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Chapter Twenty
The van bumpsdown the road, shunting me from side to side. I try to keep from rolling around, but it’s hard with my hands bound behind my back. My bruises are going to have bruises at this rate. The hood pulled over my head keeps me unaware of my surroundings, and it also induces terror. With each passing mile we move further from the safety of Manchester and towards the unknown.
My breath rasps out of me, making it hot inside the hood they pulled over my head. I’m starting to feel light-headed, and I’m not sure if that’s the heat or fear. Probably a little of both.
No one has spoken since I was shoved in the back, not even small talk. That’s making things worse. The silence is haunting, especially when I know Dylan, the man who has been behind all the attacks on the Club over the past year nearly, is here. Hearing his voice sent a shock wave of terror through me. I have no idea what he’s capable of, but he’s the kind of man who swears allegiance to a Club and then stabs his brothers in the back when they least expect it. He’s not a good person. He’s also not a man who deems violence against women as taboo—a mantra both the Devils and Saxons follow. He hurt Paige when he and Tap attacked Wade, so I doubt my status as unharmed will continue.
I try to strengthen myself, remembering that I’m a Harlow and that I have the resolve to come through this, remembering that I have three brothers and an old man who will move heaven and earth to get me back.
I hope they manage in time.
I just found Dane. I’m not ready to give him up.
I’m not ready to give up any of my life, as complicated and irritating as it might be. I want to meet my niece or nephew in a few months’ time. I want to see Danny grow up and drive Liv and Dean crazy. I want to see my sister settle down, and Adam get his girl too. I want to hug my mum one last time.
I want to live.
It’s a desire that burns so strongly through me, I can taste it like ash on my tongue.
My life might be an insipid, boring drudge, but it’s mine. And it’s just started to get interesting.
The van suddenly jolts, and I’m slammed against something hard—maybe the back of the seats.
Ow.
Then the engine cuts. My heart starts to race beneath my sternum as I hear the sound of the doors opening and then closing before the screech of metal as the side door is dragged open.
My gut churns and I fist my hands tightly, making the ropes dig into my wrists. The pain reminds me I’m still breathing, that I still have a horse in this race and that I’m not willing to lie down and die.
A hand wraps around my left bicep and I’m dragged up. The movement, coupled with the fact I can’t see, is disorientating and it has my head rolling.
My breath is ripping out of me as I’m tugged to what I assume is the edge of the van. My legs scrape along the floor, and I’m grateful I’m wearing jeans that protect my skin. These men are not careful, nor do they seem to care about hurting me.
When my feet touch the floor, they wobble beneath me and it’s only the grip on my arm that stops them from folding completely. Even though I’m trying to be brave, I’m trembling, and whoever has hold of me must be able to feel that I am. I hate that. I hate these bastards knowing I’m scared.
My feet stumble as I’m pulled forwards. Without any vision, I’m reliant on whoever has hold of me and I fall into him more than once.
The chill in the air becomes less pronounced and even through the hood I can see my surroundings darken.
Am I inside now?
He gives me a shove and I stumble, only to be kept upright by his bruising hold on my bicep.
Then I’m pushed down into what I think is a chair. I feel my hands tugged roughly again and then the bite of wood against my back.
The hood is tugged off and I’m greeted with brightness that has me squinting. I blink rapidly to quickly clear my vision and when I do, I see two men standing in front of me, no longer masked. One is Dylan. The other, I assume, is the man who took me from Lola—Racket.
Racket would be attractive, if he wasn’t a kidnapping psycho. He has a thatch of messy dark hair and a jawline that most men would give their right arm for, but the malice on his face makes him uglier than anything else. He’s looking at me like I’m a game he intends to play.
The room I’m in is large, with a pool table and bar and a Reapers’ banner hanging over the back of it. It takes me a second to work out where I am—the Reapers’ common room.
They brought me to their clubhouse?
Internally, I snort at the stupidity of their actions. Where do they think my brothers and Dane will look first?
Then my stomach fills with ice.
Of course Dylan knows that.
