Total pages in book: 38
Estimated words: 35499 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 177(@200wpm)___ 142(@250wpm)___ 118(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 35499 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 177(@200wpm)___ 142(@250wpm)___ 118(@300wpm)
Legion carries me from the shower, sets me on the closed toilet lid, wraps a towel around my shoulders. Not the Egyptian cotton I'm used to, but somehow softer. He doesn't speak while he dries my hair with another towel, his touch gentle like I'm something that might break.
"We need to go," he says finally, his voice low. "I've got clothes you can wear."
I nod, watching him open the medicine cabinet. He takes out gauze, medical tape, a tube of antibiotic ointment. I stare at the brand on his chest. An angry red B surrounded by blistered, weeping skin.
It's infected. Anyone can see that.
He follows my gaze, touches the edge of the burn with his fingertips. "It's fine."
It's not fine. Nothing about that thing is fine.
It's deliberate mutilation.
What makes a man allow other men to burn their mark into his flesh like he's cattle? Like he's property?
Course, I don’t say any of this out loud. What right do I have? I let my mother photograph every private moment of my childhood. I let Marcus believe he owned me.
Legion quickly dresses the wound, wincing the whole time. Then he gives my wrists and ankles the same treatment.
I was tied to a bed. I was violated. Not as bad as it could've been, but that's like saying drowning is better than burning. Either way, something precious gets taken.
"This might sting," Legion murmurs, dabbing ointment on the raw circles where the zip ties bit into my skin. His hands are steady, but his jaw keeps clenching, unclenching. Little earthquakes of rage he's trying to contain.
"How long was I there?" My voice sounds strange to my own ears. Sandpaper wrapped in cotton.
"Three days." Legion's fingers pause on my wrist, his thumb brushing over my pulse point. "What do you remember?"
Flashes. Marcus's voice, sticky-sweet like syrup left too long in the sun. The smell of cherry pie. The drugs making the world tilt sideways. His hands on me, washing places that weren't his to touch.
"Enough," I whisper. "Not everything."
Maybe that's a blessing.
Maybe it's worse not knowing.
Legion leaves for a moment before coming back with clothes. White t-shirt with some kind of picture on it that's faded nearly to nothing. Jeans, soft but too big and too long. And a hoodie - black with the Badlands name splashed across the front. “I don’t have no shoes for you,” he says. “I only have the one pair of boots—no time for shopping these days. And Mercy’s shoes are too small. But you’ll be OK, right? Until we can get you settled?”
I nod. Shoes are the least of my worries.
He helps me dress, careful not to brush against the bruises blooming like ink stains across my ribs. All of it is too big, but I'm instantly warm. Wearing Legion's clothes is like being hugged by him and it all smells like leather and smoke and something darker.
"They're gonna be looking for us," he says, pulling on jeans. No underwear. I watch the denim slide up his thighs, catching on still-damp skin. "They'll look here first. So we’re goin’ to the clubhouse. Mercy's there. We'll go there too, figure out next steps."
The clubhouse. Where men with knives, and guns, and criminal records drink, and fight ,and plan whatever men like that plan.
Where they branded Legion like property.
"Marcus will call his father," I say, the words tasting sour. "Senator White has friends in the police. He'll call Cash and Wyatt. They'll say I'm unstable, that I need to be brought home for my own safety."
Legion's face hardens. "You're not going back."
"I know that," I snap, sharper than I meant to. "But they have resources we don't."
He steps right up to me, hands on my face. His palms are callused, warm. "The club has resources too, Savannah. Different kind, but just as effective."
I want to believe him. I want to believe we can outrun this—my family, Marcus, the carefully constructed cage they've built around me since birth. But I've spent thirty years being Savannah Ashby, and I know better.
"I'm tired," I say instead of arguing. "Can we just... go?"
Legion nods, helping me walk. My legs feel disconnected from my body, like I'm a marionette with half the strings cut. He steadies me with an arm around my waist.
"I need to grab some things first," he says.
I lean against the wall in the hallway while he moves through the trailer, gathering what we need. Through the small window, I can see the moon rising over the prairie, painting everything silver-white. The same view I've seen my whole life, just from a different angle.
Once he’s got what he needs, he shrugs on his leather cut—the vest with patches that marks him as Badlands. Property of. Member of. Belonging to. Then the jacket. All black leather and zippers. Covered in Club patches that document a life I know almost nothing about.