Page 38 of Ravaged and Ruined
I let out a breath and Padre stands, walking across the room toward me.
“She said they were moved three times before tonight,” he tells me. “What they’ve been through is a real horror show.”
“How long?” I ask.
“Weeks, maybe. She’s fuzzy.”
“Damn.” I rub my tired hands down my face when I hear soft movement behind us.
I turn slowly, not wanting to spook her. She’s maybe twenty, rail-thin, bruises ringing her wrists like cuffs. Wide eyes, too big for her face. Her lip trembles and she points at our cuts.
Her voice barely makes it out. “You’re one of them.”
My stomach knots. “One of who?”
Her chin jerks, a tiny motion. “The ones with the scorpion patches.” She swallows hard, and her voice cracks.
My chest goes tight. Heat licks up my spine in a slow, icy burn that comes before rage. I glance down at my cut, then meet her gaze again.
“We’re not them.” I keep my voice low, “Our patches don’t stand for what theirs do.”
She takes a step back, fingers trembling. “They said no one would help us. That if we tried to run, they’d feed us to the river.”
Behind me, Padre shifts, quiet, but alert. Listening.
I shake my head and edge closer to her, slow enough not to rattle her. “They lied. You’re not going back to them. I swear that to all of you right now.”
She just stares like she wants to believe me but hasn’t seen proof of men like us yet.
I tap the patch over my heart. “You see this? Royal Bastards MC, Atlantic City. We don’t sell women. We don’t hurt them. We protect them.”
She bites her lip so hard it bleeds. “What happens now?”
“We keep you safe,” I say, voice firm. “And when Quinn gets here, you’ll go with her and the Royal Harlots. They’regood people. Women who’ve been through hell and came back swinging.”
A flicker of something, hope maybe, flares in her eyes. That seems to be enough to settle her for now. She turns back toward the other women and sits back down.
“I’ll be outside waiting for Quinn.” I tell Padre. The less of us in here with them, the better it’ll be for them until they learn they can trust us.
With my fists clenched tight, I step back outside. The air bites deeper out here in the Pines. Just the whisper of wind threading through the trees like it’s whispering secrets to the dark. I let the cabin door click shut behind me and lean against the railing, the wood rough beneath my palms.
The others are holding it together, but I can feel the weight pressing down on me. I tilt my head back and stare at the sky. No stars tonight. Just a low, cloud-thick ceiling.
This was supposed to be simple, grab the guns, make the drop, fund the casino project. In and out. But there was nothing simple about finding trafficked women hidden behind crates of military-grade hardware. Nothing easy about seeing terror in their eyes, knowing the patch on my back looks too much like the ones that hurt them.
Bloody Scorpions. Sick bastards.
I rake a hand down my face, the calluses scraping over my tight jaw. The Bloody Scorpions are gonna feel tonight. We hit them where it hurts. We have their guns, and the women. Which means they will come looking.
Lacey’s face flashes behind my eyes. That fire in her, that smart-ass mouth, those eyes that see too damn deep into me. I claimed her on instinct, my soul recognized hers the second we met. And now I’ve painted a target on her back. One she didn’t ask for. One I’m not sure I can keep her safe from.
I close my eyes and exhale, low and rough. Then I hear the crunch of gravel crunching beneath tires. I open my eyes to see three minivans roll into the clearing like a damn PTA meeting showed up. Neutral colors, clean, unassuming. Perfect camouflage for what these women really are.
The Royal Harlots are here.
The first van jerks to a stop, dust curling around the tires. The driver’s door swings open, and out steps worn leather boots, laced high. Then long legs covered by jeans and a black tank top. Quinn’s cut rides her shoulders with authority. Her President patch visible from here. She’s got that don’t-fuck-with-me energy radiating off her like a fuse waiting to catch.
Quinn stops in front of me, her hands on her hips, scanning the cabin like she’s assessing the battlefield. “What are we looking at?”
