Page 33 of Savage

“Ow, you’re hurting me.”

I don’t need to be told to move forward, cuffs or not. I all but sprint after them, only I’m yanked back by the officer. “There’s been a slight change of plans.”

“Get your filthy fuckin’ piggy hands off me, motherfucker.” I try twisting from his grip, but he yanks my arms up behind me, causing my elbows and shoulder blades to groan and protest the pain.

“Walk,” he commands, holding my arms at bay by the chain connecting my cuffs. I stagger out into the hall as he urges me forward. The gun trained at my head is the only thing keeping me from head-butting this motherfucker and making a break for it. Well, that and the cuffs, pinning my hands behind my back.

As I clear the hall, I’m not met with my brothers kneeling on the floor, all lined up in a degenerate little line of criminals, the way we’d usually be in a raid. Instead, my prez is relaxing back on a fucking La-Z-Boy, sharing a bottle of top-shelf scotch with some douchey rail-thin officer of the law, and my brothers are spread throughout the front room, arms folded, guns in holsters, and fucking unhappy expressions on their faces. Though for some of them, that’s a regular expression. My father included, who leans against the wall and doesn’t meet my eyes. He’s probably fucking pissy that he didn’t get an invite to Prez’s “Let’s Kidnap A Rival MC’s Daughter And Rape And Torture Her For Fuckin’ Kicks” party.Cunt rag.

The only people that look as if they’re having a good time here are Prez and the fucking arsehole in blue who’s holding princess close to him and feeling up every inch of her body as she struggles.

Prez watches me closely as I’m pushed towards the centre of the room. I might have my eyes glued to the fucker whose paws are all over princess, but that doesn’t mean I can’t feel Prez eyeballing me harder than a whore he wants inside of. “And speaking of fuckin’ pathetic,” Prez says as I’m forced down on my knees before him. “I had such high hopes for you, Kick. We raised you from a fuckin’ babe, we made you into a man, and then you go and turn into a snivellin’ fuckin’ pussy, over some fuckin’ pussy.”

Sniggers come from all around the room. “Have you been inside her tight little cunt yet?”

“Fuck you.”

He leans forward and strikes me across the face. I rock back on my knees with the force of the blow, and then I’m shoved flat on the floor, his boot pressing against the back of my neck, crushing my upper spine.

“Get comfortable, kid,” he says. “I’m gonna teach you the difference between takin’ pussy and fuckin’ being one.”

I growl into the filthy carpet. My eyes dart wildly around the room and land on my father. He looks bored. The arsehole looks as if he’d rather be scratching his arse than standing here, watching his son debased in front of the club.

My eyes dart to Tank, but he glares back at me, stoic as ever, and then he turns and leaves the room. Prez doesn’t try to stop him. No, Prez doesn’t care about anything but teaching princess and I a lesson.

Her screams make me struggle. Prez lifts his foot, and for a second I can breathe easier, and then he calls Frogger to his side, and the fucker straddles my back, pulling my head up by the hair, brutally yanking back my neck.

He leans down and whispers, “I’m gonna savour this moment forever, you little shit.” He jerks on my head again, and I’m forced to see it: her, them, touching her, tasting her, hurting flesh that should be mine to hurt. Punishing her cunt with their cocks as she screams and struggles and bleeds. I try to close my eyes, but Frogger punches my kidneys to make me watch. Prez and the police officers take it in turns, and then Juke steps forward. His mouth turns up in a sideways grin that even the devil wouldn’t touch. He lifts her up. She’s bruised and beaten, covered in cum and blood and spit. She’s not even crying anymore—she doesn’t fight, just allows herself to be positioned wherever they want. However they want.

“Wait,” I growl out. I’m surprised anyone but Frogger hears me with the ruckus of the room.

“SHUT UP!” Prez bellows and the room falls into silence. “Kid’s got somethin’ to say. Let’s hear it, lover boy.”

“She’s mine. I’m laying claim to her. Want her for my old lady.”

Prez chuckles. It’s a dark and foreboding sound. “You can’t take a fucking club whore as your old lady, kid.”

“She’s not a club whore, and you know it.”

“Well, if it walks like a club whore, and talks like a club whore …”

“She’s Sons’ property. Slayer’s gonna tear this club apart when he finds her.”

“Exactly; she’s Sons’ property, and she serves a purpose you can’t even comprehend.” He turns back to my father. “Take her to fuckin’ town, Juke. Show the boy how it’s done.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

INDIE

Ijolt awake. My heart pounds in my chest, and my body is slick with sweat from yet another nightmare. I’m still in the biker’s room, one arm is still cuffed to the bed, and the other is still hooked up to the IV that prevents it from falling forward. I attempt to move within my restraints, but what the hell is the fucking point? My limbs prickle with pins and needles. My arse cheeks are numb, my bladder full to bursting. I blink my tired eyes and adjust to the dimness that is my hell without windows. At least in the warehouse I knew what time of day it was. Three days could have passed here, and I wouldn’t know if it was midnight or morning.

I know my cookie’s still there, though. I can smell it.

If the biker ever comes back, it’s gonna be a tough decision between peeing and stuffing my face with enough trans-fats to kill off a village full of African children. I sag against my restraints. If the biker ever comes back, feeding my face is probably the least of my worries. I already know I need his help to find those bastards that raped and maimed me, both physically and psychologically, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to trust him. How can I, when he’s every bit as dangerous as them? I know it’s not an act. He wasn’t playing good cop, bad cop with me—I know a monster when I see one. I’ve spent enough time with monsters to know, to feel the wrongness that seeps from every single pore on his body. What I don’t understand is my reaction to him. He may have saved me, but for what purpose? He can play nice guy now and pretend that we need each other to bring those bastards down, and maybe we do need each other for that, but why did he take me in the first place if it wasn’t just to use me the way they did? To wring every last bit of humiliation and pain and dread from my psyche?

Jesus. All these questions are giving me a headache. Or maybe that’s just the copious amount of drugs I’ve had pumping through my system for days. No, not days, weeks apparently.

I wonder what my parents are doing now. Are they trying to find me? Are they out walking the streets, seeing my face in every brunette they pass? Did they have any leads? Would they have ever found me if the biker hadn’t found me first?

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