Chapter 19 #2
Samuel Cross stands in front of me. He’s older than the mugshots I saw in Dad’s office, late fifties, maybe early sixties, with gray threading through what’s left of his brown hair and deep lines carved into his face.
But those eyes are exactly the same. Cold.
Empty. Like there’s nothing human left behind them.
He smiles when he sees I’m awake. “Morning, princess.”
My heart slams so hard against my ribs I swear he can hear it. I test the ties immediately, yanking hard. They don’t give. My shoulders already burn from being pulled behind the chair for God knows how long.
Cross watches me struggle with something that almost looks like amusement.
“Your daddy’s a little busy right now,” he says, almost conversational.
“So is that boy of his. My guys made sure of it. Little problem at your mama’s salon.
Nothing they can’t handle… but it pulled everyone away from you. Exactly like I wanted.”
He crouches down in front of me so we’re at eye level.
I can smell cigarettes and something metallic on him.
“Four women,” he says softly. “That’s how many I took before your father decided to play hero.
I watched them for weeks. Learned their routines.
Where they parked. What time they left work.
I took them from parking lots, gas stations, even their own driveways when they were distracted.
I kept them in basements just like this one. Sometimes for days. Sometimes longer.”
He tilts his head, studying my face like he’s looking for a reaction.
“I made them mine. I wanted them to understand they didn’t belong to themselves anymore.
When I was done, I buried what was left where no one would ever find them.
Except the last one. She was special. Your father found her before I could finish what I started.
She lived. She testified against me and your father helped put me in a cage for twenty-five years. ”
His voice stays quiet, almost gentle, which makes it worse.
“Every single night in that cell, I thought about what I was going to do to Piston Blackstone when I finally got out. I thought about hurting the people he loved. Taking from him the way he took from me. And then I found out he had a daughter. A pretty little biker princess who grew up thinking the world was safe because Daddy was there to protect her.”
His smile widens, slow and ugly. “You.”
I spit in his face. Cross wipes it off slowly with the back of his hand. Then he backhands me so hard my head snaps sideways and I taste fresh blood. My ears ring. Tears spring to my eyes from the force of it.
“Keep fighting,” he says. “It makes this better.” He pulls a knife from his belt.
The blade catches the light as he flicks it open.
He doesn’t rush. He cuts my shirt open straight down the front, the fabric parting with a soft rip.
Then he slices through the front of my bra like it’s nothing.
Cold air hits my skin and I flinch. I jerk hard against the chair, a choked sound escaping before I can stop it.
“This is going to hurt,” he says, almost kindly. “I’m not going to be gentle. I want your daddy to hear every second of it when I send him the video. I want him to know exactly what I did to his little girl before I put a bullet in her head.”
He stands up and starts unbuckling his belt. The leather sliding through the loops is the loudest sound in the world.
I think of Rook and my mom and dad. Of how much I love them all.
I think of the life I just started building, the job I actually like, the way Rook looks at me like I’m something worth fighting for, the family I finally came home to.
I refuse to let this be how it ends. I refuse to let this man take everything from me.
Cross unzips his pants and then the basement door explodes inward.
Wood splinters inward and boots hit concrete hard. Two figures fill the doorway, guns raised. Dad and Rook.
Cross moves fast. He grabs the gun off the table beside him and swings it straight toward me.
Rook doesn’t hesitate. He throws himself in front of me just as the gunshot cracks through the room like thunder.
The impact slams into both of us. For one terrible second I think I’ve been shot too. Then I feel it, hot, wet, spreading across my chest and stomach. Not my blood, but Rook’s.
He grunts, a deep, awful sound, and slides down my body to the floor, one hand pressed to the blooming red hole in the left side of his chest.
“Rook!” My voice breaks into a scream. I fight the zip ties like a wild animal, the plastic cutting deeper into my wrists with every jerk. “Rook…no, no, no…baby, please!” I scream.
Dad doesn’t even glance at me. His eyes are locked on Cross like nothing else in the world exists. Cross tries to raise the gun again, blood already soaking through his shirt from the first shot Dad fired.
Dad doesn’t give him the chance. He shoots Cross three more times in the chest. Cross staggers back against the wall, eyes wide with shock. Dad walks straight up to him, presses the barrel to his forehead, and pulls the trigger one more time. Cross slides down the wall and stops moving.
Dad is already on his knees beside Rook, ripping off his own cut and pressing it hard against the wound.
Blood soaks through the leather instantly, dark and terrifying.
“Stay with me, you stubborn bastard,” Dad growls, voice rough with something I’ve never heard before.
“You don’t get to die on me. Scarlett, pressure here. Hard. Don’t you let up.”
I’m still tied to the chair, half-naked, shaking so violently my teeth are chattering. But I lean forward as far as I can and press both hands against the makeshift bandage over Rook’s chest. Blood wells hot and fast between my fingers.
“Rook,” I sob. “Rook, look at me. Stay with me. I love you. Do you hear me? I fucking love you. We have a life. We have a whole life waiting for us. You don’t get to leave me now. Please…”
His eyes are glassy, but he finds my face. His bloody hand reaches up, trembling, and brushes my cheek. “Princess…” His voice is barely there. Blood bubbles at the corner of his mouth. “You okay?”
“I’m okay,” I cry, tears dripping onto his hand. “You idiot. You stupid, brave idiot. Why would you do that?”
“’Cause you’re mine,” he whispers. “Told you… I’d bleed for you.” Then his eyes roll back.
“Rook!” I scream his name until my voice cracks. “Rook, please, open your eyes. Baby, please, don’t you fucking leave me!”
Dad’s voice is low and steady even as he keeps pressure on the wound with one hand and calls for help with the other. “You’re not dying on me, kid. You hear me? You’re family. You don’t get to check out. Not after this.”
Rook’s eyes flutter open one last time. He manages the faintest, blood-stained smirk. “Yes, sir…” Then he goes still.
“Rook! Rook, please…open your eyes. Baby, please!” My voice is raw and breaking. I can barely hear myself over the chaos flooding the basement. Boots pound down the stairs. Brothers are shouting. Someone yells for a medic. Another voice barks orders about pressure and keeping his airway clear.
I don’t care about any of it.
Someone cuts the zip ties from my wrists. The sudden release makes my shoulders scream in pain, but I don’t even register it. The second my hands are free, I lunge forward and press both palms hard against the bloody cut Dad’s holding over Rook’s chest.
“Rook, stay with me,” I beg, my voice cracking. “Don’t you fucking leave me. I love you. Do you hear me? I love you. We’re supposed to have a life together. You promised me. You said I was yours.”
Blood keeps pouring between my fingers, hot and terrifying.
It soaks through Dad’s cut and into my hands.
I press harder, leaning my whole weight into it the way Dad told me to.
“You’re not dying on me,” I sob. “You took a bullet for me, you stupid, stubborn asshole. You don’t get to check out now.
I just got you. I just fucking got you.”
Brothers are everywhere now. Tank drops down beside Dad and immediately starts checking Rook’s pulse and breathing. Someone throws a blanket around my shoulders, but I barely feel it. I refuse to move my hands from Rook’s chest.
“Ambulance is two minutes out,” someone shouts from the stairs.
“Club medic is closer,” another voice answers. “Get him on the line.”
I don’t care who’s coming. I just need Rook to stay alive until they get here.