Chapter 2 - Rachel
I climb into the van and press myself against the cold metal wall, putting as much distance as possible between me and the door. Between me and the bikers outside. Between me and the entire fucking nightmare my life has become.
The other women are huddled together near the front, whispering and crying. I can hear Sarah, the blonde who told me to shut up earlier, trying to comfort Maria, whose sobs are getting louder with each passing second.
I feel nothing.
Well, that's not entirely true. I feel angry. So fucking angry that my hands are shaking and my jaw aches from clenching my teeth.
Angry at the Iron Eagles for grabbing me off the street like I was nothing more than property to be collected.
Angry at my ex-boyfriend Marcus for cheating on me and breaking something inside me that I don't know how to fix.
Angry at myself for being stupid enough to think that traveling alone would somehow heal my shattered heart instead of getting me kidnapped.
Angry at the universe for taking my parents before I could tell them one last time that I loved them.
And now I'm supposed to be grateful? Supposed to trust these Savage Riders just because they killed the men who were holding us captive?
Motorcycle clubs are all the same. They might wear different colors, claim different territories, but at the end of the day, they're all about power and control and taking what they want.
I saw the way Shadow looked at me in that room. All cold gray eyes and blood-splattered face, like death incarnate. And when I challenged him, when I refused to just fall at his feet in gratitude, he made it crystal fucking clear that I was nothing more than a responsibility to him.
A burden.
The story of my fucking life.
"We're going to be okay," Sarah says, and I want to laugh at the desperate hope in her voice. "They saved us. They're the good guys."
"There are no good guys," I mutter, but nobody hears me over Maria's continued sobbing.
The van door is still open, and I can see the bikers moving around outside.
The massive one they call Tank is carrying boxes from the building.
The one with the beard—Beast, I think—is laughing about something, like they just came back from a fucking party instead of slaughtering an entire clubhouse.
And Shadow.
He's standing apart from the others, watching the building with that same intense focus he had in the hallway. Like he's waiting for something. Calculating his next move.
I hate that I notice. Hate that some stupid, broken part of me finds his silence and stillness oddly... compelling.
It doesn't matter that when he moved through that room, he was the most lethal thing I've ever seen. It doesn’t matter that for just a second, when he looked at me, I felt something other than the hollow numbness that's been my constant companion since Marcus destroyed my ability to trust.
Shadow made it clear. I'm nothing to him. A responsibility. A job.
And I'm fine with that. More than fine. I don't want his attention or his concern or whatever the fuck else men like him pretend to offer before they take what they want and leave you bleeding.
I'm done being someone's mistake.
I'm watching him through the open door when he suddenly starts moving toward the van. His expression is unreadable, but there's something on the set of his shoulders that suggests he's about to say something.
Something I definitely don't want to hear.
Then everything goes to hell.
A man stumbles out from the side of the building. Older, with gray hair and a face twisted in rage. He's bleeding from somewhere, leaving a trail of red behind him, but he's moving with the single-minded purpose of someone who has nothing left to lose.
In his hand is a gun.
"KING!" he screams, and the sound is raw and broken. "You fucking killed my brother! You took everything from me!"
This must be Vulture. The Iron Eagles president. The man responsible for kidnapping us.
The man who's now pointing his gun directly at the van.
Directly at us.
Time slows down in that horrible way it does when your brain knows you're about to die but your body hasn't gotten the message yet. I can see his finger tightening on the trigger. Can see the hate blazing in his eyes.
Can see Shadow suddenly moving faster than should be humanly possible.
He puts himself between us and Vulture just as the gun goes off.
The bullet hits him in the shoulder with a sickening thud, and he goes down hard, his body hitting the pavement with enough force that I hear the impact even over the women's screaming.
Everything erupts into chaos.
The other bikers come pouring out of the clubhouse, guns already drawn.
Vulture tries to adjust his aim, tries to fire again, but then bullets are ripping through him from multiple directions.
His body jerks and dances like a puppet with its strings cut before he collapses to the ground in a spreading pool of his own blood.
But I'm not watching Vulture.
I'm watching Shadow.
He's on the ground, one hand pressed to his shoulder, blood seeping between his fingers. His face is pale but set in that same expressionless mask, like getting shot is just another Tuesday for him.
Like taking a bullet for a van full of women he doesn't give a shit about is no big deal.
One of the bikers, a younger guy with kind eyes, rushes over and drops to his knees beside Shadow. "Fuck, man. How bad?"
"Through and through," Shadow grits out, his voice tight with pain he's trying to hide. "I'll live."
The biker king—because that's apparently his actual road name—walks calmly over to Vulture's body. He looks down at the man who's still somehow breathing, gasping and choking on his own blood.
Then King raises his gun and shoots Vulture in the head.
Just like that. No hesitation. No remorse.
The screaming in the van gets louder.
"We need to move now," the kind-eyed biker says, still kneeling beside Shadow. "He needs a doctor, and we can't stay here."
King nods sharply. "Load up. Tank, drive the van. Beast, you're with me. Torch, make sure that building burns to the fucking ground."
Shadow tries to stand on his own, but the other biker grabs his good arm. "Don't be a stubborn asshole. Let me help."
"I'm fine, Chaos."
"Yeah, and I'm the fucking Pope. Move."
They start toward the van, and I realize with growing horror that Shadow is going to be in here with us. That I'm going to have to watch him bleed from a wound he got protecting us.
Protecting me.
Because I was sitting closest to the door. Because Vulture's bullet would have hit me first if Shadow hadn't moved. The thought makes my stomach twist.
Tank, the massive biker who looks like he could bench press a car, climbs into the driver's seat. The other women press themselves further back, giving him space. Giving all the bikers space, like they're wild animals that might attack if crowded.
Shadow is the last one in, half-carried by Chaos despite his protests. There's blood all over his shirt now, spreading in a dark stain. He shouldn't have done that. Shouldn't have put himself in danger for us. For me.
I'm not worth a bullet.
"Hang on," Tank says from the front, his voice surprisingly gentle for such a massive man. "We'll have you at Luna's in ten minutes."
The van lurches into motion, and Shadow grunts in pain as the movement jostles his shoulder. Chaos is pressing something—a wadded up shirt, maybe—against the wound, trying to slow the bleeding.
"You're a fucking idiot," Chaos mutters. "You know that, right?"
"Noted," Shadow says through clenched teeth.
His eyes are closed now, his face even paler than before. But his breathing is steady, controlled. Like he's done this before. Like getting shot is just another skill he's mastered.
I should look away. Should focus on literally anything else.
Instead, I find myself speaking.
"Why did you do that?"
My voice cuts through the crying and whispering, and suddenly everyone is looking at me. But I'm only looking at Shadow.
His eyes open, and those cold gray depths find mine across the van.
"Do what?" he asks, like he genuinely doesn't know what I'm talking about.
"Take a bullet for us. You said we were just a responsibility. That you weren't interested. So why throw yourself in front of a gun?"
"Because it's what you do," he says flatly. "You protect people who can't protect themselves."
"Even when they're just a responsibility?"
His jaw tightens. "Especially then."
It's not the answer I want. Not the answer I need.
Because if he did it out of duty, out of some misguided sense of obligation to his club president, then it means nothing. It's just more proof that I'm nothing more than a burden to be managed.
But if he did it because some part of him actually cares—
No. I can't go there. Can't let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, there's someone in this fucked up world who would take a bullet for me without expecting something in return.
That's how you get hurt. That's how you end up crying over a man who cheated on you with someone younger and prettier and less damaged.
"You shouldn't have," I say, and my voice comes out harder than I intended. "We're not worth it."
"Speak for yourself," Sarah snaps. "I'm grateful he saved our lives."
"He didn't save us. He just postponed whatever comes next."
Shadow's eyes are still on me, and I can see him trying to figure me out. Trying to understand why I'm being such a bitch when he literally just took a bullet for us.
The truth is, I don't understand it either.
All I know is that the anger is the only thing keeping me together right now. If I let go of it, if I let myself feel grateful or relieved or any of the other emotions that are threatening to break through, I'll shatter into a million pieces.
And I can't afford to shatter.
Not again.
"You're welcome," Shadow says quietly, and then he closes his eyes again.
Chaos shoots me a look that's somewhere between confused and pissed off, but he doesn't say anything. Just keeps pressure on Shadow's wound and mutters something under his breath that I can't quite hear.
The other women have stopped crying, but they're still huddled together, seeking comfort in each other's presence. I stay where I am, pressed against the cold metal wall, watching Shadow's chest rise and fall with each breath.
Watching the blood seep through Chaos's makeshift bandage.
Watching and hating myself for caring.