Page 4 of Reaper's Justice


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Chapter 2 - Evelyn

I don't know which is worse. The hell I was in or the hell I'm heading toward.

He’s Jackson but the men call him Reaper. He guides me to a motorcycle parked in the shadows behind the bar, his hand hovering near my elbow but never touching me. I appreciate that small mercy. My skin still crawls from the last man who put his hands on me.

"Ever been on a bike before?" he asks, his deep voice carrying easily over the distant sirens.

I shake my head, trying not to stare at the patch on his leather vest. Outlaw Order MC. President. I may have been held captive for months, but even before that, I knew enough to stay away from motorcycle clubs.

"Hold onto me. Lean when I lean." He hands me a helmet. "This will be too big, but it's better than nothing."

The helmet swallows my head, smelling of leather and something distinctly male. I watch as he throws his leg over the massive bike, starting it with a roar that vibrates through my bones. He looks back at me, his gray eyes unreadable in the dim light.

"Your choice, Evelyn. Get on or stay for the sheriff."

My name sounds strange coming from his mouth. How long has it been since someone used my actual name instead of "bitch" or "merchandise"?

The sirens grow louder. Sheriff or biker gang president? Neither option seems safe, but at least the biker fought to get me out. The sheriffs in the last town looked the other way when the Vultures MC first took me.

I climb on behind him, my legs weak and shaking. The bike is hot between my thighs, the sensation almost shocking after months of cold concrete floors. I hesitate, hands hovering uncertainly.

"Around my waist," he instructs. "Hold tight."

Touching him feels dangerous, like placing my hands on a predator. But as I wrap my arms around his solid torso, I'm struck by how warm he is. How alive. How human, despite the inhuman things he's likely done.

We pull away just as flashing lights illuminate the back of the building. My stomach lurches as the bike accelerates, and I instinctively tighten my grip. His body is like stone beneath my arms, unyielding and strong.

The wind tears at my thin dress, the chill cutting straight to my bones. I press myself against his back, seeking warmth, hating my weakness but too exhausted to maintain any dignity. Survival first. Pride later, if there is a later.

We ride through town, past closed storefronts and dimly lit houses. Normal places where normal people sleep, unaware that women are being sold just streets away. Unaware that a monster rescued by an even bigger monster is passing by their homes.

Because that's what I am now. A monster. The things I've seen. The things I've endured. The things I've done to survive. No coming back from that.

The bike turns onto a dirt road, slowing as we approach a compound surrounded by a chain-link fence. Two armed men step forward, then quickly move aside when they recognize their president.

The compound consists of a large main building, some kind of converted warehouse, with several smaller outbuildingsscattered around a central courtyard. Motorcycles line one wall, gleaming even in the dim light.

Reaper parks, killing the engine.

"We're here," he says unnecessarily.

I don't move. My fingers seem locked around his waist, frozen in place. Now that we've stopped, reality crashes down. I'm alone at an MC compound with a man named Reaper. What happens now?

He doesn't rush me. Just sits, allowing me to take my time. Finally, I force my hands to release him, ignoring how they tremble. I slide off the bike, legs nearly buckling. Hunger and exhaustion have taken their toll.

"Can you walk?" he asks.

"Yes." The lie slips out automatically. Show no weakness. That's been my mantra for months. Weakness gets exploited.

He glanced at me for a moment, then nods once. "This way."

I follow him to the main building, painfully aware of the eyes watching from the shadows. Other club members. Assessing me. Wondering what their president brought home. Wondering if I'm for sharing.

The thought makes bile rise in my throat.

Inside, the building opens into a large common area. Pool tables, leather couches, a long bar against one wall. It smells of cigarettes, beer, and motor oil. Two men look up as we enter. One with dark short hair and covered in tattoos, another with a wild beard and wilder eyes.

"Boss," the tattooed one acknowledges, gaze sliding to me with open curiosity.