Page 40 of Bonita Brynne

But I was only thirteen and didn’t want to die.

The door slammed shut. Metal scraped against metal. The sound made me think of the lock on the door of the Quonset, where the club stored the bikes over winter.

I’m never getting out. Never gonna see my family again.

Sniffing back snot, I wiped my nose on the back of my hand. Crying wouldn’t change anything. I needed to be tough and fearless—not a baby—if I was going to prospect when I turned eighteen.

I lifted off the concrete floor into a standing position and winced. My whole body ached from when those assholes had run Jax and me off the dirt road. We had crashed into the ditch and tumbled on debris and rocks.

The compound had been only a mile down the road. So dang close. I’d been sure one of my uncles would’ve been out riding, positive someone would find me fighting back, but no. Jax had been knocked out, and I’d been overpowered, gagged, and my wrists zip-tied together.

I inspected my slashed wrists and body. Dry blood and dirt were all over me.

My stomach growled, reminding me I hadn’t eaten since yesterday at lunch. I swallowed what little saliva was in my dry mouth. I hated water, but I’d drink a gallon right now.

Why did that old dude want me? Was he using me to get money from my parents?Ransom. Had the club wronged him? Or killed someone he loved?

Shit, I was probably toast.

I shook my head. No, the Knights would find me because they ruled Minnesota.

Wait. What if I wasn’t in Minnesota anymore? I’d been in the SUV for a long time. They’d blindfolded me, so I had no idea where they’d taken me.

Crap, I was definitely in a bad situation.

I took in the space. The room was larger than the other one I was in when the dude recorded me. No windows, but at least there was a light on the ceiling.

And a mattress on the floor in the corner of the room. I limped over and carefully dropped onto it. I was so tired.

Hungry.

Thirsty.

Scared.

I wanted to go home, but sleep won. What else was there to do?

Not a damn thing. My eyes closed and surrendered.

“Hey, wake up.” Someone patted my arm. “Are you hungry?”

“Mom?” I rubbed my eyes. “Mom?” I jerked into a sitting position. Had I been rescued?

“No, I’m not your mom,” the girl said. “Sir, had me bring food and drink. He wants me to clean your injuries.”

Sir? Was she talking about the old guy? He had gray in his beard, but he was probably around my dad’s age.

She seemed younger than my mom but older than me. “They let you in here?”

“Mhm. But I must hurry.” She opened a box with medical supplies. “This will burn, but we must clean your wounds before they get infected.” She doused my wrist.

“Ow,” I hissed and watched the liquid fizz on my skin. Peroxide. The same stuff my mom used to clean all my owies. I got hurt a lot. She’d joke how I was her most accident-prone child. I had worn the title like a badge of honor.

“It only hurts for a few seconds.” She quickly dabbed the area clean, wrapped a bandage around my wrist, and did the same to the other. “Eat.” She nodded to the brown paper bag.

“What’s your name?” I bit into a peanut butter sandwich and savored the taste. Grape jelly would have made it perfect. Almost perfect, the bread was dry, and I preferred white over wheat.

“No name.” She took care of the cuts on my face, and I noticed she was missing a pinky. It would be weird to ask her about it, but I wondered what had happened.