Page 8 of Silent as Sin
Her silence pressed heavy into the room. Not empty—never empty. It had weight, the kind that made men shift, clear their throats, glance away like they couldn’t stand the mirror it held up.
I moved closer, blocking some of it with my body, broad shoulders cutting off their line of sight. Her shoulder brushed mine again, light but solid, like she’d learned I was the safest shadow in the room.
Elara crossed the space, her belly brushing the edge of the table. “Honey, let’s get you cleaned up,” she said softly. “You’ll feel better.”
Jewel joined her, hands on her hips, dish towel slung over her shoulder. “Fresh clothes, hot water. You don’t have to stay out here with all these eyes on you.”
The men shifted again. None argued, but none looked away either.
My jaw tightened. Fists itched.
“They’ll take care of you,” I assured her, my voice steady as iron. “You’re safe with them.”
Her eyes flicked to mine, panic, raw and unspoken, and I held her gaze until she looked away again.
Slowly, stiffly, she rose. Jewel and Elara flanked her, one on either side, guiding her toward the hall. Every head turned as she passed. The sweet butts whispered louder now, Truly covering her mouth when she glanced their way.
But Elara’s glare cut sharp enough to shut them up.
When the bathroom door closed behind them, the room finally exhaled. Shoulders dropped. Conversations sparked low again, forced and uneasy.
But me? My fists stayed clenched, knuckles white, because every look they’d given her was burned into my skull.
And if any of them breathed the wrong word in Church, I’d tear the whole room apart to keep her safe.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE ROOM WAStoo big.
Too loud.
Too full of eyes.
I’d been buried in shadows so long that even the dim glow of neon signs made me squint. The hum of the speakers, the clack of pool balls, the scrape of boots on the floorboards, it all pressed in at once, heavy as chains.
And the stares.
Every man looked. Rough faces, tattoos inked across arms, cuts stretched over broad shoulders. They didn’t touch me, didn’t speak, but they watched. My skin crawled with it, everybruise and every streak of dirt burning under the weight of being seen.
I pulled my arms tight across my chest, hunched smaller, but it didn’t matter. I could feel the grime on my skin, the tangles in my hair, the stench of confinement clinging to me like rot. I hated it. Hated how much they could see.
The one they called Warden barked at them—“Eyes off”—and the sound cracked like a whip. They looked away, but not enough. Never enough.
Ashen moved closer, broad shoulders blocking out half the room. He smelled of leather and smoke and the open road. I could still feel the vibration of the motorcycle in my bones, the echo of wind in my hair. I should’ve been afraid of him—he was still a man, but when I looked up and found those green eyes, the panic eased, just a little.
Then she came.
The woman with the braid, belly round beneath her shirt. Pregnant. Her steps careful, but her gaze unflinching, kind in a way that made something tight twist in my chest.
“Sweetheart,” she said softly, crouching in front of me, her voice steady as a heartbeat. “Why don’t we get you cleaned up? A hot bath, some fresh clothes. I know what it feels like, being stared at, feeling like you’ll never get the dirt off.”
Her words cut deep because they were true. I did feel it. Every speck of dirt, every mark Venom left behind. My silence had always hidden me, but it couldn’t hide that.
Then the older woman appeared again, her eyes fierce, dish towel still in her hand. Her presence shifted the air. Even the bikers backed up a step. She was no one’s ol’ lady, no one’s property. But she bled authority.
“You’ll feel better once you’re clean, baby girl,” she said, her voice warm but firm. “Let’s go wash the ghosts off.”
My throat locked. My fingers twisted the hem of my shirt until my knuckles ached.
