Page 4 of Brick’s Anchor

Two blocks. That's not far. That's nothing. But when I look at the other girls, at how weak they are, at how the one who can't stop shaking looks like she might collapse, two blocks sounds impossible.

"Can they walk that far?" I ask.

Brick looks at me. His eyes are so dark they're almost black. There's something in them that I don't understand. Something that looks like fury but it's not directed at me. "They won't have to walk alone."

One of the other bikers, this one with darker hair and a presence that feels like command, steps forward. He's got a scar across his jaw and sharp eyes that take in everything.

"I'm Phoenix," he says to all of us. His voice is calmer than I expected, steadier. "President of the Iron Phoenix MC. You're safe now. We're taking you somewhere secure where you can get food, medical attention, whatever you need. Nobody's going to hurt you. You have my word."

"Your word doesn't mean shit," I say before I can stop myself.

Every biker in the room goes still. The tension shifts, sharpens. The blonde girl beside me makes a small scared sound.

I don't take it back.

Phoenix looks at me for a short moment. Then he nods. "You're right," he says. "It doesn't. Not yet. But you're going to see that it does. Until then, you can hate us all you want as long as you keep moving."

Something about that response catches me off guard. I was expecting anger. Expected him to tell me to shut up or show respect or any of the thousand things men say when women don't immediately trust them. But he just agreed with me. Told me my distrust was justified.

I don't know what to do with that.

"Let's go," Brick says. His hand tightens slightly on mine. Not painful. Just present. "Stay close."

We move as a group. The bikers form a loose circle around us, weapons out, eyes scanning constantly. I watch them work. They move like soldiers. Like people who've done this before. Efficient, and deadly.

It should make me feel safer.

It doesn't.

All I feel is dirty. So fucking dirty that I want to claw at my own skin. The clothes I'm wearing have been on my body for a week straight. I haven't showered. Haven't been allowed to. Just that tiny disgusting bathroom with no door where the guards could watch if they wanted to. Where I had to choose between using it or holding it until my bladder screamed, and the humiliation of that choice is something I'll carry forever.

My hair feels greasy against my neck. My scalp itches. My mouth tastes like rot. My body feels like it belongs to someone else, like it stopped being mine the moment my ex-boyfriend's fist connected with my face and I woke up in that locked room.

We exit through a side door. The night air hits my face and it's so cold, so sharp, so clean that I almost sob. Fresh air. Real air. Not the stale recycled hell of that warehouse. I breathe it in and it hurts because I haven't breathed properly in seven days.

"Keep moving," Brick murmurs.

He's angled himself slightly in front of me, blocking wind or threats or both. I don't want him that close. Don't want anyone that close. But I don't have the energy to argue.

The street is dark. Empty. Industrial buildings line both sides, all of them closed for the night. Our footsteps echo against pavement. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks. Normal sounds. The sounds of a world that kept existing while I was locked away from it.

Two blocks feels like two miles. The girl who couldn't stop shaking stumbles and one of the bikers, the one with medical supplies on his belt, catches her before she hits the ground.

"I've got you," he says. "Just a little farther."

Another girl, the one with dark hair who was pressed against her friend, starts crying. Not loud. Just quiet tears streaming down her face while she walks. The blonde beside me reaches out and takes her hand. Neither of them says anything. They just hold on.

I'm still holding Brick's hand. I don't know when I started gripping it so tight. My fingers ache from the pressure, but he hasn't complained. Hasn't tried to pull away. Just keeps walking, keeps blocking the wind, keeps existing as this solid immovable presence beside me.

I hate that I enjoy it.

Vehicles appear ahead. Three of them. Large SUVs with tinted windows parked in a line. Not bikes. I realize with a strange distant part of my brain that they brought vehicles that could fit all of us comfortably instead of making us ride on the back of motorcycles. That's thoughtful. I don't want to notice thoughtfulness right now. Don't want to see these men as anything other than what all men are.

But I notice anyway.

"Women in the middle vehicle," Phoenix says. "Brick, Judge, you're with them. Saint, you're driving. Ranger and Diesel with me in lead. Wraith takes rear."

Doors open. The girl who stumbled is helped into the middle SUV first. Then the crying girl and her friend. Then the one who was shaking. Then the blonde.