Page 2 of Brick’s Anchor

And a girl.

She's sitting on the mattress, back against the wall, knees pulled to her chest. Long brunette hair with bangs that almost hide her eyes. Those eyes lock on me the second I'm through the doorway: wide, terrified and furious in equal measure

She's scared but she's not broken. Not yet.

She moves fast. Faster than I expected. Her hand closes around something beside the mattress, a tin cup, and she throws it at my head with surprising accuracy. If I'd been a half-second slower, it would've clipped my temple.

I catch it.

We stare at each other.

She's chubby. Curvy. Wearing clothes that used to fit better before she was locked in here, before they started starving her. Her cheeks are round and flushed, her breathing quick and shallow. There's a bruise on her jaw that's turned yellow-green with age. Someone hit her hard enough to leave that mark, hard enough to knock her out if the shape of it is any indication.

The violence in my chest redirects, focuses on whoever put it there. I want to find them. I want to make them understand exactly what they've done.

"I'm not a Viper," I say. My voice comes out rougher than I intend. "I'm here to get you out."

Her eyes narrow. "I don't care who you are. I don't need your help."

I look at her state. The bruise. The too-loose clothes. The goddamn bucket in the corner. Then I look back at her face.

"Yeah," I say. "You do."

"No," she says, and her voice is sharp enough to cut. "I really don't. I don't need help from any man. Not you, not them, not anyone. So, you can turn around and walk back out that door."

She's been locked in here for who knows how long, and she's still got enough fight in her to throw things and tell me to fuck off. That takes a kind of strength most people don't have.

"Not happening," I tell her.

She opens her mouth to argue. Behind me, Phoenix's voice carries through the warehouse. "Brick. We've got five more. All women. All in bad shape."

Five more.

My hands curl into fists. The girl on the mattress sees it and flinches, just barely. That tiny movement, that evidence of what they've done to her in here, makes the darkness in me rise up so fast I have to breathe through it.

"Are they okay?" She asks, and her voice changes. Gets smaller. More desperate.

"My brothers are getting them out now," I say. "You're coming with me."

"I told you—"

"I heard you the first time." I take a step forward. She scrambles back against the wall. I stop. Force myself to soften my stance, make myself smaller even though there's no making someone my size non-threatening. "Listen to me. This building is full of Vipers who traffic women. You're locked in a room with a bucket for a bathroom and a bruise on your face. I don't give a fuck if you trust me. I don't give a fuck if you like me. But you're leaving with me right now because in about five minutes, this place is going to be swarming with reinforcements and I'm not leaving you here for them."

She's thinking. I can see it happening behind her eyes—the calculation, the weighing of terrible options, the choice between bad and worse.

"The other girls," she says finally, "I need to see them. I need to… I've been hearing them for a week. I need to know they're alive."

A week. She's been locked in here for a week.

The violence in me sharpens to a point.

"Fine," I say. "You can see them. But after that, you're coming with me and you're not arguing."

She stares at me for a brief moment. Then, slowly, she unfolds from the mattress and stands. She's shorter than I expected. Comes up to about my chest. The top of her head would fit right under my chin if she stood close enough.

She doesn't stand close. She keeps her distance, watching me like I might attack at any second.

I reach out my hand.