Chapter 4 - Evelyn
I wake with a start, disoriented by the softness beneath me. Not concrete. Not the metal frame of a cot.
Still… For one terrifying moment, I think I'm back in the auction house, being prepped for sale.
Then reality rushes in. The motorcycle club. Reaper. Escape.
I sit up, wincing as my ribs protest. Morning light filters through unfamiliar curtains. A second blanket pools around my waist, one I don't remember taking.
That's when I notice him.
Reaper sits in a desk chair, head tilted back against the wall, eyes closed. Sleeping upright like a soldier in a war zone. His massive frame looks uncomfortable in the chair, one hand still resting near what I assume is a concealed weapon.
Why is he here? Why didn't he take the bed?
I shift quietly, trying to stand without waking him. My joints ache from sleeping on the floor, but it's a familiar pain. Preferable to the vulnerability of a bed I don't control.
"You're awake."
His voice, rough with sleep, startles me. His eyes are open now, gray and alert despite having just woken. Nothing bleary or confused in his gaze.
"Yes." I pull the blanket around my shoulders like armor. "Why are you in here?"
He straightens, rolling his neck to work out the kinks. "It's my room."
"You said I could have it."
"And you did." He stands, and I fight the urge to step back. "I just needed to grab something and saw you were cold. I ended up falling asleep."
The extra blanket. So, he was in here while I slept. The thought makes my skin crawl. Not because I think he did anything, but because I didn't wake up. In captivity, I trained myself to jolt awake at the slightest sound. My survival depended on it.
"You should have woken me," I say, hating how defensive I sound.
"You needed to sleep." He moves toward the door, giving me a wide berth. "Bathroom's yours if you want it. I'll get coffee started."
Before I can respond, he's gone, the door clicking shut behind him. I stand frozen for a moment, trying to make sense of this man. He saves me from traffickers, offers me his room, sleeps in a chair rather than disturb me, and acts like it's nothing unusual.
What's his angle?
I use the bathroom quickly, splashing water on my face and using a finger to clean my teeth since I have no toothbrush.
The mirror above the sink reveals a stranger—hollow-cheeked, with dark circles under haunted green eyes.
My hair hangs in damp waves, cleaner than it's been in months but still a tangled mess.
I look like exactly what I am: damaged goods.
Sighing, I straighten Reaper's too-large clothes on my frame and steel myself to face whatever waits beyond the door. At least I'm not hungry, which is a small mercy. Years of irregular meals in foster care prepared me for the starvation tactics of my captors.
The hallway is empty as I make my way toward the sounds of movement.
The main room looks different in daylight.
Less threatening somehow, though still unmistakably the domain of dangerous men.
A few club members lounge on couches, looking up as I enter.
Their expressions range from curiosity to suspicion.
Reaper stands at the kitchen counter, his back to me as he pours coffee into a mug. He's changed clothes. Fresh black t-shirt stretched across broad shoulders, worn jeans, heavy boots. The leather vest—his "cut"—hangs on a chair nearby, the Outlaw Order MC patch watching me with embroidered eyes.
"There's food," he says without turning. How does he always know when I'm there? "Nothing fancy. Cereal. Toast. Eggs if you want them."
"Coffee is fine," I reply, my voice stronger than yesterday. Sleep has restored some of my defenses.
He turns, offering a mug. I take it, careful not to let our fingers touch.
"Sugar's on the counter. Milk in the fridge."
I doctor the coffee with both, needing the sweetness, the calories. The other men in the room pretend not to watch, but I feel their eyes. Assessing. Wondering.
"My office is this way," Reaper says, nodding toward a door off the main room. "We need to talk."
I follow him, clutching the warm mug like a lifeline.
His office is surprisingly professional—a solid desk, filing cabinets, maps of Pine Haven and surrounding areas pinned to one wall.
No women in bikinis. No drug paraphernalia.
Just the tools of a man running what appears to be a legitimate business.
Appearances can be deceiving, I remind myself.
"Sit," he says, gesturing to a chair facing his desk.
I perch on the edge, ready to bolt if necessary. He doesn't sit behind the desk, a power move I would have expected, but takes the chair beside mine, turning it to face me.
"How did you sleep?" he asks.
"Fine." The lie comes quickly.
"On the floor."
It's not a question, but I answer anyway. "I'm used to it."
"You're safe here, Evelyn. The bed won't bite."
"Nothing personal," I say, taking a sip of coffee to hide my discomfort. "Old habits."
He nods, accepting this without pushing. "We need to talk about what happens next."
"You want information about the Vultures MC."
"Yes. But first, is there anyone we should contact for you? Family? Friends who might be worried?"
The question catches me off guard. I stare into my coffee, watching ripples form as my hand trembles slightly. "No. There's no one."
He absorbs this. "How long did they have you?"
"Three months, two weeks, four days."
"And before Pine Haven?"
"Chicago, I think. They kept us blindfolded during transport." I set the mug down, suddenly nauseous. "There were other places too. They moved us around."
"How many others were with you?"
"It changed. Girls would disappear. New ones would come." I wrap my arms around myself, cold despite the room's warmth. "At the end, there were twelve of us at the house outside town before they moved us to the bar for the auction."
Reaper leans forward, elbows on his knees. Not crowding me, but close enough that I can see flecks of blue in his gray eyes. "I need you to tell me everything you remember. Locations. Names. Routines. Anything that might help us find the rest of their operation."
"Why?" The question bursts out before I can stop it. "Why do you care? What's in it for you?"
He doesn't flinch at my accusation. "I told you. Because they're in my town. Because what they're doing is wrong. Because if not me, then who?"
"The police? The FBI?"
“Small town law enforcement is either bought or too understaffed to handle something this big. And the feds move too slow. By the time they put together a case, those girls are gone."
He's right, and we both know it. I've seen enough in my life to understand that sometimes, justice doesn't come through official channels.
"What will you do with the information?" I ask.
"Shut them down. Free any girls they're still holding. Make sure they understand that Pine Haven is off-limits."
"You'll kill them."
It's not a question, but he answers anyway. "If necessary."
I should be horrified. Instead, I feel a cold satisfaction. "Good."
Surprise registers briefly in his eyes before he masks it. He hadn't expected that response.
"The man in charge… I only heard his name once. Charles." I begin slowly, organizing the fragments of information I'd gathered during my captivity. "He visited the Chicago location. Tall, expensive suit, scar along his jaw. The others were terrified of him."
Reaper nods. "Charles Morrow. We got his name last night."
Something in his tone makes me look up sharply. "How?"
"We had a conversation with one of his men."
The implication is clear. While I slept, they were interrogating a Vultures member. I should be disturbed, but all I feel is a distant sense of justice.
"They have a rotation," I continue. "Three men guard the girls at night. Two during the day, plus a woman—Naomi. She's the one who 'prepares' us for sale. Clothes, makeup, teaching us how to... please buyers." My voice catches. "She's not a victim. She enjoys it."
"Locations?" Reaper prompts gently.
"Like I said, Chicago first. Then a farmhouse somewhere rural. We drove for hours. Then here, a house outside town with a storm cellar where they kept us. Two days ago, they moved us to the bar for the auction."
"The warehouse by the old railway?"
I blink in surprise. "How did you—"
"Our Vultures friend was talkative." His mouth curves in a grim smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "He also mentioned a new shipment coming. Tomorrow."
"Eastern European girls," I say, nodding. "I overheard them talking. They bring higher prices."
Anger flashes across his face, there and gone so quickly I might have imagined it. "Anything else you can tell me? Details about security, schedules, vehicles?"
I close my eyes, forcing myself to revisit memories I'd rather forget.
"Three main vehicles. A black SUV with tinted windows, that's Charles's when he visits. A white van they use to transport girls. Unmarked, but the license plate starts with WRL. And a blue sedan for the day-to-day runs."
I open my eyes to find him watching me with something like respect.
"You're observant," he says.
"When your life depends on it, you notice things." I pick up my coffee again, needing something to do with my hands. "The guards change at midnight and noon. The one with the neck tattoo, Victor, gets sloppy on his shift. Drinks on the job. The others are more careful."
"You were planning to escape."
It's not a question, but I nod anyway. "I was watching, waiting for a chance. Then they moved us to the bar, and I knew the auction was coming." I swallow hard. "After that... it would be too late."
"But I found you first."
"Yes." I meet his gaze steadily. "Why me? There were other girls. Younger. Prettier. More valuable, as they kept reminding me."
"I don't know," he answers honestly. "Something about you..."
He doesn't finish the thought, and I don't press. I'm not sure I want to hear the answer.
A knock at the door breaks the moment. The tattooed man from last night—Ghost—pokes his head in.
"Sorry to interrupt, boss. We've got movement at the warehouse. Blade just called it in."
Reaper stands immediately. "How many?"
"Four vehicles. Looks like they're moving something in. Or someone."
"The shipment's early." Reaper grabs his cut from the back of his chair, shrugging it on. "Get everyone ready. Full gear. We move in thirty."
Ghost nods, disappearing as quickly as he came.
Reaper turns back to me. "I have to go."
"The girls," I say, understanding immediately. "The new shipment."
"Yes." He hesitates, then reaches into his desk drawer, pulling out a small handgun. "Do you know how to use this?”