Chapter 4

Jax's fingers dug into my arm as he dragged me through the compound. The wedding dress that had once symbolized my future now hung in tatters around my knees, the delicate lace torn and stained with dirt and motor oil.

"Welcome to your new home," he said, his voice flat as he pulled me past rows of gleaming motorcycles. "Might as well get acquainted with the place."

Men and women stopped to stare as we passed. Their eyes raked over me—some curious, others hungry. I kept my gaze fixed on the ground, wishing I could disappear.

"This is the garage," Jax said, nodding toward an open warehouse where several bikers worked on motorcycles. "And this is the main hall."

He pushed open a set of double doors to reveal a massive room with pool tables, couches, and a long bar. Music pounded from speakers mounted in the corners, so loud I could feel it in my chest.

"Cain," Jax called out, "come meet our new... acquisition."

A thin man with a shaved head and a snake tattoo winding up his neck sauntered over. Cain "Spike" Malloy—I'd heard stories about him. About how he got his nickname.

"So this is the prize," Cain said, circling me slowly. His eyes traveled from my face down to my ruined dress and back up again. "Not bad. Definitely worth fifty grand."

I flinched as he reached out to touch my hair, but Jax's grip on my arm tightened, keeping me in place.

"Careful," Jax warned, though his tone lacked any real concern. "She's merchandise."

Cain laughed. "I know how to break in new toys without damaging them. Want me to show her the ropes?"

"No," Jax said flatly. "Grizz will watch her."

A massive figure stepped forward—the same man who'd caught me at the church. Marcus "Grizz" Jones. Up close, I could see the weathered lines of his face, the scars crisscrossing his knuckles.

"Yes, sir," Grizz said, his voice surprisingly soft for such a big man.

"Take her to her quarters," Jax ordered. "Then bring her back here at seven. She'll be working the bar tonight."

Grizz nodded and took my arm from Jax's grip. His touch was gentler than I expected, but no less firm.

"This way," he said simply.

He led me down a narrow hallway past several closed doors. The music faded slightly as we moved deeper into the building.

"Your room," Grizz announced, stopping at a door at the end of the hall.

He pushed it open to reveal a small space that might once have been a storage closet. A narrow bed with a thin mattress took up most of the space. There was a small dresser, a toilet in the corner, and a sink with a cracked mirror above it. No windows.

"You'll work in the bar and restaurant," Grizz explained, his tone matter-of-fact. "Serving drinks, cleaning tables. The girls will show you what to do."

"And if I refuse?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

Grizz's expression didn't change. "You won't."

The unspoken threat hung in the air between us. Whatever was waiting for me if I disobeyed would be far worse than this.

"I'll come get you at seven," he said, then closed the door.

I heard the lock click into place.

At seven sharp, Grizz returned. He led me back to the main hall, which had filled with even more people. The music was louder, the air thick with smoke and the smell of alcohol.

The other women working the bar barely glanced at me as Grizz introduced me. Some wore the club's colors—members, not prisoners like me. Others had hollow eyes that told me they'd been here too long.

"Trays are heavy," one of them warned, not unkindly. "And don't spill."

For hours, I carried drinks across the crowded room. My arms ached from the weight of the trays. Men grabbed at me as I passed, their hands lingering on my waist or worse. The women ignored me, too focused on their own survival to offer help.

"You're new," a customer slurred, blocking my path. "How about you join me for a private drink?"

"I'm working," I said, trying to step around him.

His hand shot out, grabbing my wrist. "I'm talking to you."

The tray wobbled in my hands. I tried to pull away, but he was stronger.

"I said—"

The drink slipped from my grip, splashing across his shirt and onto the floor.

Silence fell over the bar.

Slowly, he raised his hand and backhanded me across the face. Pain exploded through my cheekbone as I sprawled onto the wet floor.

The silence deepened. Every eye in the place turned toward Jax, who sat in his corner booth nursing a whiskey.

He didn't move. Didn't even look up.

Message received: I was on my own.

Late that night, after the last customer had stumbled out, I lay awake on the thin mattress. My cheek throbbed where I'd been struck, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the ache in my chest.

I had to get out of here.

Carefully, I pulled a hairpin from my purse—the same one I'd worn in my wedding hairdo. I'd read enough mysteries to know how locks worked.

The lock clicked open under my fingers.

Heart pounding, I slipped into the dark hallway and made my way toward the exit. The compound was quiet now, most of the bikers either asleep or passed out drunk.

I reached the main gate. Freedom was just beyond those bars.

I took one step forward—

Floodlights blazed to life, blinding me. Dogs began barking wildly from somewhere to my right.

"Going somewhere?"

I whirled around to find Marcus standing behind me, his face impassive in the harsh light.

"Not far," I whispered.

His hand closed around my arm—not roughly, but with absolute finality.

"Let's get you back to your room," he said quietly.

As he led me away from freedom, I realized this was just the beginning of my nightmare.