I take an instinctive step back, my heart giving a single, hard thud in my chest. The air feels thicker suddenly, the distant hum of traffic on the main road fading into the background. “Who are you?” I ask, my voice steadier than I feel. My mind races, how do they know my name? How do they know about Tiny?
The shorter one laughs, a low, humorless sound. “Friends of friends. We heard you might need a ride. Tiny sent us.” He says it casually, but his eyes flick over me in a way that makes my skin crawl, lingering too long on my curves beneath the cardigan.
My stomach drops. Tiny would never send strangers to get me. I grip my keys tighter in my fist, the metal biting into my palm like a lifeline. “I’m fine. I have my car,” I say firmly, forcing myself to stand taller even as adrenaline begins to surge through my veins.
The taller one steps closer, his boots scraping loudly against the ground. The smell of leather and cigarette smoke wafts toward me. “Come on. Don’t make this hard. We’re just here to take you somewhere safe.” His tone is almost mocking, like he’s enjoying the game already.
I turn and start walking faster toward my car, my pulse pounding in my ears now, a frantic rhythm that drowns out everything else. The clinic building feels miles away, its lit windows too distant to offer any real comfort. “Leave me alone,” I call back over my shoulder, my voice cracking just a little at the end. Fear coils tight in my gut, but I push it down, focusing on the familiar shape of my little sedan ahead. Just a few more steps. Get in, lock the doors, drive to Tiny.
They follow. Their footsteps are quicker now, matching my pace effortlessly. The shorter one lunges forward and grabs my arm, his grip like a vise, fingers digging into the soft flesh above my elbow. Pain shoots up my shoulder, sharp and hot, making me gasp. “Let go!” I yank my arm free with all my strength, twisting away. My keys slip in my sweaty hand, clattering to the pavement with a metallic ping that sounds too loud in the quiet lot. I bend down quickly to pick them up, heart hammering against my ribs like it wants to escape.
In that split second, the taller one grabs me from behind. His arm wraps around my waist like a steel band, lifting me clean off the ground. My feet kick uselessly in the air, sneakers scraping nothing but empty space. “Stop fighting,” he growls low in my ear, his breath hot and foul with the stench of smoke and something sour. “You’re coming with us.”
Panic explodes through me in a white-hot flash. I kick backward wildly, my heel connecting with his shin. He grunts but doesn’t loosen his hold. “Help! Someone help!” I scream, my voiceechoing across the nearly empty parking lot. A couple of people, a nurse I recognize from the day shift and an older patient, glance our way from near the entrance, their faces pale with shock. But no one moves. No one calls out. They look away, hurrying to their own cars like this isn’t their problem. The betrayal stings almost as much as the fear.
The shorter one snatches up my keys and my bag from the ground, rifling through it briefly with a smirk. They drag me toward a black van parked at the far edge of the lot, its windows tinted dark as midnight. I scream again, thrashing in the taller man’s grip, my cardigan riding up and the cool air hitting my exposed skin. “Let me go! Tiny will kill you for this!” The words tear from my throat raw and desperate.
The taller one clamps a massive hand over my mouth, muffling my cries. His palm is rough and sweaty, pressing so hard my lips ache. “Shut up,” he growls, the vibration of his voice rumbling against my back. “You’re making this worse for yourself.”
They shove me roughly into the back of the van. The door slams shut with a final, deafening thud that seals my fate for the moment. The interior smells of stale beer, oil, and unwashed bodies. I scramble toward the door on my hands and knees, fingers clawing at the handle, but the shorter one is already there, holding me down with his weight. His hands are rough, calloused, pinning my shoulders to the grimy floor. I fight as hard as I can, twisting, bucking, my nails raking down his arm and drawing blood. I bite the hand that tries to cover my mouth again. He curses loudly, yanking it away with a hiss of pain.
“You little bitch,” he spits, his face twisted in anger, eyes blazing with something ugly and violent.
I scream again, the sound tearing from my lungs. The van pulls out of the lot with a screech of tires, the motion throwing me sideways. I keep fighting, kicking out at anything I can reach, my legs connecting with seats and doors. The taller one turns from the front seat, his face illuminated briefly by passing streetlights. “Knock her out if you have to,” he orders coldly, like I’m nothing more than an inconvenience.
The shorter one grabs a cloth from somewhere and slaps it over my mouth and nose. It smells sweet and chemical, cloying and wrong, burning my nostrils. I hold my breath as long as I can, my lungs screaming for air, my head starting to spin in dizzying circles. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision. Thoughts of Tiny flash through my mind, his laugh, his gentle touch, the way he’d promised to keep me safe. I fight the darkness, but it swallows me whole anyway. The world goes dark.
When I wake up, my head is pounding with a vicious, throbbing ache that radiates from my temples down to my jaw. My mouth feels dry and fuzzy, like cotton has been stuffed inside it. I’m lying on a dirty couch that reeks of smoke, sweat, and something sharper, maybe spilled whiskey or worse. My hands are tied in front of me with coarse rope that bites into my wrists with every small movement, the fibers digging deep enough to chafe the skin raw. I sit up slowly, wincing as the room spins for a moment. The space is dim, lit only by a single bare bulb swinging from the ceiling and the glow of neon signs on the walls. Loud music thumps from somewhere nearby, heavy bass that vibrates through the floorboards and into my bones. Men laugh raucously, the sound harsh and jagged. Glass breaks with a sharp crash, followed by more cheers. I look around, my eyes adjusting to the gloom. This isn’t the Iron Reapers clubhouse. That place feels like home now, rowdy but warm, filled with brothers who tease each other and protect their own. This placefeels wrong. Dangerous. The air is thick with smoke, the walls are stained and peeling with posters of half-naked women torn at the edges.
A man walks in, his heavy footsteps announcing him before I see his face. He’s tall, broad, with mean eyes under bushy brows. His leather cut bears the patches of Southside Kings, a name that sends a fresh wave of terror through me. He looks me up and down slowly, possessively, like I’m something he already owns, his gaze lingering on my tied hands, my disheveled hair, the curve of my chest beneath my rumpled shirt.
“You’re awake,” he says, his voice a low drawl laced with satisfaction. “Good. We’ve been waiting.”
I pull at the rope desperately, the fibers burning my skin as I twist my wrists. My heart races, but I force steel into my voice. “Where am I? Let me go. You can’t do this.”
He laughs, a deep, booming sound that echoes off the walls and makes my stomach twist. “You’re at the clubhouse, sweetheart. You belong to us now. Tiny’s little toy. We’re going to have some fun with you.” The way he says it, casual and cruel, makes bile rise in my throat. Fun. Like I’m a plaything to be broken.
Another man comes in behind him, holding a half-empty bottle of cheap liquor. His eyes are glassy, unfocused from whatever he’s been drinking or snorting. “She’s pretty,” he slurs, licking his lips. “I want first turn.”
I press myself back against the couch as far as I can, the rough fabric scraping my back. My mind floods with memories of Tiny. These men are nothing like him. “Don’t touch me,” I say, my voice shaking but defiant. I won’t let them see me crumble. Not yet.
The first man grabs my chin hard, his fingers digging into my jaw with bruising force, forcing me to look up at him. His nails are dirty, his breath rancid. “You don’t get to say no here. You’re in our house now. You do what we say.” He squeezes once more for emphasis, then releases me with a shove that snaps my head back. He walks out, leaving the second man behind with a parting smirk.
The second man stays, grinning as he sits heavily next to me on the couch. The cushions dip under his weight, pressing me closer against him. He puts a meaty hand on my thigh, sliding it upward with intent. The touch burns like acid through my jeans. I jerk away violently, scooting to the edge. “Don’t,” I say, forcing the words out despite the tremor in my voice. “I’m not yours. I’ll never be yours.”
He laughs again, louder this time, the sound wet and ugly. “You are now.” He leans in close, his breath reeking of beer and decay, hot against my cheek. “Come on. Just a little fun. Tiny won’t mind sharing. Hell, he probably already has.”
Rage and fear mix in my chest, fueling a burst of strength. I shove him hard with my bound hands, catching him off balance. He falls back with a surprised grunt. I stand up quickly, my legs wobbly but determined, and run for the door. My heart pounds so hard it feels like it might burst. He recovers fast, grabbing my arm and yanking me back with brutal force. I stumble and fall to my knees on the hard floor, pain shooting through my legs like fire, the impact jarring my bones.
“Stupid bitch,” he snarls, his face contorted with anger. He pulls me up by my hair, the sharp tug making tears spring to my eyes. Strands rip free, but I bite back the cry. “You’ll learn.”
He drags me out into a bigger room, my feet barely touching the ground. The music is louder here, some angry rock song with screaming guitars. Men are everywhere, sprawled across couches and chairs, drinking from bottles and cans. Some are snorting lines of white powder off a dirty table in the center, their laughter manic and unhinged. Women sit on their laps, some willing, others with hollow eyes and forced smiles.
One woman is crying quietly in the corner, her makeup streaked down her face. No one helps her. A man slaps her hard across the face, and she goes quiet, curling in on herself. The sight makes my blood run cold. This is nothing like the Iron Reapers. There’s no laughter that feels like family, no protective brotherhood. Just chaos. Raw, ugly violence. The women look scared. Broken. Defeated. The men look at me like I’m fresh meat thrown into a den of wolves, hungry, eager, stripping me bare with their eyes.
The man who grabbed me pushes me toward a sagging couch in the middle of it all. Two more guys stand up immediately, their eyes lighting up with predatory interest. “Fresh meat,” one of them says, reaching for me. His hand grabs the front of my shirt, yanking at the fabric. I slap it away hard, my palm stinging from the contact.
“Don’t touch me!” I yell, my voice rising above the music. Heads turn, more laughter rippling through the room.
