Stringy Moustache gritted his jaw. “We earned it.”
Kill laughed darkly. “Exactly. Just like I earned your fucking obedience.”
Shaved Skull growled, “You think you’ve won? You’ll never win.”
“Funny. I just did.” Kill held up his bloodstained hands. “Karma, boys. I’m giving you until tomorrow morning to pack up your shit and leave if you want out.” His body tightened, terrible anger rippling over his muscles. “But if you stay, everything that happened tonight is over. Done.”
“Enough Club talk,” Black Mohawk snapped. “Time and place, gentlemen.”
My eyes ping-ponged between the scary looking men in identical jackets, to the blood-drenched president breathing hard through his nose. To the uneducated, he looked furious. In control, strong, and vital. To the ones knowledgeable on pain, the glow in his eyes wasn’t from anger but agony—the tension in his back wasn’t from ferocity but whatever caused him to bleed profusely.
How I knew the nuances of pain and body language, I didn’t know. It wasn’t explainable to have my entire life wiped out and only parts of my past just there… to be used unthinkingly.
But it was.
The men’s eyes trailed to us. A line up of despairing females waiting to hear our fate.
One cocked his head, sneering, “What about them? Unwilling women would be a damn sight more fun than the Club whores lurking around this joint. Wouldn’t mind me some live skin.”
Skin?
The women on either side of me whimpered, slapping shaking hands over their mouths.
Kill glared at us, before looking back to his men. “Five are already spoken for. You know the trades will happen tomorrow.”
“Okay, the sixth can be ours. Give her to us and we’ll forget about tonight.” Shaved Skull grinned.
Kill moved, charging into motion from a standstill. His face shot white as pain laced his system, but he didn’t hesitate.
His fist collided loud and hard with the man’s face. He went down like a heavy piano, complete with a bone-rattling crash.
“Get. Out,” Kill whispered. “I’m done with your shit. You’re cut.”
The man glowered up, his nose gushing blood. “You can’t banish me. I took the oath, motherfucker!”
“Can and just did. My Club. My rules. Tear off your patch.”
The man snarled, “You’re a fucking dead man, Killian.”
“Like I haven’t heard that before.” Kill snapped his fingers. Black Mohawk and Sandy-Blond charged to his side. “Strip his patch. Get rid of him.”
“With pleasure.” The men scooped the bleeding man from the floor, shoving him toward the exit.
“You’re dead. The lot of you—you hear me?” Shaved Skull waved his fist, uncaring that his nose rivered crimson.
“Yeah, yeah. Look at us—we’re fucking petrified,” Black Mohawk said, pushing him hard.
The other men stopped lounging against the wall, standing tall.
Stringy Moustache stomped forward, grabbing his bleeding comrade. “We’ve got him.” His eyes fell on Kill. “You look like the reaper’s ridin’ you, Kill. Get this done”—he pointed at us as if we were melting groceries needing a home in the fridge—“we’ll catch up at the meetin’ in a few days.”
Killian huffed, his chest rising and falling with a mixture of testosterone and adrenaline. He finally nodded. “Fine. Hopper, Mo, stay here. Need your help with the women. Keep them safe. The trade is for unsullied, unmarked stock. Don’t need any refunds being demanded.”
My back went rigid. He made us sound like animals.
We weren’t items to sell or be used.
Fear slowly crept thicker through my veins.
My eyes narrowed, searching for the shred of truth beneath his tone. He wasn’t like the men who slinked back to the garage. Yes, he was rough, tall, angry, dangerous, and entirely in bed with criminals, but there was a shrewd intelligence and rational mind hiding in his green, green eyes.
He was a walking contradiction.
Same as me.
Kill didn’t say a word, only nodded as the arrivals became deportees, and we were left in an eerily silent bubble of eight. Five women, three men.
If I knew who I was—what skills I possessed other than veterinary—I might’ve been tempted to negotiate for freedom or help grant a way out of this for the women crying beside me.
I pursed my lips, searching for the overwhelming need to run, to hide—but it was still missing. The trickle of fear was my only hint of being alive. And that was directed at the man with the green eyes, rather than the horrific situation I faced.
I’m broken.
My fight or flight reflex had been torn out along with my memories.
We’re to be sold.
Kill ran both hands through his hair, centering himself. He winced, hissing between his teeth, and dropped his right arm immediately. Swallowing hard, he growled, “You’re lucky to overhear Club business. No one outside our oaths is privy to inner workings. But it’s probably best you saw that. You can take my word for it when I say things aren’t… stable. I’m the only one keeping you intact, so show some respect and believe me when I say, you do not want to piss me off.”
His voice increased in volume, the timbre echoing from gruff to gravel. “Forget what you heard. You can’t bargain with it. You aren’t lucky to know it. You’re damned. Forget about your old life because you’re never seeing it again.”
The coldness in his tone sent icicles shimmering in the air.
Another ooze of fear slithered through my blood.
A girl clamped a hand over her ears, a small scream erupting from her mouth.
Kill scowled, flinching as another wave of agony assaulted him. “You’re probably wondering why you’re here, who we are—what we want. If you’re smart, you’ll have figured it out, but I’m going to lay it out in black and fucking white.”
His eyes latched onto mine, drowning me in green grass, moss, and emerald. “You are mine. Ours. The Club’s. We own you—every inch. I’m in power, which means your welcome is a shitload better than it would’ve been four years ago, but my temper is short.”
His voice lowered to a decibel that echoed in my heart. “The only thing you need to remember—to make your stay with us seem like the fucking Ritz rather than a prison sentence—is to obey me. If I ask you to do something, you follow immediately and explicitly. You don’t, and my courtesy will end. And when that courtesy ends—it’s gone for fucking good.”
A shadow crossed over his features. Pain speckled his brow with sweat. Gritting his teeth, he swallowed before ordering, “Strip. The lot of you. I have to make sure you’re not hurt. Your new owners are expecting perfection—don’t want to disappoint them.”
My heart stopped.
“No, please,” a girl with long blonde hair begged. “Let us go.”
Kill held up his hand—it came up sword-fast and just as sharp. “What did I just say? Immediately and explicitly.”
“Do it, bitch.” Black Mohawk came forward, his hands curling by his side. Violence reentered the room, gusting into being with his uttered threat.
The girls twitched and fidgeted, looking to each other for help. Strange, they didn’t look to me—didn’t seek out my sisterhood or squeeze closer for comfort.
The longer we stood in the line, the more obvious my exclusion was from the tearstained, terrified women.
As much as I wanted answers, perhaps it was a blessing not to know who I was. To not remember my family, marital situation, or who I might never see again.
I was set apart from them. I couldn’t determine if it made me stronger or more vulnerable to be cast out from the group. A small lance of pain pricked my heart. I truly belonged nowhere—even this horrible life into which I’d been thrown.
Kill dragged a hand over his face, smearing a cut from his forehead and drawing the dark red down his cheek. “I gave an order. Don’t test me so soon. Not tonight.”
His gaze zeroed on mine. This time there was nothing there—no pull or whisper of knowing. He was in charge and I was nothing more than skin.
His lips pressed together as he dropped his vision to my breasts. A not-so-subtle command to obey.
Strip.
Looking down my body, I plucked at the faded blue jeans and white T-shirt with a large, intricate rose on the front. Both smelled of smoke but weren’t burned like my arm. I had no shoes, no jacket.
I didn’t remember buying the items, or where I’d showered and dressed this morning. In a way, it made no difference to me either being clothed or naked. They didn’t offer protection. They weren’t armor against evil happening.
They were useless. Just like tears were useless and terror was useless. I had no need for any of it.
I don’t know what I look like naked.
My heart kicked into a curious beat. I had no idea if I had freckles, or moles, or scars. I lived in the mind and body of a stranger. Maybe if I looked, I might know? Might figure out my conundrum?
I looked up again into the green eyes of my nightmare incarnate. He’d never looked away, his jaw locked as my fingertips traced the delicate rose on my T-shirt.
I sucked in a breath, my skin prickling. I couldn’t deny he stole everything from me with just one stare. But he also gifted a piece of himself in return. I read him clearly—or maybe I only thought I did.