Chapter 3 - Claire #2
"Thank you," I say quietly. "For not throwing me out when you learned about Tommy."
Rage shrugs. "Information's valuable. And despite what you might think about MCs, we don't leave women to get beaten to death by their boyfriends."
"Even Eagles' women?"
"You're not an Eagles' woman anymore," he says firmly. "You made that choice when you ran."
His words sink in, carrying a weight I hadn't expected. I'm not Tommy's anymore. Not the Eagles' property. For the first time in a year, I've made a choice for myself—a dangerous, desperate choice, but mine nonetheless.
Tank returns, his expression grim. "Security's doubled. I've called King. He's coming in at first light."
Rage nods. "I'll take first watch outside her door."
"I've got Beast on that," Tank replies. "Need you mobile, checking perimeters."
Rage looks like he wants to argue but nods instead. "Copy that."
Tank turns to me. "Get some rest. King will want to talk to you, and he'll probably have more questions than we did."
"Is he... will he be angry? About me being here?"
A hint of something like amusement crosses Tank's stoic features. "King doesn't get angry. He gets focused. And right now, his focus is keeping his club and his town safe. You've just given us intel that helps with that, so he'll hear you out."
It's not exactly reassuring, but it's better than nothing.
"Thank you," I say. "Both of you."
Tank nods once, then leaves. Rage lingers by the door.
"Beast will be outside if you need anything," he says. "He looks mean, but he won't hurt you. None of us will."
I want to believe him. After a year with Tommy, I've learned how quickly charm can turn to cruelty, how easily promises of protection become threats of harm.
But there's something different about Rage—a steadiness, a certainty in the way he moves and speaks that makes me think he means what he says.
"Get some sleep," he adds. "Tomorrow's going to be a long day."
After he leaves, I sit on the edge of the bed for several long minutes, the ice pack growing warm against my side.
The reality of my situation crashes over me in waves.
I've run from one dangerous man into the arms of an entire club of dangerous men.
I've betrayed the Iron Eagles to their sworn enemies.
I've thrown my lot in with strangers who could decide I'm more trouble than I'm worth.
But as I finally lie down on the surprisingly comfortable bed, setting the now-useless ice pack aside, I realize one crucial difference: for the first time in a year, I'm making my own choices. Dangerous choices, perhaps, but mine.
I close my eyes, expecting sleep to elude me. Instead, exhaustion pulls me under almost immediately, the safety of a locked door and an MC enforcer standing guard allowing my body to finally surrender to rest.
I dream of Tommy, his face contorted with rage as he stands over me, boot raised for another kick.
"You fucking bitch," he snarls in the dream. "Did you really think you could run from me?"
His foot descends toward my face, and I jerk awake with a strangled cry, heart pounding against my ribs, opening my eyes.
The room is dark except for the faint glow of a night light in the bathroom. For a panicked moment, I don't remember where I am. Then it all comes flooding back. The escape, the park, Rage, the Savage Riders clubhouse.
I'm safe. For now.
A soft knock at the door makes me jump.
"Claire?" A deep voice I don't recognize. Must be Beast, the man Rage said would be guarding my door. "Everything okay in there?"
"Yes," I call back, my voice raspy from sleep. "Just a bad dream."
"Need anything? Water?"
The unexpected kindness catches me off guard. "No, thank you. I'm fine."
"Shout if you change your mind."
I hear the shuffle of boots as he resumes his position outside the door. I check the cheap digital clock on the nightstand: 3:17 AM. Too early to get up, too rattled to go back to sleep.
I ease out of bed, wincing as my ribs protest the movement, and make my way to the bathroom
"You got away," I whisper to my reflection, echoing the words I spoke in that filthy park bathroom. "That's what matters."
But getting away was only the beginning. Now comes the hard part: staying away, staying alive, finding a way forward that doesn't end with Tommy's boot on my throat.
I splash cold water on my face and rinse my mouth, wishing I had a toothbrush. Then I remember my duffel bag and return to the bedroom to rummage through it, finding the travel kit I hastily packed. The simple act of brushing my teeth makes me feel marginally more human.
Since I'm awake, I decide to rewrap my ribs. The bandage has loosened during sleep, and the pain is returning in sharp pulses. I shed the robe and examine the bruises in the bathroom's harsh light.
The boot print looks even worse than it did yesterday, the edges darkening to a deep purple-black while the center begins to fade to a sickly green-yellow.
I prod it gently with my fingertips, trying to determine if anything is broken beneath the surface.
Sharp pain, but no grating sensation. Probably just bruised, not fractured.
I've become an expert at assessing my own injuries over the past year. A sick sort of skill to develop.
I unclip the bandage and slowly unwind it, taking shallow breaths as the support falls away. Without the compression, each breath sends jolts of pain through my side. I focus on rewrapping as Rage showed me, pulling the elastic tight on the exhale, securing it with the metal clips.
It's not as neat as his work, but it'll do. I put the robe back on and return to the bedroom, too restless to lie down again.
My stomach growls, reminding me that the sandwich hours ago was the first real food I'd had in nearly a day. I wonder if there's anything to eat in the mini-fridge Rage mentioned.
I open it to find a couple of water bottles, some string cheese, and an apple. I take the string cheese, unwrapping it as I sit on the edge of the bed.
As I eat, I think about the man outside my door, and the others I've met. Rage with his surprising gentleness, Tank with his intimidating focus. They're dangerous men, I have no illusions about that. They're bikers, probably criminals, definitely violent when they need to be.
But they haven't hurt me. Haven't threatened me. Haven't made me feel like my body is something they're entitled to.
The bar is so low it's practically on the ground, but after Tommy, even basic decency feels like a revelation.
I finish the cheese and drink one of the water bottles, then try to settle back into bed. Sleep eludes me now, my mind racing with possibilities and fears. What will this King be like? Will he believe me? Will he help me? Or will he decide I'm too much of a liability?
I must doze eventually, because the next thing I know, there's another knock at the door, firmer this time, and daylight is streaming through the blinds.
"Claire?" Rage's voice. "You up? King's here."
I sit up quickly, wincing at the pain in my ribs. "Give me five minutes," I call back, my voice thick with sleep.
"Take ten," he replies. "We'll be in the conference room down the hall. Beast will show you when you're ready."
I hear his footsteps retreat, then scramble to make myself presentable. I change into the cleanest clothes I have. Jeans and a loose button-down shirt that doesn't press against my ribs and do my best with my hair using just my fingers as a comb.
There's not much I can do about the bruises. The one on my face has faded to a sickly yellow, but it's still clearly visible. I consider trying to cover it with makeup, then decide against it. Let them see what Tommy did to me. Let them understand exactly what I'm running from.
When I open the door, I find a mountain of a man waiting outside. He’s even bigger than Tank, with a thick dark beard and arms covered in tattoos. His expression is neutral, but his eyes are watchful.
"Beast?" I ask hesitantly.
He nods once. "Conference room's this way."