Page 5 of Reaper's Justice
"Ghost," Reaper returns. "Viper. Any word from Blade?"
"Got our biker friend secured in the shed. He's not happy." Ghost, the tattooed one, smirks. "But he's alive and mostly unharmed."
"Good." Reaper turns to me. "This is Evelyn. She's under my protection. Spread the word."
Under his protection. But what does that mean? Protection in exchange for what?
"We got rooms ready for the other girls at the safe house," Viper offers. "Doc's checking them out now."
"The other girls?" I speak for the first time, my voice small but steady. "Are they okay?"
Three pairs of male eyes turn to me, and I resist the urge to shrink back.
"They're safe," Reaper answers. "Scared, but unharmed. Physically, at least."
I nod, relieved. Some of those girls were so young. So innocent. Not like me. I was already damaged goods when the Vultures MC took me.
"You need medical attention?" Ghost asks, his tone surprisingly gentle.
I shake my head. "No." Another lie.
I probably have broken ribs and definitely have infections where the restraints cut into my wrists and ankles. But hospitals ask questions. Take reports. I'm not ready for that.
"Food, then," Reaper decides. "And clean clothes."
He leads me through a door and down a hallway to what appears to be private living quarters. A large bedroom with an attached bathroom. His space, clearly. Everything is neat, minimal. Aking-sized bed dominates the room. No personal photos. No clutter. Just the essentials.
"Bathroom's through there," he says, pointing. "Shower's got decent pressure. Towels in the cabinet."
I stand frozen, confusion washing over me. "I don't understand."
"What don't you understand?"
"Why am I here? In your room?" The question comes out sharper than intended, edged with fear.
His jaw tightens. "You're here because it's the safest place in the compound. You're in my room because it's the only one with a lock on the inside." He reaches into a dresser, pulls out a t-shirt and sweatpants. "You can wear these. They'll be too big, but they're clean."
He sets the clothes on the bed and steps back, giving me space.
"I'll get you food while you shower. Then we talk."
"About what?" I ask, my heart racing.
"About what happens next." He moves to the door. "Lock it behind me."
He leaves, closing the door quietly. I stand there for a long moment before moving to slide the deadbolt into place. The solid chunk of metal against metal is the most reassuring sound I've heard in months.
The bathroom is surprisingly clean. No beard trimmings on the sink, no dirty clothes on the floor. I avoid looking in the mirror as I peel off the filthy dress they forced me to wear for the auction. I don't want to see what I've become.
The water pressure is indeed good, just like he promised. I stand under the scalding spray until my skin turns pink, scrubbingwith his soap until I'm raw. It smells like him, something woodsy and clean. I hate that I notice. Hate that I find it comforting.
My hair is a tangled mess, but I find a comb and work through it, focusing on the pain to ground myself. Pain is familiar. Pain I understand.
His clothes swallow me whole. The t-shirt hangs to mid-thigh, the sweatpants requiring multiple folds at the waist and ankles to stay up. But they're soft. Clean. Mine to wear, at least for now.
A knock at the door makes me jump.
"Evelyn? Food's here."
