Chapter 3 The Clubhouse

Raven's POV

I read the message five times.

Do what he says. I'm sorry.

That was it. No, I'm coming for you; no hold on, sweetheart. Just six words, and the last two felt like a door closing.

I put the phone back in my pocket and held on to Reaper's waist because I didn't know what else to do. I hated having to touch him, and I hated that he was the only thing keeping me on the motorcycle. But most of all, I hated how badly I wanted to cry. I refused to do it with my face pressed against this man's back.

We rode for what felt like hours. The houses disappeared first, followed by the streetlights. After that, there was nothing but the road, the dark desert stretching out on both sides, and the sound of engines surrounding us. I had lived in Phoenix my entire life, but I had never been this far out at night. I didn't even know where we were.

Eventually, the motorcycles began to slow down. I noticed lights up ahead, and as we approached, I could make out a tall metal fence topped with barbed wire. Two men stood at the gate. When they spotted Reaper, one of them pulled it open, allowing us to ride straight through without stopping.

Inside the compound stood a large wooden building with a long porch. Behind it were several smaller buildings and garages, while motorcycles were parked in rows outside. A red neon sign hung above the entrance, displaying a skull wearing a dark hood with two words written beneath it.

Reapers MC.

Below the sign, someone had painted a message on the wall in large white letters.

Brotherhood. Loyalty. No law. Just us.

I stared at those last words, and my stomach turned.

Reaper stopped the motorcycle and switched off the engine. The sudden silence made my ears ring after listening to the engines for so long. He climbed off first, then turned toward me and waited.

I didn't move.

"Off," he ordered.

My legs were stiff from the long ride, and when I finally climbed down, I almost lost my balance. I quickly grabbed the seat so I wouldn't fall before he could touch me. I wasn't going to let him help me with anything.

I removed the helmet with trembling hands. Around us, the other men were climbing off their motorcycles, and several of them were staring at me. One of them, a young man with a shaved head and tattoos covering his hands, gave me a smile that made my skin crawl.

"Nice," he commented. "Is she for us, Prez?"

Reaper didn't answer. He simply turned his head and looked at him.

That was all it took. One look from Reaper, and the young man's smile disappeared. He suddenly became very interested in his motorcycle, while the other men quickly turned their attention elsewhere.

I had already seen how my father's business partners fell silent when Reaper entered our house. At the time, I thought it was because they were wealthy men who had never been around someone dangerous. But these men were bikers. They had tattoos, scars, and guns hanging from their belts, yet even they seemed afraid of him.

That frightened me more than anything else that had happened so far.

"Inside," Reaper ordered.

I followed him because I had no choice. The huge man who had blocked the kitchen door at my father's house walked behind me, staying close enough to make sure I couldn't run.

The clubhouse smelled of beer, cigarette smoke, and motor oil. A long bar occupied one side of the room, with a pool table in the middle and old leather couches pushed against the walls. Music played in the background, and several women wearing short dresses sat on the couches beside some of the bikers. The moment we entered, someone lowered the music, and everyone turned to look at us.

Their attention went to Reaper first before shifting toward me.

I could feel my cheeks growing hot. I was still wearing the white dress from my graduation party. It was soft and beautiful and had cost more than some people paid in rent. Standing in the middle of that clubhouse, I felt completely out of place.

An older man stepped out from behind the bar. He was tall and thin, with long gray hair tied back and a face that looked as though he had been in more fights than I could count. He studied me for a moment before turning toward Reaper.

"So this is her," he remarked.

"This is her," Reaper confirmed.

"Victor's girl." The older man slowly shook his head. "Where do you want her, Kane? Basement?"

Kane. So that was his real name. I made a mental note of it but kept my mouth shut.

My heart began pounding at the mention of the basement. I had no idea what was down there, and I certainly didn't want to find out.

"No," Reaper answered. "My room."

The older man raised his eyebrows, but he didn't question the decision.

My blood ran cold. I knew what that meant, or at least I thought I did. I had watched enough movies and heard enough terrible stories to know what could happen when a man kidnapped a woman and took her to his bedroom. As far as I was concerned, there could only be one reason.

Reaper started down a hallway at the back of the clubhouse. The huge man behind me gave me a slight push, forcing me to follow.

At the end of the hallway, Reaper stopped in front of a door. He opened it and stepped aside, allowing me to enter first.

The room was larger than I had expected. A big bed covered in dark sheets stood against one wall, with a dresser and a chair nearby. Another door led into a small bathroom, while metal bars covered the window. There were no photographs or personal belongings on display. The room looked as though nobody actually lived there.

I stepped inside cautiously before turning to face him. A half-empty bottle of whiskey sat on the dresser beside me, and before I could think better of it, I grabbed it and raised it like a weapon.

"Don't come near me," I warned. My voice trembled, but I refused to lower the bottle. "I swear to God, if you touch me, I'll break this over your head."

Reaper glanced at the bottle before looking back at me. For a brief moment, I thought I saw something resembling amusement in his eyes, but it disappeared so quickly that I couldn't be certain.

"Put it down," he ordered.

"No," I said.

He stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. I immediately backed away until my back hit the wall.

"Let me make something clear," he said quietly. "I have no interest in touching you. You're a Cruz. I'd rather put my hand in a fire."

I stared at him, unsure whether I should feel relieved or insulted.

"Then why am I here?" I demanded.

"Because your father took something from me," he replied. "And until he pays it back, you belong to me. You're not my guest, and you're not my woman. You're collateral. Nothing more."

"Collateral," I repeated, disgusted by the word. "I'm a person."

"Not here, you're not."

He turned and opened the door. Before stepping outside, he glanced back at me one last time.

"Get some sleep," he told me. "You'll need it."

Then he walked out, and a moment later, I heard the lock turn.

I stood there with the bottle still clutched in my trembling hand. After a long moment, I returned it to the dresser and slowly lowered myself to the floor, resting my back against the door.

That was when I heard voices coming from the hallway. Reaper and the older man were standing just outside, speaking loudly enough for me to hear every word.

"What's the deadline?" the older man asked.

"Seven days," Reaper answered.

"And if Victor doesn't pay?"

A brief silence followed before Reaper finally answered, his voice low and cold.

"Then she pays for Jesse."