Page 6 of Cipher's Baby Girl
"I understand you don't have anywhere to go," he says, his voice surprisingly gentle for someone so intimidating.
"No, sir," I reply quietly, my fingers twisting together. "I don't...have any family…or anyone.”
He nods once, a sharp, decisive movement. "You’re welcome to stay here until you figure things out. We've got extra rooms, and no one will bother you."
Here? He’s going to allow me to stayhere? My throat tightens unexpectedly, a burning sensation behind my eyes. Such simple kindness feels overwhelming. “T-thank you," I manage, the words feeling inadequate for the lifeline he's offering.
Ghost gestures toward the main building. "Angel will get you settled."
As if summoned by her name, a beautiful woman with dark hair streaked with purple appears at Ghost's side. She slips her arm through his with the easy confidence of someone who knows she belongs there. Her eyes are assessing, taking in my disheveled appearance and uncertain posture, but her smile is warm.
"Come on," she says gently, extending her hand to me. "Let's get you cleaned up and fed."
I hesitate before taking her hand, unaccustomed to casual touch. Her fingers are warm against mine, the gentle pressure reassuring rather than threatening.
I follow her into the main building, trying not to gawk at my surroundings. The entryway opens into a large room with scattered leather couches, pool tables, and a massive bar along one wall. Motorcycle parts form an artistic display on another wall, while a massive mural of a grim reaper dominates the space above the bar. The air smells of leather, beer, and intimidating masculinity.
Men in leather cuts mill around, some glancing curiously in my direction. I stay close to Angel, feeling exposed under their gazes. I hunch my shoulders and make myself smaller, a habit developed over years.
"Don't worry about them," Angel says, noticing my discomfort. "They look scary, but they're good men. No one here will hurt you."
I nod, not because I believe her but because the last thing I want to do is be argumentative.
She leads me through the main room and down a hallway, up a worn wooden staircase that creaks under our feet, and into a corridor lined with doors. The hallway is dimly lit, but the darkness feels protective rather than threatening.
"This will be your room," she says, opening one of the doors. "It's not fancy, but it's clean and private. The bathroom is through there." She points to a door in the corner.
The room is simple but comfortable—a double bed with clean sheets, a small dresser, and a nightstand with a lamp. It's more personal space than I've had in years. My bedroom at Richard’s was little bigger than a closet.
"Thank you," I say again, standing awkwardly in the center of the room, unsure what to do with my hands or where to look.
Angel's expression softens. “There are some clothes in the drawers. Not sure how well they’ll fit, but they should do for now. You can shower and change, then I'll come back to take you to dinner." She pauses. “Just double-checking… Is there anyone I can call for you? Family? Friends?"
I shake my head. "No. There's no one." The words couldn’t ring truer. My mother died when I was twelve. I never knew my father. Richard isolated me from the few friends I had before my mother's death. There's no one in the world who would recognize my name or face.
Angel doesn't push, just nods with understanding. “Okay, well, once you get cleaned up, I’ll introduce you to Sophie and to Luna’s abuela. You’ll love her. She’s been taking care of everyone."
After she leaves, I stand motionless in the middle of the room, overwhelmed by the sudden silence and solitude. Freedom feels strange—almost frightening in its vastness. What am I supposed to do now? What do normal people do when no one is giving them orders?
The bathroom is small but clean, with fluffy towels stacked on a shelf. I turn on the shower and stare in wonder at the billowing clouds of steam.
I step under the hot spray, watching as dirt, sweat, and the remnants of my captivity swirl down the drain. I use the shampoo and soap, scrubbing until my skin is pink and raw, as if I could wash away the memory of hands that touched me without permission, of eyes that assessed my value like I was livestock.
As I wash, I find myself thinking of other hands—the strong, possessive hands of my rescuer. The man who called me "Baby Girl" in a voice that made something flutter in my chest.
When I emerge, wrapped in a towel softer than anything I've felt in years, I find clean underwear, jeans, and a t-shirt in the dresser as promised. The clothes are a bit loose, and I have to roll up the cuffs of the jeans, but they’re clean—no stains, no tears, no lingering smell of mildew like the second-hand thrift store clothes I’m used to.
A knock at the door makes me jump, my heart racing with fear before I remind myself where I am.
"Rose? It's Angel. Ready for dinner?"
I open the door, tugging self-consciously at the oversized t-shirt. Angel smiles. "Come on, dinner’s almost ready. You’re gonna love Abuela's cooking."
The kitchen is a large, industrial space filled with the aroma of spices and simmering meat—smells so rich and complex they make my mouth water. A small, elderly Latina woman presidesover several pots on a commercial-sized stove, barking orders in Spanish at a large biker who appears to be helping her.
"Abuela, this is Rose," Angel says. "Rose, this is Abuela.”
Abuela turns, her weathered face creasing into a warm smile. "Ah, mi niña," she says, wiping her hands on her apron before approaching me. Before I can react, she's enveloped me in a hug that smells of cumin and cinnamon. "Too skinny. We’ll fix that."
