7. Hudson
HUDSON
The weirdest order I've ever been given is happening right now.
"She needs a shower."
That's it—the entire order.
Simple. Impossible to misunderstand.
So here I am, leaning against a bathroom wall while Jonas Sorenson's daughter gets cleaned up.
I don't ask why.
I don't want the answer.
A bad feeling settles in my gut anyway.
I shove it aside.
Whatever he's planning, it won't matter in the end.
I’ll kill her before any of that happens.
At least, that's what I keep telling myself.
She’s trying not to look at me.
She turns her body away, angling her shoulders, arms crossing and uncrossing, as if moving somehow makes her invisible.
Martin’s paranoid. He thinks she grew up in a place like this. As a club leader’s daughter, she probably knows how to turn anything into a weapon.
He’s sure she’ll use any privacy to try to escape.
I look around the space – a glimmering white, modern bathroom with an open shower. Nothing that jumps out as dangerous.
Still, I keep my eyes on her.
“You gonna keep that up,” I say flatly, “or are you going to get on with it?”
Her head snaps toward me, eyes flashing.
“Do what?”
“Pretending you’ve got privacy.”
She starts the water and then glares at me.
“What?” I ask sharply.
Her jaw tightens.
“Turn around,” she says. “It’s basic decency.”
I ignore her.
Her nostrils flare, and her cheeks go red, but she turns away, pulls off her torn, dirty dress, then her bra and underwear. She keeps her back to me as she steps into the shower, making sure I see as little as possible.
“You know,” she says, voice sharp over the sound of the water, “There are probably women out there who get off on having a murderous kidnapper with a Frankenstein face watch them shower.”
She glances at me over her shoulder.
“I’m not one of them.”
“You’ve got nothing I haven’t seen before,” I say, keeping my voice flat. “You’re not special. Don’t flatter yourself. Just wash up and get it over with.”
She arches an eyebrow.
"Really?"
I don't answer.
The lie sits heavy in my chest.
She ignores me and reaches for the soap. The shower stretches on longer than it needs to. She lets the heat soak in after days spent in that freezing room.
Some of her tension slips away as she tilts her head back under the water.
And holy fucking hell.
Steam curls around her body.
Water runs over her pale skin and soft curves.
Her hair darkens under the water, the red turning into deep mahogany as it falls almost to her waist.
Thick.
Wild.
Heavy with water.
For a second, I forget why she’s even here.
My body reacts instantly.
Fuck.
I have to look away.
That pisses me off more than it should.
Because she’s supposed to be leverage.
Revenge.
A means to an end.
Not some dangerous distraction, standing naked in the shower, making it feel like she’s got me under a spell.
For a moment, the tension in the room is thick between us.
“Who’s the darker-haired man?” she asks suddenly.
“What?”
I blink, forcing myself to stop thinking about her in ways I shouldn’t.
“The scary one pretending to be civilized.”
Martin.
My jaw tightens.
When she opens her eyes, she finds me staring.
She lifts her chin, challenging me, while covering her chest with her arms.
“You’re disgusting,” she mutters.
“Hurry the fuck up,” I snap. “You’re the one dragging this out.”
She exhales and turns away, scrubbing her skin like she could wash off my stare if she tried hard enough.
A stream of water follows the curve of her spine and disappears beneath the crack.
Too fucking pretty.
That’s the real problem.
She looks like the kind of woman who could ruin a man’s life with a single smile.
I force myself to look away.
Not because she demands.
But because I have to.
“The darker-haired guy. Looks a little like you, but smaller and less deformed. Older. Is he your dad?” she asks again.
I shrug.
It doesn’t matter if she sees it or not.
She turns her head slightly, watching me over her shoulder.
“Martin, right?”
Silence.
She exhales.
“Yeah, I figured.”
I neither confirm nor deny it.
The less she knows, the better.
“Why’d he make you do this?” she asks, smoothing conditioner into her hair now, fingers working through it like she’s trying to rip it out at the roots. “You on punishment or something?”
I keep my expression flat.
“Or is this your actual job?” she continues. “Standing around supervising hostage showers?”
Nothing.
“Low-level shit, if you ask me,” she adds. “Thought you’d be out doing something more important.”
There it is.
She's probing to know if I’m someone she can manipulate.
Smart.
Eva Sorenson grew up in this world.
She knows exactly how men like this operate.
She’s trying to get a rise out of me.
Most men would take the bait.
I’ve spent too many years getting hassled from every direction to fall for that.
I refuse to give her the satisfaction.
“You done?” I ask.
Her eyes flash with irritation.
“God, you’re boring,” she mutters.
When that doesn’t work, she smoothly switches tactics.
“I wish I could shave,” she says casually. “I hate the feeling of hairy legs.”
“Too bad,” I say. “Nobody here’s dumb enough to hand you a razor.”
“Ooooh,” she says dryly. “Death by a woman’s razor. What a humiliating obituary.”
I almost laugh.
I have to hold it back.
“Dead women don’t shave,” I say.
I expect that to make her stop talking.
It doesn’t.
“Well, I’m not dead yet,” she says. “Probably because of the other guy.”
She watches me carefully while she rinses conditioner from her hair.
“He’s the boss, right?”
Silence.
“I saw one of the guards wearing an Iron Eagles patch outside my room,” she continues. “So if he’s in charge, that makes him Martin Cross.”
I just stare back at her, not giving anything away.
“Interesting,” she murmurs, taking my silence as confirmation.
Then her expression changes a little—less taunting.
“He’s creepier than I thought he’d be. Like, rapey-creepy. Is your dad a rapist, then?”
I don’t move.
I don’t react.
She turns her head again, watching me.
“He came in earlier,” she says. “Took a picture of me as I was inventory.”
My hands curl into fists.
“Then he says,” she drops her voice, mocking, “‘Provide information. Or, you know, other things.’”
The way she says it sends a cold feeling through my chest.
“I suppose that’s why I’m taking a shower. He likes his rape victims smelling fresh and burning hatred?”
I roll my eyes.
“Hurry the hell up, will you? I’ve got other things to do.”
“God forbid you’re late for something important. Off to slit some throats? Shoot some people you don’t like? Kidnap more women for your dad to assault?”
Seriously?
I raise my eyebrows.
“I have an actual job,” I say. “I know that’s probably shocking information for a spoiled princess like you.”
She scoffs as she reaches for the towel.
It’s too small.
Way too fucking small.
It barely covers her, and I hate how distracting it is.
“I own my own company, you idiot. You were literally at my event pretending to work as kitchen staff. Ring any bells?”
I stare at her. The bottom half of her ass is hanging out from under the towel.
I force myself to look back at her face.
That turns out to be just as big a mistake.
Jesus Christ.
This woman is going to be a problem.
“Do your fucking homework before you lob a bullshit insult, then,” she says. “Also, go ahead and keep staring at my ass. Your boner is making you far less intimidating.”
I growl at her. “Get dressed. And shut the fuck up.”
She turns from me, grabbing at the pile of clothes folded on the shelf. The towel drops for a second while she dries off, quick, efficient movements, like she refuses to give me the satisfaction of seeing anything longer than necessary.
That doesn’t help.
My eyes still catch on her anyway.
The curve of her back, the line of her spine, the way she moves—it all draws my attention.
She steps into the underwear next. Joggers that fit her like a second skin. A t-shirt with, of all things, the Chicago Reapers logo on the front. No bra.
I let out a slow breath and run a hand over my jaw.
No wonder Martin is foaming at the mouth.
A bad feeling settles in my stomach.
I know that look.
I've seen it before.
For the first time since I pulled her out of that alley, I start to wonder if Martin is turning into a bigger problem than Eva.
“Turn around,” I say.
She rolls her eyes but obeys.
I swear she deliberately pushes her ass back slightly while I cuff her wrists behind her.
What a brat.
“Careful,” she mutters. “Wouldn’t want to bruise your prisoner.”
“Move.”
I guide her toward the door with a hand on her arm.
The second we step into the hallway, she starts talking again.
“This place smells like shit,” she says. “Do you people not believe in airflow? Or is mold part of the aesthetic?”
I ignore her and keep walking.
“Also, my feet are freezing,” she continues, glancing down at the concrete floor. “You couldn’t spare socks? Slippers? Literally anything?”
“Keep moving.”
“I am moving. I’m just suffering while I do it.”
I say nothing.
“And my hair?” she goes on, tugging at the damp strands. “Still wet. Do you have any idea what happens if I don’t brush this out? I’ll end up with actual dreadlocks.”
“Personal problem.”
She scoffs. “Yeah, well, it becomes your problem when I look feral in whatever twisted hostage situation you’ve got going on.”
We round the corner.
“And it’s freezing in that room and like, aggressively freezing. If this is the guest experience, I’m leaving a terrible review,” she keeps going. “One star. Maybe half.”
We reach her door.
I shove it open and push her inside.
She stumbles a step, catches herself—and the second the cuffs come off, she lunges.
That gets me completely off guard.
One moment she’s complaining about mold and cold floors, the next she’s launching herself at me like a damn wildcat.
She slams into my chest hard enough to drive me backward into the door. It crashes shut behind me as she swings wildly, fists and elbows flying.
Most of it misses.
Some of it doesn’t.
Her fist catches my mouth.
Pain shoots through my lip, and I taste blood right away.
“Jesus Christ?—”
I grab her before she can swing again and throw her backward onto the bed.
She keeps fighting.
Kicking.
Punching.
She thrashes beneath me with every bit of strength she has.
The fight lasts maybe three seconds.
Then I’m on top of her, pinning her wrists to the mattress while she bucks beneath me. My hands are at her neck, cutting off her air. It would be so fucking easy.
Just one hard twist.
Ignore Martin.
End this now, before it gets any worse.
“Don’t—” I snarl at her, but then she smiles.
My grip loosens.
Just enough for her to notice.
Why the fuck is she smiling?
“You must like it rough,” she says, eyes moving to indicate the space between us. “Violence turns you on or something? You’re rapey like your dad?”
“That’s what gets you off?” she adds. “Throwing women around?”
I freeze.
Because in that exact moment, I realize she’s not wrong about one thing.
My body betrays me.
I am rock hard. Full erection between her spread legs.
Fuck.
I let go and push away from her, getting to my feet in one quick move. Her smile gets a little bigger.
“Yeah,” she murmurs. “Thought so.”
She straightens up slowly, watching me, her eyes following every move as I back toward the door.
“Careful. Wouldn’t want to hurt your pride. Have a good day,” she says pleasantly as I yank the door open and step out into the hallway.
“Lock it,” I tell the guard.
He doesn’t ask questions.
The door shuts.
The lock clicks.
And just like that, she’s out of sight.
I rub my face, angry at myself.
I’m too disciplined to react to her insults.
Apparently, not disciplined enough to keep my dick under control.
I stomp down the hall, boots pounding hard against the tiles.
Away from her.
Away from whatever the hell just happened in that room.
Because this is exactly why Eva Sorenson is dangerous.
Every second around her chips away at something I’ve spent years trying to control.
And sooner or later, something's going to break.
I have to find Martin.
I need to convince him to end this.
Immediately.