Page 21 of Reaper's Justice
"In my experience, everything is." I don't mean it to sound bitter, but it does.
"Then your experience has been shit." He says it matter-of-factly, not as judgment or pity. "Some things you do because they're right. End of story."
"Simple as that?"
"Simple as that."
I study him, this contradiction of a man. President of an MC, capable of violence that should terrify me, yet sitting across from me making sure I eat properly.
"What happens now?" I ask. "With me, I mean."
"That's up to you." He leans back, his expression unreadable. "You're not a prisoner here. You can leave whenever you want. Go to the authorities. Start over somewhere new. Whatever you choose."
"And if I want to stay? Just for a while?"
"Then you stay. For as long as you need."
"Why?" The question bursts out before I can stop it. "Why help me? Why let me stay? Why..." I gesture vaguely, encompassing everything—the rescue, the food, the protection.
"Because you're stronger than you should have to be," he says quietly. "Because you watched out for those other girls even when you were being held yourself. Because you deserve a fucking break for once."
His answer disarms me completely. I look down at my half-eaten sandwich, blinking back unexpected tears. When was the last time someone saw me—really saw me—and decided I was worth protecting?
"Thank you," I whisper, the words inadequate but all I have.
He nods once, standing to take his empty plate to the sink. "Finish eating. Then we deal with Naomi."
The name jolts me back to reality. Naomi. The woman who humiliated us daily, who picked which girls would be "sampled" by guards, who taught us to be marketable like we were products rather than people.
"I'm ready now," I say, pushing my plate away despite being only half finished.
Reaper looks like he wants to argue but thinks better of it. "Your choice."
He leads me through the compound to a small outbuilding separated from the others. Two prospects stand guard outside, stepping aside as we approach.
"Status?" Reaper asks.
"Ghost is with the suit," one responds. "Blade has the other guy. This one's alone, prepped and waiting."
Prepped. I don't ask what that means.
Reaper turns to me, his expression serious. "Last chance to back out."
"I'm not backing out." My voice is steadier than I feel.
"Remember the rules. You observe. You don't participate. You leave if I tell you to."
"I remember."
The shed's interior is dimly lit and smells of metal and something coppery that I recognize as blood. Naomi sits zip-tied to a chair in the center, her makeup smeared, her expensive outfit torn at the shoulder. She looks up as we enter, her eyes widening when she sees me.
The gag has been removed, but she says nothing, her gaze darting between Reaper and me.
"You know who this is," Reaper says to her, his voice deceptively casual as he circles her chair.
Naomi spits on the ground. "Damaged goods. Not worth the trouble."
Her voice is strained with fear she's trying to mask.
