Page 89 of Rampage

Yet I know from experience that sometimes the simplest kindnesses mean the most after trauma—a gentle voice, a warm meal, being seen as human again.

The clubhouse door bursts open as the first group of women arrive. My breath catches at the sight of them—thin to the point of emaciation, bruises in various stages of healing marking their exposed skin, eyes vacant with shock or darting with fear. Some walk under their own power; others are carried by grim-faced bikers whose expressions promise retribution.

Alex and Jacob are both carrying in women, their faces grim, and it breaks my heart to think of what they’ve seen.

Meadow directs them to the medical station she's set up, her voice calm and reassuring despite the horror etched on her face. "You're safe now," she repeats to each woman. "No one will hurt you here."

I grab the first tray of soup and approach a young woman huddled on the couch, her arms wrapped protectively around herself. Her hair is matted, her eyes hollow with experiences I recognize all too well.

"I brought you something to eat," I say softly, keeping my movements slow and predictable. "It's just soup. You don't have to take it if you don't want to."

She stares at me, unmoving, as if assessing whether this is some new trick. I set the tray beside her.

"It's okay if you're not hungry," I add, making no move to touch her. "But it's here when you're ready. My name is Lily."

Her gaze flickers briefly to my face, then away. I recognize the calculation in her eyes—weighing trustworthiness, measuring potential threats. It's a survival skill I know intimately.

"They said we're free," she whispers, her voice cracked from disuse or screaming, or both. "Is that true?"

"Yes," I confirm, keeping my voice steady. "Peterson can't hurt you anymore. The men who rescued you are making sure of that."

Her shoulders tremble slightly. "He always found us before. When we tried to run."

I take a careful seat on the couch, maintaining enough distance not to crowd her. "Not this time. The people protecting you now, they're different. They won't let anyone take you."

Across the room, Reid catches my eye, his expression softening as he watches me with the woman. The pride in his gaze gives me strength.

With trembling fingers, she reaches for the spoon. The first sip seems to awaken something—hunger, maybe hope—and she begins to eat with increasing urgency.

I move among the other women, offering soup, blankets, gentle words. Some accept silently, others weep at the simple act of kindness. One grips my hand with surprising strength, refusing to let go as Meadow cleans and bandages cuts on her back.

"You're doing amazing," Reid murmurs when I pass near him, his hand briefly squeezing mine. "They trust you."

"They recognize me," I correct softly. "They see someone who's been where they are."

Hours pass in a blur of activity. More members arrive with clothing, toiletries, medical supplies. Lane organizes sleeping arrangements, converting offices and spare rooms into temporary shelters. Grace and several other women prepare more food, ensuring no one goes hungry.

Near midnight, the clubhouse door opens again. Christopher enters first, his expression grave as he crosses to where Reid stands. They speak in hushed tones, Reid's face darkening with each word.

I approach cautiously, catching only fragments.

"…took care of Peterson."

"…no trace will ever be found…"

Reid sees me hovering nearby and pulls me against his side, his arm a solid weight across my shoulders. "You don't need to know the details," he says quietly. "Just that Peterson will never hurt another woman again."

The finality in his voice tells me everything. Relief washes through me, followed by a strange, fierce satisfaction. These men—my men—have delivered the justice the system refused to provide.

"Good," I say, surprising myself with how much I mean it. After everything I've seen tonight, after the hollow eyes and broken bodies of Peterson's victims, I can't summon even a shred of sympathy for his fate.

Reid studies my face, perhaps searching for judgment or horror at what they've done. Finding none, he presses a kiss to my forehead. "You should rest. It's been a long day."

"Not yet," I reply, glancing toward the women still being treated. "I'm needed here."

Pride flashes in his eyes before he nods. "Okay. But I'm staying with you."

The night stretches endlessly as we care for Peterson's victims. Their stories emerge in fragments—some kidnapped from hospital parking lots, others lured under false pretenses, all held captive and abused for his entertainment. The horrors they describe make my own experiences with Frank seem almost merciful by comparison.

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