Chapter 3

I woke to the sound of boots thudding against hardwood. My eyes snapped open, heart hammering against my ribs as Rex loomed over me, his silhouette cutting a dark figure against the dim light filtering through the blinds.

"Get up," he commanded, his voice devoid of emotion. "Time for your loyalty test."

The words sent ice through my veins. I'd heard whispers about loyalty tests—hazing rituals designed to break new members, especially women. With trembling limbs, I rose from the bed, careful to keep my expression neutral despite the fear clawing at my throat.

Rex gripped my arm, his fingers digging into my flesh as he dragged me through the clubhouse. The main hall was eerily quiet, but not empty. Three men stood in a semicircle near the center—Butcher, Wolf, and a massive enforcer whose name I'd never learned. Their expressions ranged from clinical detachment to Wolf's barely concealed excitement.

"Rules are simple," Rex announced as he shoved me forward. "Prove your loyalty."

He gestured to the three men. "You have a choice. Take a beating from me—" his eyes darkened, "—or them."

The implication was clear. Rex's violence would be calculated, controlled. The others would revel in hurting me.

"Well?" Wolf's voice dripped with anticipation. "Choose, little dancer."

I forced myself to meet Rex's gaze. Behind the cold mask, I thought I saw something—a flicker of... what? Concern? Impossible.

"I choose you," I whispered, the words tasting like ash.

Something shifted in Rex's expression—approval, perhaps. He nodded once and turned to the others. "Leave us."

Wolf's face contorted with disappointment. "Come on, brother. Where's the fun in that?"

"Now," Rex growled, and the others reluctantly filed out.

When the door closed behind them, Rex turned to me. "Strip."

My fingers shook as I removed my clothes, standing naked before him. I'd grown accustomed to his eyes on me, but today felt different—more dangerous.

"Arms up," he instructed.

I complied, and he bound my wrists to an overhead pipe with zip ties. The plastic cut into my skin as I struggled to keep my balance.

"This is mercy," he said quietly. "Remember that."

The first blow came without warning—a backhand across my face that snapped my head to the side. I tasted copper as my lip split open.

"Count," he ordered.

"One," I gasped.

He struck again, this time to my ribs. The pain exploded through my side.

"Two," I choked out.

By five, I could barely stand. By ten, I was hanging from my wrists, the world blurring through tears and blood.

"Fifteen," I whispered as he paused.

Rex studied me with those unreadable eyes. Then, unexpectedly, he cut the zip ties and caught me as I collapsed.

"Why?" I managed to ask through swollen lips.

"You chose me," he replied simply, carrying me back to his room. "That earns protection."

---

Three days later, with my bruises fading to sickly yellows and greens, I noticed Rex slip out in the early morning hours. He'd been absent more frequently lately, always returning with that haunted look in his eyes.

Curiosity burned stronger than caution. I followed him at a distance, watching as he entered a storage room at the far end of the clubhouse—one I'd never seen him use before.

When he left an hour later, I waited ten excruciating minutes before approaching the door. Locked, of course, but I'd taken the spare key from his desk drawer weeks ago.

The room was small and dimly lit. At first glance, it appeared to be nothing more than storage for old club records. But as I moved deeper inside, I discovered a makeshift shrine.

Photos covered one wall—dozens of images of a beautiful woman with copper hair and laughing eyes. Elena. The name from Rex's lockbox.

Beside her photos were maps, newspaper clippings, and surveillance photos. In the center was a large corkboard with red string connecting various points—a conspiracy map.

And there, pinned prominently in the center, was a photo that stopped my heart.

My father.

He stood outside a police station, shaking hands with a man whose face was just out of frame. The date stamp showed it was taken three days before his death.

"What are you doing in here?"

I whirled around to find Rex in the doorway, his face a mask of cold fury.

"I—I was looking for you," I stammered.

"In my private room?" He stepped inside, closing the door behind him. "Explain."

When I couldn't find words, his hand shot out, grabbing my throat and slamming me against the wall.

"You think you can spy on me?" His fingers tightened. "After everything I've done for you?"

"I don't understand," I gasped. "The woman—Elena—who was she?"

Something dangerous flashed in his eyes. "You don't get to speak her name."

What followed was methodical cruelty. He dragged me back to his room and subjected me to psychological warfare—beating me until I could barely breathe, then cradling me gently as I sobbed.

"You want to know about Elena?" he whispered against my hair as I lay broken in his arms. "She was everything. And your father helped kill her."

The words hit me like physical blows. "What?"

"He was dirty," Rex continued, his voice hollow. "Working with the Savage Lords to set her up."

"That's not—" I bit back my denial. My father had been many things, but not corrupt. Not dirty.

Rex's hand stroked my hair tenderly even as fresh bruises bloomed across my skin. "The truth hurts, doesn't it?"

As he held me through the night, I stared at the ceiling, wondering how much more of this twisted dance I could endure before one of us broke completely—and who would be left standing when it was over.