Page 25

Chapter 25

Liam

I ’ve made the worst mistake. Jeopardized my entire position here by aiming a weapon at my second’s face. What a fool I am.

I harden my resolve, staring into Blitz’s eyes.

When I got back to the compound from a drop-off, I instantly went down to check that Fleur had water brought to her. I even had a pack of crackers to sneak in. It’s no surprise there wasn’t a cup in her cell, but what was surprising and equally disturbing was she wasn’t there.

Panic surged in my chest, and I banged on each of the six cabins to find them empty. Two guys by the fire outside the clubhouse mentioned seeing a girl dragged out into the woods and I knew immediately she had been taken to the clearing.

The place where people die and are buried. Darrin rarely uses this tactic, and if he’s killing anyone, it’s never a woman. I dialed Darrin on my way to confront Blitz to ask for permission to do something about this.

He was shocked. I had stunned him with my request. But what am I supposed to do?

We’ve had average townsfolk and even law enforcement tortured and killed out here. Knowing she was going to be raped and murdered because of my brother’s actions … well, I guess I’ve assumed another responsibility.

Blitz narrows his gaze down the barrel of my gun before peering over the top, meeting my stare.

“You’ve now earned yourself a punishment.”

I don’t flinch at his words. “This is over,” I tell him, and he snorts.

“The hell it is.” He goes to move, but I straighten my other arm up to join my hand tightened around the trigger and he stills.

I glance toward Fleur. She’s pissed herself. Her hair sticks to the sweat gleam on her forehead, and her shirt, which is actually mine, is soaked through. Her eyes are red-rimmed and heavy. She’s barely holding on. She clutches her shovel, embracing it, to keep from falling over.

This is all wrong. It’s horrible what I’m about to do, but I don’t know another way out. I take a breath.

“I’m claiming her.”

The already quiet clearing becomes soundless. Not even the nocturnal creatures make a peep.

Fleur’s brow furrows as Blitz roars with laughter. “Claim her. You can’t do?—”

“I’ve already cleared it with Darrin.” I roll my shoulders back and lower my gun, planting a vicious smirk on my face. “It’s the perfect penalty for Adam. Watching the girl he was vying for marry his brother.”

At the mention of marriage, Fleur’s face freezes, shock warring in her expression, and she frowns.

“Plus, it saves some space in the clearing. You know we’re running low,” I add. Tension sweeps away with my carefree comment and the men laugh. Nausea thickens in my gut.

Blitz chuckles but pulls out his phone and brings it to his ear as he steps away. “Boss …”

His words trickle to the side as I turn to Fleur. I expect to find relief in her eyes, considering her fate, but she glares at me, wobbling with her fatigue. I glare back at her. I don’t need this. I did this for her. For Adam.

“Darrin says he’s approved this. I’ve been instructed to bring in a minister first thing in the morning. Take her, clean her up. God knows she needs it.” He turns to address Fleur. “Liam saved his brother yet again. You’ll marry him in the morning. As is our tradition, claiming means you’re his unless he decides to share.”

He smirks at his comment and a primal urge to growl at him hits me out of nowhere. I’m not sure how I’m going to explain this is how we do things here. That Darrin and Blitz resemble cult leaders over drug lords. Not to mention claiming her requires a branding no one should be subjected to against their will.

It’s not my problem. I did what I needed to.

“Get this cleaned up,” Blitz says to some of the guys, and they automatically jump to obey.

Now comes the part I’m dreading. Saying I claim Fleur was the easy part. The hard part is everything that follows.

I turn toward her, exploring the long blond strands sticking to her face. The dark circles under her eyes are so intense it looks like she was in a fistfight.

Food, water, a shower, and sleep. That’s what she needs right now.

Fleur watches me as I approach her, still propped up on her shovel handle. I don’t think she has the strength to hold herself up anymore. When I near her, she flinches, nearly tumbling to the ground. I reach out to steady her elbow—she’s shaking.

With my other hand, I take the shovel from her.

She stares back at me, those gray eyes probing me with unspoken questions. I can tell she wants to know what’s going on. Why I’m doing this. Can she trust me?

I don’t offer her any answers. I can’t. Instead, I pull her toward me and gesture back over toward the cabins, prompting her to follow.

She does her best, but I notice every few steps she stumbles over the thick pine needles or downed branches. I grit my teeth and tighten my fists at my sides to keep from reaching back to grab her—I can’t be seen helping her. This is meant to be a punishment for Adam, nothing more.

Blowing out several huffs of frustration, we finally leave the surrounding woods and move along the gravel pathways toward my cabin. Women shriek and giggle from the clubhouse, seated in the laps of men around the fire. I manage to catch Fleur’s horror as she watches the languid party taking place after her traumatic experience. For me, it’s another day.

I slow as I approach my one-bedroom cabin, grateful this one is farther than the others. Some of the men are known for sneaking around, not overly thrilled to be following Darrin’s rules of claiming.

I run through everything in my head as I jog up the steps, glancing behind me to see that Fleur has slowed. Still shivering, her eyes flick from side to side and over the cabin. It’s not much, but it’s home. I’ve had to make it mine.

First on the agenda, a warm shower and clothes. I’m going to have to take her into town at some point to get new clothes that fit her. Given her farmhouse is currently ash in a field, she’s going to need a few things. Get too little and she’s uncomfortable, get too much and the men will think she is too comfortable. The balance of this game is already mentally taxing, and I haven’t even married her yet.

Unlocking the door, it squeaks when I swing it open and move to turn on the light. I can feel her at my back, her warmth seeping into me. Leaning against the wall, I kick my boots off and motion her inside with my hand. She hesitates.

“The warm shower is inside the cabin, Fleur. Not on the porch.”

She narrows her eyes at me, but they falter as she shuffles inside. I shut the door and ignore the living room and kitchen to march straight into the bathroom.

It’s small, featuring a shower-tub combo and an obnoxiously short vanity. Ripping back the dark green shower curtain, I move the handle to hot and let the shower warm. There are only a couple of towels under the vanity, but I snag one and set it on the toilet seat. After checking to make sure there’s soap and shampoo, I glance back at the front door.

Fleur hasn’t moved a muscle. She stands straight, arms clasped to her front, eyes roving around the homely living area.

“Shower is on. Everything you need is in there. I’ll grab you some clothes from my room. Unfortunately, until we can get you some new ones, you’ll need to borrow a shirt and sweats from me.”

Fleur doesn’t answer. I track a single tear falling from the inside corner of her eye as it drips down her nose. She looks lost.

“You’re alive, Fleur. Get in the shower.”

A hand smacks her tear away and she scowls at me while slowly moving to the bathroom. Once she steps in, she faces the rectangular medicine cabinet mirror, and her eyes widen in horror.

She doesn’t look bad. I’m not sure Fleur could look bad. But her eyes are bloodshot and so heavy they look swollen, and red dirt is slathered all over her face. While she studies herself, I gather an old T-shirt and the smallest sweatpants I own and set them on the toilet next to her towel. I realize quickly she won’t have a new bra and underwear until we can go into town.

“Fleur. Get in the shower. Then you need to eat.”

She startles when I speak. Playing with the hem of her shirt, she opens and closes her mouth several times as if she wants to say something. I wait for what feels like an eternity before she finally says, “I can’t lift my arms.”

It takes me a moment to fully understand what she’s saying. Her voice is so thin, torn by her screams and pleas. But it finally registers. She spent hours tonight digging in hard-ass dirt and her arms are spent. She’s got nothing left.

I step to her, holding her eyes in a silent question. She nods, and I move my fingers to the bottom of the stained shirt and lift the fabric off her. The lace bra from the last time I saw her sits on her pale skin, while several bruises mark her body from, I’m assuming, her struggle at the farmhouse and the metal cot. I don’t let my eyes linger on her, even though I want to. She’s in such a vulnerable position, and I don’t want her to get the wrong idea. She blinks at me when I don’t instantly move, then I turn to leave and shut the door.

The shifting of the shower curtain lets me know she’s gotten in, but it’s quickly followed by short whimpers growing into long, drawn-out sobs. She tries her best to silence her cries, the muffled sounds muted, but this is a small cabin. You can’t hide anything.

The charcoal pencils sitting on my desk call to me, and I trace my fingertips over some paper before I flick it away and storm out the door.

Echoing laughter from the clubhouse manages to filter toward the cabin, but it’s better than the ugly sobs causing my stomach to knot.

For twenty minutes, I stare at the stars. They’re dull, and the dark of night settles over the cabin like some kind of omen. Fleur being here is … wrong. She shouldn’t be here, let alone with me.

I push to stand, noting the noises coming from the cabin closest to mine. Most of the men had a great night tonight if the roaring laughter and sounds of pleasure echoing through the compound are any indication.

I walk back through the door and listen for the crying I was so desperate to escape. It’s gone, the cabin is utterly silent. Turning each of the three deadbolts to lock the door, I also draw the simple ivory curtains shut.

The fridge is currently empty aside from a few items, so I’ll have to make a trip to the grocery store when I take Fleur to pick up some items she needs. I mentally run through the canned soups possibly in my cupboard while switching off the cabin porch lights.

Turning, I freeze.

Fleur stands in the living room, hair wild and wet. Droplets from her long hair drip down the shirt I gave her, and the pants she’s wearing barely stay up despite the fact she rolled them several times.

She stares at me, gaze flicking to the three locks on the door. Her gray eyes, like the stars, are dull and lifeless. Her face is clean, free from the dirt and grime of the past couple of days, and I had almost forgotten about the scattering of freckles dusting her nose and cheeks. But now that I can see them, I’m wondering how I could ever forget.

She glances at the couch, and with a lean ever so slightly, her eyelids flutter. It’s as if she’s imagining how it would feel to sit on the soft love seat after days of sitting on concrete, and she’s drawn to it.

“Why don’t you sit,” I say. “I don’t have much. But I’ll heat up some chicken noodle soup if that works for you.”

As if on cue, her stomach rumbles and she wraps her arms around her middle and nods before shuffling over to the couch.

Sitting straighter than a rod, her gaze flits around the cabin space. She pauses when she gets to the coat rack my grandfather made, and she spends even longer studying the sketch of the forest framed above my desk.

In three strides I’m rifling through the cabinets, searching for the canned soup. After placing a pot on the stove, I empty the can’s contents and stir, making sure the soup is plenty hot. The fanciest bowl I have is a speckled blue one, but I pour the soup in there and then grab a spoon. I take the dish to where Fleur is still frozen on the couch.

Milk crates make up my coffee table. It was a project I did with my grandfather in high school, which he kept stored away in his garage. When I moved back to Ruin, he pulled it out for me. It’s sturdy enough, I guess, so I set the bowl down on it and extend the spoon to her.

She blinks but reaches up to take it, carefully leaning over the bowl to bring the first taste to her mouth. Her throat works the soup down, her eyes widening a bit before her slow pace melts away into a small frenzy. She eats so fast I’m worried her stomach won’t be able to handle it, though I say nothing.

In no time at all, the spoon clinks in the finished bowl and she wipes the back of her hand across her mouth.

“Sorry,” she says, redness creeping up her neck and blooming over the apples of her cheeks. “I was really hungry.”

Pain settles deep in my gut. You could’ve done more for her. You should’ve done more.

Rationally, I know I did what I could in the parameters of my job and position within this place. I can’t afford to compromise myself, but it doesn’t feel good. What’s another black spot on my soul?

Instead of answering her, I nod.

She frowns. “I don’t understand,” she says, her voice less raspy than earlier.

There isn’t anything that follows her statement. It’s implied, and I don’t know how to answer her questions.

“Essentially, I’ve claimed you. We use that term here with some of the women who marry into the group. Keeps most of the men and dealers from sniffing around a woman and offers protection.”

Her brows knit further together, and I know I’m not explaining it right.

“Men marry the women they want to stake a claim on.” I try again, but her expression moves into a frown. “It was the only way I could think of, in that moment, to get them to leave you alone. It’ll also piss Adam off, which considering his current issues with Darrin and the guys, will keep the guilt of anything happening to you off his conscience. He doesn’t need that.”

“I see,” she answers.

I didn’t realize I was squatting so close to her. One hand on the love seat arm, I move back, pull out a kitchen table chair, and slide into that.

“And if I don’t want to marry you?” she asks.

I snort. “You’ll marry me if you value your life. This works, Fleur. Trust me.”

“Trust you?” A sarcastic laugh trickles out of her mouth. “Trust a bunch of law-breaking druggies who kidnapped and almost killed me. Trust you ?”

Her voice cracks as she wipes her face. Being lumped in as a law-breaking woman-beater on drugs triggers me, and I snarl. Jumping up, I knock over the chair as I move to the kitchen for a cup of water.

Let her think what she wants. Let her.

I gulp down the water and steel my emotions, glaring at her. “Trust me, I’d rather not marry you, either. I did this for my brother.” Disgust curls at the ends of my mouth, and I meet her icy stare and raise an eyebrow.

She breaks our stand-off first, sitting back on the couch and pulling her feet up. Part of me wants to tell her I’ll take the couch. That she’d sleep a hundred times better in my bed, but I doubt she’d agree. I’m sure a comment like that would scare her and she probably wouldn’t sleep anyway.

“I’ll get you a blanket and a pillow.” I march down the short hallway to the linen closet outside the bathroom and pull out one of my grandmother’s quilts and an extra pillow. When I return, Fleur isn’t there. The faucet in the kitchen turns on, and she fills a glass of water. My chest tightens watching her in the kitchen, but I stomp it down, laying the blanket and pillow on the couch.

“I’m going to hit the shower and head to bed myself.” I turn to go, but her voice stops me.

“And in the morning?” she asks.

“In the morning, we get married.”