“She’s put us all in danger, Rebel. And you brought her here without telling any of us,” she spits. “Don’t you think we had a right to know about this? Don’t you think it would have been smart to tell us if you were bringing danger to our doorsteps?”
“It sounds very much like you’re questioning my judgement.” Rebel’s voice is all gravel and hard edges. He sounds like he’s about to go off at the deep end. Cade places a hand on his shoulder but Rebel shakes it off. He looks around the room—I can’t see the expression on his face, but I’m betting it’s terrifying. “This is not a democracy,” he says slowly. “This is not a fucking day spa. You don’t get to question me or go against my wishes. I’ve always done my best by you guys. I’ve always done my best to keep you safe. As of this moment, if any of you are unhappy with my leadership or think the threat Ramirez and his men poses is too great to your safety, I invite you to leave. No repercussions. No hard feelings. However, if any one of you so much as thinks of stepping out of line and putting this club in further danger, I’ll strip the motherfucking ink out of your backs right here and now.” I can see the hairs on the back of his neck slowly rising. The silent pause that follows is uncomfortable to say the least. Half the Widow Makers are looking at their feet when Rebel continues. “And should any one of you so much as think about making life here difficult for Sophia, you’re going to have to deal with me personally. Old or young. Man or woman. You’ve trusted me for the past five years, followed me through hell and back, so trust me now when I say this: you have never seen me pushed to my limit. Do not fucking test me. It will not end well.”
NINE
SOPHIA
When we get back to the cabin, Rebel puts me in his bed and tells me he’ll be back, and then I watch him through the half open bathroom door as he strips down to his boxers and methodically washes the blood from his body. He’s constructed beautifully, the planes of his muscles twisting and shifting in unison as he moves carefully around the bathroom. I can tell his side is still bothering him. And now he has two angry looking purple bruises planted in the middle of his chest where the prongs of the Taser made contact as well. There’s a lot of grunting and wincing as he cleans himself up. Sloane would tell him to sit his ass down so she could help him, but Rebel…he probably wouldn’t comply. He’s fiercely proud. He’s used to this—I can tell. If I try and interfere, he’ll probably shut down and instead of making progress we’ll be backtracking. I leave him to clean his wound and replace his bandages himself. He throws back what I’m assuming are more pain killers and antibiotics, and then he braces against the counter and stares at himself in the mirror for what feels like a very long time. He doesn’t seem to like what he sees.
When he comes to bed, I’m still intimidated by his performance back at the clubhouse. Intimidated enough that I pretend to be asleep. He sees through the ruse, though, pulling me to him without fear of waking me. He doesn’t say anything. He just strokes his hand over my hair, breathing deeply in the darkness, and I listen to his heart charging underneath his ribcage. He’s running a fever, his skin burning against my cheek as we lay there. I wonder if he’ll be a little better by the morning. Probably not. I mean, it’s going to take longer than a few days to recover from a serious injury like that, especially if he keeps moving around, attacking people with baseball bats and getting shot by DEA agents. I get the impression that tomorrow will be more of the same, somehow.
It doesn’t take long before Rebel’s breathing evens out. I’m chasing sleep myself, but before it can claim me a thought strikes me. An unpleasant one. It takes me a moment to pluck up the courage to speak. When I do, my voice is nothing more than a whisper in the dark. “Rebel?”
“Mmm?
“That DEA agent? You think she’ll come here? You think…you think she’ll recognize me?”
He inhales, then rests his chin against the top of my head, the same way he did this morning when he comforted me. It all feels too familiar. Too safe. Too right. “Yeah,” he whispers back. “She’ll come here. She’ll probably recognize you.”
“And then what? What do I tell her?”
He’s quiet. Too quiet. I already know I’m not going to like his response. “You tell her one of two things, Sophia. You tell her I kidnapped you and you’ve been held against your will for the past few weeks.”
“Or?”
“Or you tell her you left Seattle of your own free will. That this is where you want to be. That this is your home now. Here with us.”