Chapter 4 - Rachel
The room is small but clean, with a single bed pushed against one wall and a dresser that looks like it came from a thrift store. There's a window with bars on it. For protection, I'm sure, but all I can see is another cage.
I've locked the door and pushed a chair under the handle for good measure. It probably won't stop anyone who really wants to get in, but it makes me feel like I have some control over my situation.
Control. What a fucking joke.
I haven't had control over my life in months.
Not since I caught Marcus with that barely-legal bartender bent over our kitchen counter.
Not since I quit my job and decided to "find myself" through travel like some cliché from a bad romance novel.
Not since the Iron Eagles grabbed me off the street in some nowhere town and told me I could work with a smile or die.
And definitely not since a silent, deadly biker with gray eyes and too many scars threw himself in front of a bullet meant for me.
*Because I've left people behind before, and I'm tired of living with the weight of it.*
Shadow's words keep repeating in my head, and I hate that they got to me. Hate that I heard the raw truth in his voice, the pain he was trying to hide behind his usual flat effect.
He's damaged. I can see it in every line of his body, in the way he moves like he's trying not to be noticed, in how he kills without hesitation but took a bullet to protect strangers.
And damaged people are dangerous. They either drag you down with them or leave you bleeding when they can't handle their own shit anymore.
I learned that lesson with Marcus. Learned it with my parents, who loved each other so much they forgot they had a daughter who needed them too. I learned it every time I tried to help someone and got burned for my trouble.
I'm done being the collateral damage in other people's disasters.
There's a knock on the door.
"Go away," I call out, not moving from where I'm sitting on the bed with my knees pulled up to my chest.
"Rachel." It's the woman—Luna, I think her name is. The club president's woman who looks too sweet and pretty to be mixed up with bikers. "Please let me examine you. I'm a nurse. I just want to make sure you're not injured."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. None of you are fine after what you went through."
"Then I'm as fine as I'm going to get. So, fuck off and leave me alone."
There's a pause, then I hear low voices outside the door. Luna talking to someone, though I can't make out the words.
Then the footsteps retreat, and I'm alone again.
Good.
I don't need their help. Don't need their pity or their medical attention or their fake concern. I survived a week with the Iron Eagles. I survived watching Shadow and his brothers slaughter an entire clubhouse. I survived seeing a man get executed right in front of me.
I can survive this too.
My stomach chooses that moment to growl, reminding me that I haven't eaten anything substantial in days. The Eagles fed us—barely—but it was always scraps and leftovers, just enough to keep us functioning. Just enough to remind us that our lives depended on their generosity.
I'm so fucking tired of depending on anyone.
The bruises on my arms throb where one of the Eagles grabbed me too hard yesterday. Or was it the day before? Time kind of blurred together in that back room where they kept us locked up between shifts serving drinks to men who looked at us like we were meat on display.
I should let Luna check me over. Should make sure nothing is seriously wrong beyond bruises and exhaustion and the crushing weight of knowing that the world is full of monsters who will take whatever they want.
But letting her examine me means being vulnerable. Means admitting I need help. Means trusting someone when trust has proven time and time again to be the fastest way to get hurt.
So, I stay where I am, wrapped in my own arms, staring at the barred window and wondering if I should just leave. Walk out that door and keep walking until I'm far away from Blackwater Falls and motorcycle clubs and gray-eyed men who make stupid choices for reasons I don't understand.
Another knock. Heavier this time.
"Told you to fuck off," I snap.
"Wasn't me you told." Shadow's voice is low and rough, and something in my chest clenches at the sound. "But message received. Just want to talk for a minute."
"We have nothing to talk about."
"Probably not. But I'm standing out here anyway, bleeding through Luna's nice bandaging, so you might as well let me in."
I shouldn't care that he's bleeding. Shouldn't care that he's in pain because he took a bullet meant for me. I shouldn't care about anything.
But apparently my stupid, broken heart didn't get the memo, because I find myself walking to the door and pulling the chair away.
I don't unlock it though.
"It's not locked from my side," Shadow says, like he can read my mind. "You can open it or not. Your choice."
Your choice. Like I actually have choices anymore.
But I turn the lock anyway, then back away quickly, putting distance between myself and the door before he can come in.
Shadow enters slowly, and I notice he's careful to leave the door partially open. Not trapping me. Giving me an escape route if I need it. It's such a small thing, but it makes something in my chest loosen just slightly.
He's wearing a clean shirt now, but I can see the bulk of bandages underneath. His left arm is held against his body, and there's a tightness around his eyes that suggests he's in more pain than he's letting on.
"You're still bleeding," I say, because apparently I can't help myself. "I’ve heard Luna saying you needed thirty minutes to convince me to let her examine me, not stand around making your injury worse."
"So you were listening at the door."
"Fuck you."
His lips twitch, almost like he wants to smile but forgot how. "You've got a mouth on you."
"Yeah, well, I've earned it. Now say whatever you came to say and leave."
Shadow moves further into the room, and I tense, ready to bolt for the door if he gets too close. But he just walks over to the dresser and leans against it, keeping a solid ten feet between us.
"Luna's worried," he says. "Thinks you might be injured and too stubborn to admit it."
"I'm not injured. Just bruised and pissed off and really fucking tired of people trying to tell me what to do."
"Fair enough." He's watching me with those unsettling gray eyes, and I can't tell what he's thinking. "But you should still let her check. Just to be sure."
"Why do you care? You made it clear in the van that I'm just a responsibility. A burden to be managed until you can pass me off to someone else."
"I didn't say you were a burden."
"You said I was a responsibility. Same thing."
"It's not—" He stops, jaw clenching like he's struggling with something. "Look, I'm not good with words. Never have been. I say shit wrong, and people misunderstand, and it's just... easier to not talk most of the time."
"Then why are you here talking to me?"
"Because you won't talk to anyone else. And Luna's right. You need medical attention whether you want to admit it or not."
I laugh, and it comes out bitter and broken. "What I need is to be left the fuck alone. To not have to be grateful for being rescued from one group of bikers by another group of bikers. To not have to pretend I trust anyone in this goddamn place."
"I'm not asking you to trust us."
"Then what are you asking?"
"I'm asking you to let Luna check your injuries. Not because you trust her, but because survival means taking care of yourself even when you don't want to."
"You sound like you're speaking from experience."
"I am." He shifts his weight, and I see him wince slightly. "I've been where you are. Different circumstances, but the same... emptiness. The same feeling that nothing matters anymore because everything that could go wrong already has."
"Don't." My voice comes out ruder than I intended. "Don't try to bond with me over shared trauma or whatever psychological bullshit this is. You don't know me. You don't know what I've been through."
"You're right. I don't." He meets my eyes steadily. "But I know what it looks like when someone's barely holding on. When they're running on anger because it's the only thing keeping them from falling apart completely."
Fuck. He sees too much.
"Get out," I say, but my voice shakes slightly. "Just... get out."
"Rachel—"
"I said get out!" I'm yelling now, and I don't care who hears. "You don't get to stand there and psychoanalyze me. You don't get to pretend you understand or care or whatever the fuck this is. You took a bullet, fine, thank you, now leave me alone!"
Shadow doesn't move. He doesn't flinch at my raised voice or the tears that are suddenly threatening to fall.
He just watches me with those too-knowing eyes.
"I'm not pretending," he says quietly. "And I'm not trying to fix you or save you or any of that hero complex bullshit. I'm just... I see you. And I get it. The anger, the walls, the need to push everyone away before they can hurt you. I get it because I live it every fucking day."
The tears spill over, and I hate myself for it. Hate that he's breaking through my defenses with nothing but brutal honesty and that calm, steady presence.
"Why?" I choke out. "Why did you take that bullet? You’ve told me and I still don’t understand."
He's silent for so long I think he's not going to answer. Then:
"Because in that moment, when I saw Vulture aiming at the van, all I could think was 'not again.
' Not another person I could have saved if I'd just moved faster, thought smarter, been better.
" His voice is rough with emotion he's clearly not used to expressing.
"And yeah, you were a stranger. Still are.
But I'm tired of living with ghosts, Rachel.
Tired of seeing the faces of people I failed every time I close my eyes. "
Oh God. He's as broken as I am.
Maybe more.
"I'm not your redemption," I whisper. "I can't be the person who makes you feel better about your past mistakes."
"I know. I'm not asking you to be." He straightens, preparing to leave. "I'm just asking you to let Luna check your injuries. That's it. No strings, no expectations, no debt owed. Just basic human decency toward yourself."
He starts toward the door, and I should let him go. Should let this conversation end before I do something stupid like start caring about the damaged, silent man who threw himself in front of a bullet for reasons that have nothing to do with me and everything to do with his own demons.
But my mouth opens before my brain can stop it.
"Wait."
He pauses in the doorway, looking back at me.
"How bad is it?" I ask. "Your shoulder."
"I'll live."
"That's not what I asked."
His lips twitch again in that almost-smile. "Through and through. Stitched up. Hurts like a bitch, but I've had worse."
"In the military?"
His eyebrows raise slightly. "Luna told you?"
"No. I just... you move and talk like military. The things you say, and you have that look... The one that says you've seen things you can't unsee."
"Yeah. Two tours. Learned real quick that the world is a lot more complicated than they tell you in training."
"Fine. I'll let Luna check me over," I finally say. "But I want you here too."
"Why?"
Because you're the only one who hasn't tried to fix me or push me to feel things I'm not ready to feel. Because somehow your brutal honesty is more comforting than everyone else's gentle lies. Because I don't trust anyone in this place except maybe you, and I don't even know why.
"Because I said so," I answer instead. "Take it or leave it."
I can see him weighing options, calculating risks. Then he nods once.
"Okay."
He steps out into the hallway and calls for Luna, who appears almost immediately. She takes in the scene—me with tear-stained cheeks, Shadow looking paler than before, and understanding crosses her face.
"Thank you," she says to him. Then to me: "I'll be gentle. I promise. And if you need me to stop at any point, just say the word."
I nod, not trusting my voice.
Luna comes in with her medical bag, and Shadow positions himself near the door. Not leaving but not crowding me either. Just... present. A solid, steady presence that somehow makes this bearable.
"Can you tell me where it hurts?" Luna asks, her voice calm and professional.
"Everywhere," I admit. "But mostly my ribs and my arms. One of them grabbed me yesterday, and I think he might have cracked something."
She asks permission before touching me, explains what she's checking for, and works without unnecessary contact. It should feel clinical. Impersonal. Instead, it feels like the first act of kindness I've experienced in months.
And when I look over at Shadow, standing guard by the door with his injured shoulder and his watchful gray eyes, I realize that maybe, just maybe, I'm not as alone as I thought I was.
Even if trusting that thought terrifies me more than anything the Iron Eagles did.