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No matter how much information I gather, how high I climb in the ranks, it's never enough. For months now I've been playing the system, searching for a way to bring them down, and I feel like I'm no closer to my goal than I was when I first got here. This shit is too difficult, and I'm not even the one suffering. All my choices leave Aelia the one with bruises, with scars on her soul that will never fade.
I slam my fist into the wall, accomplishing nothing other than damaging my knuckles more. They'll turn black and blue for sure now. When I knocked Anders clean off his feet, I probably would have gotten away with mere redness. Maybe it'll lend credence to disciplining Aelia. Jenkins's only concern was whether she'd be able to work tomorrow. Apparently, with Anders back, Jenkins plans on going forward with the Auction, though he'll be pushing it back.
"Great to see you're still an asshole," Jag grumbles as he grabs a blanket off the bed.
"I'm not in the mood, Jag." I sigh, resting my forehead on the window. The cold seeps into me, chilling my flushed skin. It’ll snow soon probably.
"Oh yeah? I'm sure all this shit is really fucking hard on you," he snarls.
I swing toward him and he squares up, pushing his chest into mine. He narrows his eyes, daring me to make a move. We may not be in the same MC, but I'm the Vipers’ president. Jag is a Sargent-at-Arms, below me in the hierarchy. Someone like him stepping up, trying to put me in my place, isn't done. It's grounds for me to beat the shit out of him. He doesn't look like he's going to back down, though.
"Go ahead. Hit me. I'll even give you a free shot. And then I'm goin' back in that closet and gettin' that woman the fuck out of here."
"The hell you are," I growl, balling my hands into fists.
"Maybe you were too busy feelin' fucking sorry for yourself, but that woman is drowning. If you won't save her, I will."
He stomps away, and the rage that filled me so suddenly extinguishes in the blink of an eye. He's doing what I should be—taking care of Aelia. I can't make my feet move. I'm frozen, wondering if Jag smuggling her out would be better. At least she'd be safe then. I don't know how he'd get her out of here. Aelia is adamant we'd get caught.
I drop my chin to my chest, my chaotic thoughts bombarding me. No matter what choices I make, she'll suffer. And I'm no closer to bringing Jenkins to his knees than I was months ago. The bedroom door clicks shut and I whip my head up, ready to rush after them.
"Dante?" Aelia calls from the closet, and I deflate.
"I'm here," I say, rubbing the back of my neck.
"Can I wear your sweatpants?" she asks in a small voice.
I force my feet forward in measured steps. With every stride, a little more of my resolve bleeds away, streaming behind me to float away into nothingness.
I stop in the doorway, scanning the marred skin not covered by her towel. "I'm going to have Jag get you out."
She's shaking her head before I've even finished. "It won't change anything. We'll just get caught."
I nod, not really listening to her excuses. There has to be a way, and even if it doesn't work, I have to try.
"I'm getting you out, Aelia. This isn't up for discussion."
Her head snaps up, eyes narrowing. "Is that so? You're just going to take over and make all my decisions for me? And what happens when it all falls apart?"
"It won't," I growl. "The bruises on your body show just how well I've been able to take care of you. I'm eliminating the suffering now. I'll try to stay on the inside and bring them down. The worst that will happen is death."
She scoffs, pushing to her feet. When she turns away, dropping the towel, I avert my eyes. She may not have an issue with the small scars scattered across her body anymore, but it still sends a bolt of rage through me each time I see them.
Glancing back, she’s pulled on a shirt and is rolling up the waistband of a pair of my sweatpants. They hang off her hips even though I’ve been feeding her more. What little weight she gained was lost when Grant locked her up and she can’t seem to put any more back on. The stress doesn’t help.
"You don't get it. After all the time you've spent here, you still don't fucking get it," she mumbles as she presses a hand to her side.
"Enlighten me. Because all I see is me failing and you paying the price."
She turns slowly, anger lining her dark eyes. "Let's say I run, with or without you. The worst for you is if I died. You're willing to take that risk, but you have no fucking clue."
My heart clenches at the thought of her dead at my feet. I don't know what she sees on my face, in my eyes, but hers softens, pity etched within them.
"They won't kill me. In fact, I'd welcome a bullet. I'd begfor one. A quick death would be preferable to what they'll do to me—what I've seen them do to others. You sit up here, wondering why those below don't overthrow the guards and the leaders. It'd be simple during the day, wouldn't it? All you'd need is a few people willing to sacrifice their lives."
"You can't tell me they never tried," I murmur.
She lets out a sharp laugh, shaking her head. "Course they did. Which is exactly why I know it wouldn't work. The ones who are caught aren't killed. That's too easy. No, if I was caught, they'd keep me alive. They'd torture me, taking bits and pieces of me until there was nothing left. I've watched them do it, and death would be a blessing."
