Chapter 6 - Rachel
*The hands are everywhere, grabbing, pulling, bruising. I try to scream but nothing comes out. Just silence. Always silence.*
*"Smile, sweetheart. Or we'll find someone who will."*
*I'm running down a hallway that never ends. Doors on either side, all locked. Behind me, footsteps getting closer. Heavy boots on concrete. The smell of cigarettes and stale beer choking me.*
*"You can't run. You belong to us now."*
*I spin around and it's Marcus, but not Marcus. His face keeps shifting—Marcus, then one of the Eagles, then Vulture with his gun pointed at my head. He's smiling as his finger tightens on the trigger.*
*"Nobody's coming to save you. Nobody cares."*
*The gun goes off and I'm falling, falling—*
"Rachel. Rachel, wake up."
A hand on my shoulder, gentle but firm. A voice cutting through the nightmare, low and rough and somehow safe.
I jolt awake with a gasp that sounds more like a sob, my whole body jerking upright. I'm drenched in sweat, my heart hammering so hard it feels like it might burst out of my chest. The room is dark except for a sliver of light from the hallway, and for a terrifying moment I don't know where I am.
Then I see him.
Shadow is sitting on the edge of the bed, his hand still on my shoulder. Those gray eyes are watching me with an intensity that should be frightening but somehow isn't.
"You're safe," he tells me. "You were having a nightmare. You were trembling and telling someone to let you go."
Oh God. I was talking in my sleep. What else did I say? What other pathetic, broken things did I reveal while I was trapped in my own head?
"I'm fine," I manage, even though my voice is shaking and my hands won't stop trembling. "Just a bad dream."
"Bullshit."
I almost laugh at the bluntness of it. Almost. "What do you want me to say? That I'm traumatized and scared and every time I close my eyes I see their faces? That I can't stop feeling their hands on me even though they're dead?"
The words spill out before I can stop them, raw and angry and so fucking vulnerable it makes me want to disappear. Shadow doesn't flinch. He doesn't look away or try to comfort me with empty platitudes.
He just nods. "Yeah. That's what I want you to say. The truth."
"Why?" I pull my knees up to my chest, wrapping my arms around them like I can physically hold myself together. "So you can feel sorry for me? So you can add me to your list of people you failed to protect?"
"I don't feel sorry for you. Pity doesn't help anyone."
"Then what do you feel?"
He's quiet for a long moment, and I can see him overthinking his words. "I feel... angry. That they hurt you. That you have to carry this now. But mostly I feel respect."
That surprises me enough that I actually look at him. "Respect?"
"You survived. You're still fighting. Still standing up for yourself even when you're terrified." His voice is low but fierce. "That's not weakness, Rachel. That's strength most people don't have."
Tears burn behind my eyes, and I blink them back furiously. I will not cry in front of this man. I will not fall apart just because he sees me in a way no one else has.
"I don't feel strong," I whisper. "I feel broken."
"Broken and strong aren't opposites. Sometimes the strongest people are the ones who've been shattered and put themselves back together."
"Is that what you are? Shattered and put back together?"
"I'm shattered and still figuring out where the pieces go."
He's not pretending to have all the answers. Not claiming to be fixed or whole or anything other than exactly what he is: damaged and trying to survive, just like me.
I notice for the first time that he's still wearing the same bloody clothes from earlier, that his face is drawn with exhaustion, that his injured shoulder is held against his body.
"You look like shit," I say, because apparently even in crisis I can't stop being a bitch.
His lips twitch in that almost-smile I'm starting to recognize. "Right back at you."
"How long was I asleep?"
"Couple hours, maybe. Long enough for the pain meds to kick in but not long enough for you to actually rest."
"Were you here the whole time?"
He doesn't answer, which is answer enough.
"You should have left," I say, even though part of me is grateful he stayed. "Gone to your own room. Actually rested instead of babysitting me."
"Wasn't babysitting. Was keeping watch."
"Why?"
"Because you asked me to stay."
It's such a simple answer, but it hits me harder than it should. He stayed because I asked. Not because he had to, not because King ordered him to, but because I asked and that was enough.
When was the last time anyone did something for me just because I asked? When was the last time I mattered enough for someone to put their own needs aside?
Marcus sure as hell never did. He was always too busy, too tired, too focused on his own shit to notice when I needed him. And before him, my parents were too wrapped up in each other to see their daughter slowly disappearing into the background of their epic love story.
But Shadow stayed. This silent, deadly man who barely knows me stayed in an uncomfortable chair for hours just because I asked him to.
"Thank you," I say, and my voice cracks on the words.
"You keep thanking me. Gonna think you actually like having me around."
"Don't push it."
He stands slowly, favoring his injured shoulder, and I can see how much pain he's in even though he's trying to hide it. The man took a bullet for me and has been on his feet ever since, making sure I was okay, getting me food, staying when I asked.
And I've done nothing but be a bitch to him.
"Shadow?" He pauses at the door, looking back. "I'm sorry. For being so difficult. You didn't deserve that."
"Yeah, I did. You don't know me. Don't trust me. Smart to keep your guard up." He leans against the doorframe, and I can see the exhaustion pulling at him. "But for what it's worth, you're safe here. King runs a tight ship, and none of the brothers would hurt you. You have my word on that."
"Your word worth anything?"
"It's the only thing that is."
I should let him go. Should let him finally get some rest and deal with his own pain instead of worrying about mine.
But something in his words—the rawness of them, the honesty—makes me want to give him something back. Some kind of explanation for why I've been such a bitch when all he's done is try to help.
"Wait," I say again before he can leave. "I should... I owe you an explanation. For why I'm so suspicious. So defensive."
Shadow turns back. "You don't owe me anything."
"Maybe not. But I want to tell you anyway." I take a breath, forcing myself to meet those gray eyes. "Two months ago, I came home early from work. Found my boyfriend—ex-boyfriend—fucking some twenty-year-old bartender on our kitchen counter."
I can see Shadow's jaw tighten, but he doesn't say anything. Just listens.
"Marcus and I had been together for three years.
Lived together for two. I thought... I thought we were building something.
Thought I knew him." The words taste bitter.
"Turns out I didn't know shit. He'd been cheating for months, maybe longer.
With multiple women. I was just too stupid and trusting to see it. "
"That's not stupidity. That's trust. There's a difference."
"Is there? Because trust got me nothing but humiliation and a broken heart.
" I pull the blanket tighter around myself, suddenly cold despite the sweat still clinging to my skin.
"I cried for two weeks straight. Couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, couldn't function.
My friends kept telling me I'd get over it, that I just needed time. "
"But you didn't get over it."
"No. I got angry instead." I look down at my hands. "I quit my job, sold everything I owned, and decided to travel. Thought maybe if I ran far enough, I could outrun the pain. Outrun the memories of what he did to me."
Shadow moves back into the room, closing the door behind him. He doesn't sit on the bed this time. He just leans against the wall, giving me space but showing he's listening.
"I made it three days," I continue, my voice flat. "Three fucking days of freedom before the Iron Eagles grabbed me off the street. I was in some nowhere town, stopped at a gas station to use the bathroom, and when I came out there was a van waiting. They threw a bag over my head and that was it."
"How many women did they take?"
"Six of us. All around the same age, all alone. They told us we'd work at their new clubhouse—serve drinks, look pretty, smile for the members. And if we didn't..." I swallow hard. "If we didn't, they'd kill us and find replacements. Simple as that."
"Did they—" Shadow's voice is rough. "Did any of them touch you? Beyond the bruises Luna found?"
I shake my head. "No. They liked to threaten, liked to make us feel like it could happen any second, but they never... I think they were saving us. Breaking us down first, making us desperate enough to be grateful for any scrap of kindness. Classic abuser tactics."
"Bastards."
"Yeah." I look up at him. "So, when you guys showed up, when you said you were there to rescue us, all I could think was 'here we go again.' Another group of men who want something from us, just with different colors on their jackets."
"You thought we'd claim you. Take ownership from the Eagles."
"Can you blame me? My whole life, men have taken what they wanted and called it something else. Marcus took my trust and called it love. The Eagles took my freedom and called it employment. Why should you be any different?"
"Because we are different." He pushes off the wall, taking a step closer. "I can't speak for every man in the world, Rachel. Can't undo what Marcus did or erase what the Eagles put you through. But I can tell you that the Savage Riders don't operate like that. We don't take. We protect."
"Why should I believe you?"
"You shouldn't. Not yet." His gray eyes hold mine. "But maybe you can believe this. I took a bullet for you. Not because I wanted something from you, and not because I expected gratitude or anything else. I did it because it was the right thing to do. Because you deserved to be protected."
"Nobody's ever done that for me before," I whisper. "Protected me without wanting something in return."
"Then the men in your life have been fucking idiots."
The bluntness of it startles a laugh out of me—a real one this time, not bitter or broken. Just... genuine.
Shadow's almost-smile appears again, and I realize it's becoming less 'almost' and more real each time.
"You're different from what I expected," I admit. "When I first saw you in that room, covered in blood with a gun in your hand, I thought you were just another killer. Another man who'd hurt me eventually."
"I am a killer," he says quietly. "That part's not wrong. But I choose who I point the gun at. And it's never going to be you."
There's such conviction in his voice that I almost believe him. Almost let myself trust that maybe, just maybe, he means what he says.
"I'm sorry," I say again. "For being such a bitch. For assuming the worst about you and your club. You didn't deserve that."
"Yeah, I did. You were protecting yourself. Can't fault you for that." He moves toward the door again, and this time I can see how badly he's struggling to stay upright. "You should try to get some more sleep. The nightmares might come back, but they'll get easier with time."
"You sound like you're speaking from experience."
"I am."
He's at the door now, his hand on the handle, and I realize I don't want him to go. Don't want to be alone in the dark with my thoughts and memories.
But he's injured and exhausted and has done more than enough for me already.
"Shadow?" He looks back. "Will you... can you check on me in the morning? I know it's stupid, but—"
"It's not stupid. And yeah, I'll check on you in the morning." His voice softens slightly. "Try to rest, Rachel. You're safe here. I promise."
Then he's gone, the door clicking softly shut behind him.
I'm alone in the dark room, but somehow it feels less oppressive than before. The shadows don't feel quite as threatening, and the silence isn't suffocating.
Because Shadow, this damaged, deadly man who barely knows me, promised he'd check on me in the morning. And for some reason I can't explain, I believe him.
I settle back against the pillows, pulling the blanket up to my chin. My body still aches, my ribs throb with each breath, and the memory of the nightmare lingers at the edges of my consciousness.
But I close my eyes anyway.
And this time, when sleep claims me, the nightmares stay away. Maybe it's the exhaustion finally catching up with me. Maybe it's the pain medication still working through my system.
Or maybe it's because I know that when morning comes, there will be someone checking on me. Someone who stayed when I asked, who listened without judgment, who promised protection without demanding anything in return.
The thought should terrify me. Should send me running in the opposite direction because getting attached to anyone, especially a biker with ghosts in his eyes and blood on his hands, is a recipe for disaster.
But I'm too tired to run anymore.
Too tired to keep all my walls at maximum height. Too tired to do anything but accept that for the first time in months, I feel something other than anger and fear and crushing emptiness.
And as I drift off to sleep, I decide that maybe, just maybe, it's worth the risk.
Just this once.
Just for him.