he's affected by what he sees.
"This is Tank," I say, setting the plate on the small desk. "Vice President of the Savage Riders."
"Claire," she says, her voice stronger than it was in the park. "Thank you for letting me stay here tonight."
Tank nods once. "Rage says you're in some trouble."
She glances at me, then back to Tank. "My... my boyfriend. Husband if I hadn’t left. I run away last night."
"And he did that to your face," Tank states.
She touches her cheek unconsciously. "Yes."
"He looking for you?"
She wraps her arms around herself. "Probably."
"He local?"
I see the hesitation in her eyes. "Close," she finally says.
Tank and I exchange a glance. Close means complications. Close means this could blow back on the club if her ex has connections.
"You got somewhere to go? Family? Friends?" Tank asks.
She shakes her head. "No family. No real friends. He... isolated me pretty effectively."
Classic abuser tactic. Cut them off from support systems, make them dependent.
"You need medical attention?" I ask, nodding toward the way she's guarding her left side.
"No," she says quickly. "Just bruises."
Tank's eyes narrow slightly. "Lift your shirt."
She takes a step back, eyes widening. "What?"
"Your ribs. You keep touching them." he clarifies. "Show us."
She looks at me, uncertain.
"We need to know how bad it is," I explain. "If you need a doctor, we need to arrange it now."
She hesitates, then slowly lifts the hem of her shirt just enough to reveal her left side. I hear Tank's sharp intake of breath at the same moment my own jaw clenches.
Her torso is a mosaic of bruises in various stages of healing. Yellow and green fading ones overlaid with fresh purple and blue marks. The most distinctive is a boot print stamped across her rib cage, the tread pattern clearly visible in the bruised flesh.
"Jesus Christ," Tank mutters.
She quickly lowers her shirt, her face flushed with shame.
"That needs to be wrapped," I say, keeping my voice level despite the rage building inside me. "And you need ice for the swelling."
"I'll get the med kit," Tank says, already moving toward the door.
There's a new tightness in his voice that I recognize. The sound of Tank's poorly concealed anger.
When he's gone, Claire sits on the edge of the bed, eyes downcast.
"I shouldn't have come here," she says quietly. "I'm causing trouble."
"You're not," I assure her. "But you should eat something. Food will help."
She picks up the sandwich and takes a small bite. I lean against the wall, giving her space.
"The guy who did that," I say, nodding toward her ribs. "He important in town?"
She pauses mid-bite. "Why?"
"Just trying to gauge the situation. If he's some random asshole, that's one thing. If he's connected, that's another."
She sets the sandwich down. "He has... friends."
"What kind of friends?"
She looks away. "The kind you don't want to mess with."
Great. Connected. That complicates things.
Tank returns with the medical kit and a bag of ice wrapped in a towel. "Eat first," he tells her. "Then we'll wrap those ribs."
She nods and continues picking at the sandwich. Tank pulls me aside, his voice low.
"King needs to know about this first thing tomorrow," he says. "If her ex is connected and comes looking, we need to be prepared."
"I know," I agree. "I'll talk to him."
"And she needs to tell us exactly who we're dealing with," Tank adds. "Full disclosure."
I nod, glancing back at Claire. She's watching us, eyes wary, body tense. She knows we're talking about her.
"We'll sort it tomorrow," I say to Tank. "Let her rest tonight."
Tank stares at me for a moment, then nods. "Your call. But this is on you until King weighs in."
"Understood."
Tank approaches Claire again. "Finish eating, then Rage will help you wrap those ribs. Ice for twenty minutes, then off for twenty. Repeat if you can stay awake."
"Thank you," she says softly.
Tank gives her a curt nod, then turns to me. "I'm heading out. Beast and Shadow are on perimeter tonight. Check in with them if you leave."
"Will do."
After Tank exits, Claire visibly relaxes. "He's... intense," she says.
I can't help the small smile that tugs at my lips. "That's one word for him. Tank's all business, but he's solid. If he says he'll help you, he will."
"Will he? Help me?"
I consider the question. "Tank doesn't make promises he can't keep. If he thought we couldn't help, he would have said so."
She nods, finishing the last of her sandwich. "I appreciate the food. And the room."
"No problem." I gesture to the medical kit. "Ready to wrap those ribs?"
She tenses again. "I can do it myself."
"No, you can't," I say. "Not properly. And poorly wrapped ribs can cause more damage."
She hesitates, clearly uncomfortable with the idea of me touching her. I don't take it personally. After what she's been through, I'd be surprised if she trusted any man near her body.
"I've done this before," I tell her. "For my brothers in the club. For myself. I'll be quick and professional."
After a long moment, she nods reluctantly. "Okay."
I open the med kit and pull out the elastic bandage. "You'll need to lift your shirt. Or you can go in the bathroom and take it off, put on one of the robes hanging on the door. Whatever you're comfortable with."
She considers, then stands and moves toward the bathroom. "I'll change."
While she's gone, I prepare the bandages and arrange the ice pack. When she emerges a few minutes later, she's wrapped in a black terrycloth robe, arms crossed over her chest.
"Sit on the edge of the bed," I instruct. "And open the robe just enough for me to wrap the bandage around your torso."
She complies, her movements stiff and guarded. The robe parts to reveal her bruised ribcage, and I have to consciously control my breathing at the sight. Up close, the damage is even worse. Whoever did this meant to cause pain, meant to instill fear. Succeeded at both.
"I'm going to touch you now," I warn her. "Just to wrap the bandage."