Chapter 16 Danae
Sixteen
Danae
Muttering happens near me, I manage to make out some words.
“Hellions flew in. She’s got ties. They’re at a meet with the Saint’s.
” Then a nod. “Move her to spot two.” I’m guided back to the van with my eyes covered once again.
The van smells like old sweat and bleach and something sweet rotting under the floorboards.
Every bump in the road punches through my spine.
My wrists burn where the zip ties bite, and I keep flexing my fingers like I can coax the blood back into them by sheer will.
The blindfold is stays on—tight enough to press my lashes into my skin—so the world is nothing but dark and motion and the low thump of bass from the front seat.
I count turns.
One.
Two.
A long straight stretch. Then gravel.
The sound changes, turns hollow and crunchy, like we’ve left civilization behind on purpose. I press my lips together and breathe through my nose, slow, controlled. In. Out. In. Out. If I let the panic run, it’ll take my brain with it.
And I need my brain. The van slows again. Idles. The driver’s foot shifts. I can hear it in the engine. A gate maybe. A chain. Then the van lurches forward and the gravel gets louder under the tires. We’re going deeper.
The bass stops.
The silence that replaces it is worse.
The van rolls to a stop and the engine dies. For a second, there’s nothing but my breathing and the thin whistle of wind through some crack in the door.
Then the sliding door yanks open.
Cold air rushes in, damp and sharp. A hand clamps around my upper arm and hauls me toward the opening.
“Up,” a voice says.
I scramble upright, knees stiff, ankles shaky. The zip ties pull at my shoulders when I try to balance. I can’t see, so I trust the grip on my arm—hate that I have to—because falling would just give them another reason to hurt me.
They guide me down.
The ground is uneven. Dirt, maybe. Leaves. A rock scrapes the sole of my shoe. My stomach pitches. I focus on keeping my steps small.
My heart is trying to beat its way out of my chest.
A door creaks open.
Warm air spills out, stale and dusty. A house. Not an abandoned warehouse. Not a van-to-van transfer. A house.
They steer me through a doorway. Floorboards creak under my feet. The smell changes: old wood, cigarette smoke soaked into curtains, the sharp tang of something antiseptic that makes my throat tighten.
The door shuts behind me.
A deadbolt clicks.
For a moment, the sound is all I can hear. Then voices. Several. Low, overlapping. Men. My mouth goes dry. Hands shove me forward until the backs of my knees hit something—maybe a chair, maybe a couch.
“Sit.”
I obey. My wrists ache behind me, numb and stinging at once. I try to roll my shoulders, ease the tension, and the zip ties scrape my skin like a warning. Someone stands close enough that I can feel their body heat. I can smell cologne layered over sweat.
A rough hand grips the knot of the blindfold.
“Don’t move,” he says.
As if I could.
The fabric lifts. Light stabs into my eyes, white-hot and merciless. I blink hard, tears spilling out instantly, and for a second everything is a blurry wash of shapes and shadows.
When my vision clears, my breath catches.
I’m in a living room that looks like it used to be someone’s home and has been turned into something else.
The windows are covered with dark sheets.
A single lamp throws yellow light across worn furniture.
The coffee table is shoved aside to make room for a metal folding chair—my chair—and a second chair across from me.
Men crowd the room.
Not two.
Not three.
At least seven, maybe more. Some lean against the walls, arms crossed. Some sit on the couch. One stands near the hallway with a gun low at his thigh like it’s part of him. Another has his phone out, screen glowing.
They’re dressed in black and denim and leather. Cuts. Patches. My stomach sinks further.
Bikers. The Nameless Ones MC according to their patches. I have no clue who any of these men are.
The symbols mean something, even if I don’t know exactly what. The air around them feels organized. Like hierarchy. Like rules.
Like violence with a structure. One man steps forward from the cluster.
He’s older than the rest, mid-sixties maybe. Built like a doorframe. Beard trimmed close. Eyes flat, hard, and amused in a way that makes my skin crawl. His cut is more decorated. And on his chest, stitched clean and bold, is the president patch.
He looks at me like I’m a tool he’s finally gotten his hands on.
“Well,” he states, voice calm. “There she is.”
The men behind him chuckle. My throat tightens. I try to swallow and it feels like swallowing sand.
“What, what is this?” My voice is thin, but it’s mine. “Why am I here?”
The president takes a slow step closer, stopping just out of arm’s reach. “You saved our enemy once,” he begins and I’m confused..
The words don’t make sense at first. They slide right off my brain like water off glass. I blink at him.
He tilts his head, like he’s surprised I’m not already putting it together. “Now you save our brother.”
The room feels like it tilts. My pulse spikes. “I don’t—” I start, then stop, because my mouth can’t keep up with my thoughts. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He sighs like I’m being difficult on purpose. “The Hellion you took home,” he says. “You kept him from bleeding out on the pavement.”
My lungs forget how to work.
Miles.
The memory flashes so bright it hurts: blood on my hands, his weight against my shoulder, the panic that night when I thought he might die in my living room, and the way he looked at me afterward like I’d done something holy.
They know.
They know about him. About that night.
My fear shifts—sharpens—because this isn’t random. This is connected. This is a chain of choices and consequences, and somehow I’m the link they decided to yank.
“I’m a nurse,” I state quickly, because my brain grabs for the one thing that might matter. “I’m not a doctor.”
The president’s mouth curls. “Oh, we know what you are.”
He gestures with two fingers, and a man behind him tosses something onto the table with a slap.
A folder.
My stomach drops again. My name is on the front. My badge photo printed out like a mugshot.
They did their homework.
The president leans closer, voice low enough that it feels like he’s speaking directly into my bones. “You’re gonna fix him,” he says, “and stitch him like the trash you cleaned up before.”
My skin prickles.
“I can’t,” I stammer. “I can’t treat someone outside the hospital. I’m not licensed—”
Laughter erupts around the room, sudden and cruel. It hits me like a shove. Men snort, shake their heads, grin like I just told the best joke of the night.
The president smiles wider, and there’s nothing friendly in it. “Peaches,” he mutters sweetly but it’s all wrong, like the nickname is a hook he’s sliding under my skin. “Ain’t one man here worried about your credentials.”
My stomach twists.
“Please,” I whisper, and I hate the word the second it leaves my mouth, hate how small it sounds. “If your friend is hurt, take him to the ER. I’ll—”
He cuts me off with a sharp flick of his hand. “Our brother can’t go to a hospital,” he says. “He needs the bullet removed and stitched up.”
Bullet.
The word lands heavy.
My mind tries to sprint away from it. Bullet means bleeding. Bullet means internal damage. Bullet means a hundred things that can go wrong, and I don’t have imaging or sterile supplies or a surgeon on standby if it goes wrong.
And I’m not a doctor.
“I can’t do surgery,” I state, forcing my voice to stay steady even as my hands shake behind my back. “I’m a nurse. I can assist. I can stabilize. But removing a bullet, that is above my skillset.”
The president’s expression doesn’t change. “Then you better learn quick.”
A man on the couch laughs. “Hell, she done it before.”
“No,” I state, because that’s not what happened with Miles and they’re twisting it on purpose. “I didn’t remove anything. I stopped the bleeding. I cleaned and dressed the wound. Basic stitches.”
“That’s what you’re gonna do,” the president says, and his voice hardens on the last word. “But removing the bullet first.”
He turns his head slightly, and one of the men steps forward, holding up a phone.
On the screen is a photo of my grandfather.
Not the same one as before. This one is closer. More recent. The pajamas he wore just yesterday.
His face fills the frame. His eyes look wide, scared, confused. The angle is wrong, like it was taken quickly. My heart drops into my shoes. “What did you do?” I whisper.
The president watches my reaction like he’s tasting it. “Otherwise,” he says softly, “I kill your grandfather and you, and no one even misses you.”
The words burn.
Not because they’re true now—God, I know they aren’t true now—but because there was a time when they would have been close enough to truth to make me flinch in a different way. A time when Grandpa and I were just two people in a small town trying to survive, invisible unless we caused trouble.
Back then, the only person who would have noticed fast would’ve been Josie.
Now—Now there’s Miles.
There’s Raff and Josie and their kids. There’s a whole mess of people who somehow wove themselves into my life, making it bigger without asking permission.
The thought of Miles worrying hits me like a punch. It makes me sad and furious at the same time.
Because he’s out there somewhere, riding roads with his heart in his throat, and these men are using me like bait in a war I never agreed to fight.
I swallow hard, forcing my voice up through the fear. “You’re making a mistake,” I say. “If you hurt my grandfather—”
The president laughs cutting me off, low and ugly. “You gonna do what?” he asks. “Call the cops?”