He laughs, deep and throaty. “Feisty. I like that. Makes it more fun when they break.”
He tries to pull me closer, his fingers twisting in my collar. I knee him hard between the legs, putting every ounce of fear and fury into it. He doubles over with a guttural groan, clutching himself. The other guy grabs me from behind before I canrun, his arms wrapping around my torso like iron chains. His hands grope my chest roughly, squeezing with painful intent, his breath hot on my neck. “Stop!” I scream, the sound raw and piercing. I fight as hard as I can, kicking backward, elbowing his ribs, thrashing my head. I bite down on the arm around me, tasting salt and blood. He curses viciously and lets go with a shove.
I stumble forward, gasping for air, and bolt toward the door. Adrenaline surges, making my limbs feel electric. But someone sticks out a boot and trips me. I hit the floor hard, pain exploding in my knee and palms as I catch myself. The impact knocks the wind out of me, stars bursting behind my eyes.
They drag me back, their hands rough and invasive, laughter echoing all around. They call me names, whore, Reaper slut, fresh pussy, each word like a slap. They tell me in graphic detail what they want to do to me, their voices overlapping in a nightmare chorus. “Gonna fuck that fight right out of you.” “Tiny’s gonna hear you screaming our names.” I keep fighting, shoving, spitting, my body screaming in protest but my spirit refusing to yield. I think about Tiny constantly now, how he always asks, his voice soft and reverent in my ear: “Tell me what you want, Lucy. I got you.” How he waits, patient and strong, making me feel safe enough to let go. These men don’t care. They just take. They consume.
One of them pulls me onto his lap despite my struggles, his hands roaming everywhere, thighs, waist, breasts, groping with greedy entitlement. I fight harder, my nails raking down his face, drawing bloody lines. He slaps me hard across the cheek, the sting blooming hot and immediate. My head snaps to the side, ears ringing.
“You’ll learn your place,” he hisses, his grip tightening.
I spit in his face, the action defiant and impulsive. “I’ll never be yours. Never.”
He shoves me off with a roar. I hit the floor again, the breath whooshing from my lungs. They laugh louder, the sound surrounding me like a cage. Someone kicks me in the side, a boot connecting with my ribs. Pain flares white-hot, forcing a whimper from my lips. I curl up instinctively, protecting my head and torso, tears burning at the corners of my eyes. But I hold onto thoughts of Tiny. He would lose it if he saw this, that protective rage in his eyes, the way he’d tear through anyone who hurt me. He’s probably looking for me right now, rallying the brothers, his voice booming with commands. I hold onto that thought like a lifeline. It’s the only thing keeping me from breaking completely.
The night drags on in a blur of exhaustion and terror. They keep me in the room, circling like sharks. They offer me drinks, cheap beer in dirty glasses, and I refuse every time, turning my head away. “Drink up, princess. Loosen up,” one sneers, but I clamp my mouth shut. They offer drugs next, pills, then powder on a tray, waving it under my nose. The chemical smell makes me gag. “No,” I whisper hoarsely. “Get that away from me.”
They try to touch me again and again, hands reaching, bodies pressing close. I fight every single time, slapping, kicking, screaming until my throat feels shredded. My body hurts everywhere, wrists raw from the rope, knee throbbing, side aching with every breath. Bruises bloom across my skin like dark flowers. But I don’t stop saying no. I won’t give them that satisfaction.
At some point, when my struggles weaken from pure fatigue, they tie me to a chair in the center of the room. The rope cuts deeper now, circulation slowing in my hands until they tinglenumbly. They sit around me in a loose circle, drinking and watching like I’m entertainment. One of them, a scarred man with a missing tooth, starts telling stories, graphic, horrifying tales of what they do to girls who fight back. “Broke the last one in a week,” he boasts, his voice slurred. “She begged by the end.” The others laugh, adding their own sick details. I listen, feeling sick to my stomach, bile threatening to rise. This is not the Iron Reapers. This is a pit of depravity where humanity goes to die.
I close my eyes against the leering faces, the haze of smoke, the pounding music that never stops. Instead, I think about Tiny. About his arms around me, solid and warm, wrapping me up after a long shift and whispering, “Missed you, baby girl. Tell me about your day.” About the way he says my name like a prayer, soft and full of wonder. About how he makes me feel cherished, desired, safe enough to explore every part of myself without shame. I replay our moments in my mind. Those memories are my armor now. They’re the only thing I have left in this nightmare.
I don’t know how long I’ve been here, hours? The whole night bleeding into dawn? My body sags against the ropes, every muscle screaming, but my mind clings fiercely. Tiny will come. He has to. He always does. I’ll hold on. For him. For us. No matter what they throw at me.
TWENTY-TWO
LUCY
I sit tiedto the chair in the middle of their main room. The rope cuts into my wrists every time I shift even an inch. My shoulders ache from the angle. My legs feel numb from lack of movement. The music still thumps loud through the walls. Men keep drinking and shouting over it. Their voices blur together into one ugly roar. I keep my eyes closed most of the time now. It helps me pretend I am somewhere else.
A loud crash suddenly echoes from outside. Glass breaks. Shouts rise up fast. The music cuts off mid-song. My eyes fly open. Men scramble to their feet. Chairs scrape across the floor. “What the fuck?” someone yells.
Gunshots pop in the distance. My heart leaps into my throat. Hope surges through me so strong it makes my hands shake against the ropes. It is them. It has to be. Tiny. The Iron Reapers. I pull at the bindings harder. The rope burns my skin but I do not stop.
Chaos erupts around me. Southside Kings members grab weapons and rush toward the doors. Their movements look sloppy and panicked. They shout orders at each other thatcontradict. One guy trips over his own feet and curses loud. Another fires a shot through the window before anyone even sees a target. This place feels nothing like the clubhouse I know. There is no plan. No one watching each other’s backs. Just fear and anger flying everywhere.
A window shatters nearby. Cold air rushes in. I hear familiar voices outside now. Deep shouts. Coordinated. “Reapers!” someone calls. Relief floods my chest so fast tears prick at my eyes. I blink them back. I need to stay alert. I need to be ready.
The door bursts open with a heavy kick. Gunfire cracks loud inside the room. I duck my head as low as I can. Bullets hit the wall behind me. Plaster dust falls on my hair. My breathing comes quick and shallow. I am frightened. The fear claws at me but underneath it hope burns brighter. Tiny is here. He came for me.
I spot him then. He moves through the doorway like a force. His shoulders fill the space. His eyes scan the room fast until they lock on me. The look on his face shifts everything. Relief mixes with fury and something deeper that makes my chest tighten. He starts toward me, gun up, firing controlled shots at anyone who steps in his path. Brothers move with him. They cover each other. They call out positions. Pres directs from the side. “Clear left. Watch the stairs.” Their voices stay steady even in the middle of it all.
A Southside King lunges at Tiny with a knife. Tiny sidesteps and drives an elbow into the man’s face. The guy drops without a sound. Tiny does not even pause. He keeps coming straight for me. My heart pounds so hard I feel it in my ears. I want to call out to him but my voice sticks in my throat. All I can do is watch him close the distance.
He reaches me in what feels like seconds but probably takes longer. His hands go to the ropes first. They work fast but careful. “Lucy,” he says. His voice sounds rough and full of everything he holds back. “I got you. I am right here.”
The rope falls away from my wrists. Blood rushes back into my hands with sharp pins. I gasp at the feeling. Tiny pulls me up from the chair and into his arms. His body feels solid against mine. Warm. Real. I bury my face in his chest. The smell of leather and gunpowder and him fills my nose. Tears come then. I cannot stop them. They soak into his shirt. My hands clutch at his cut like if I let go he might disappear.
“You came,” I whisper against him. My voice cracks. “I knew you would.”
He holds me tighter. One hand cradles the back of my head. The other stays around my waist like he plans to never let go again. “I am sorry I was not there. I should have been there to pick you up.” His words come out low and heavy. I feel the guilt in them. It makes me shake my head against his chest.
“It is not your fault,” I say. I pull back just enough to look at his face. His eyes search mine. They look tired and wild at the same time. “You are here now. That is what matters.”
Around us the fight winds down. Iron Reapers secure the room. They move with purpose. They check on each other. One brother helps another with a graze on his arm. Their voices stay controlled. “All clear.” “Two down over here.” No one laughs at the fallen men. No one kicks them for fun. They simply do what needs doing and move on.
The difference hits me hard while Tiny still holds me. In this clubhouse the Southside Kings acted like animals. They grabbedand took and broke things because they could. Here the Reapers act like a unit. They protect their own. They came for me because I belong to one of them. Because Tiny loves me. The safety I feel in Tiny’s arms right now feels like the exact opposite of every second I spent tied to that chair.
