Out of the Ashes

by Anne Malcom

  “You okay, darlin’?” he asked in a soft tone, his eyes moving over me with the beam. I flinched when the light reached my face, not used to it after being bathed in darkness.

  “Yeah,” I croaked, “Will be better when I’m out of here.”

  His face was hard when he got a look at my face, then he shone the light lower, frowning at the way I was holding my injured arm. The soft face turned to granite when he found the chain on my ankle.

  He paused, took a breath and met my eyes. “You’re safe now,” he promised.

  I nodded. But he was wrong. I was only safe when I had Zane’s arms around me, when I could touch my daughter. Then I was safe.

  Luke leaned into his radio, his face hard. “Got her, she’s pretty banged up. Think her arm’s broken—need a paramedic in here, stat,” he barked. “Also need bolt cutters. She’s fuckin’ chained to the wall.”

  I tilted my head at him. “Are you allowed to talk into a walkie-talkie thing like that?” I asked curiously. “Aren’t you meant to be all professional and talk in codes like ‘Whisky Bravo Six radioing in’? Plus, I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to say ‘over’ when you’re finished talking,” I told him, my movie knowledge making me practically an expert.

  He looked at me, his face expressionless. Then he threw back his head and laughed.

  “Didn’t think it would be possible, darlin,’” he said when he finished laughing. “That the woman chained to the wall, beaten to shit, would be the one making me laugh,” he said disbelievingly.

  I shrugged my shoulders, flinching at the pain. “I’m just glad I’m alive to be my hilarious self,” I informed him with a grin. That and my only other option was bursting into tears.

  Moment the pigs turned up, they were fucked. They all knew it. They were all furious. Bull was so furious he ended up in a weird state of calm. He didn’t shoot anyone like every fiber of his being was screaming at him to do. Instead he calmly walked around, a thin layer of red over his vision.

  “Shouldn’t you be out catching fuckin’ criminals, Crawford?” Cade spat at the deputy who was standing in their clubroom.

  He looked around in distaste. “Funny,” he said. “That’s exactly what I’m doing.”

  Cade looked about to explode. “Can you drop your fuckin’ shit toward the club for one fucking second?” he half roared. “A woman is missing. A mother. An innocent. Fucking do your job and look for her!”

  Bull knew this shit was going nowhere fast and he had to do something if he wanted Mia back. So that’s why he walked up to a man he hated only slightly less than his fuckwit father and offered a deal that had Cade’s eyes near popping out of his head.

  “Can’t believe we’re fuckin’ doing this,” Lucky muttered, fingering his knife as he leaned against his bike.

  “Workin’ with fuckin’ pigs,” Asher spat out in disgust, saying it loud enough for the uniform in the cruiser to hear. He scowled at Asher but didn’t move.

  “Shut the fuck up, fuckwits,” Cade barked, eyes on the same place Bull’s were. “We’re doing the only fuckin’ thing we can do to get Mia back, without getting ourselves locked up.”

  Bull hated it as much as his brothers did. Hated that he was standing behind fucking police tape while the brothers in blue charged into the fancy fucking house not two hours away from Amber. Two hours.

  He had immediately given Crawford the details on where Mia was. Not because he wanted to; saying that shit went against everything inside him. Because he had no other choice. He knew Crawford would put a tail on them, so there was no way they could storm the place themselves and murder every fucker inside like they originally planned. Well, not without disabling a cop. Which each one of them would have loved to do, but that came with complications. And took time. Which he didn’t have. So he made a deal with the Devil. Or more likely, the one who thought they were the Devil. He’d given him not only Mia’s location, but the location of a major player in the heroin trade on the proviso the club was coming. Crawford’s jaw had gone tight at this, but he agreed, as long as they kept their distance and let the police do their job. He had felt conflicted, giving information to the one man who had vowed to find a way to destroy his club, his family. Then he had caught a glimpse of Lexie, red-rimmed eyes but still looking strong, looking like she had hope. Then that conflict melted away.

  Bull’s entire frame tightened at the sounds of gunfire. They had better not fuck up their job. If they did, even their pissant uniforms wouldn’t stop him from ending every last one of them. His hands itched to be in there, doing something, killing someone. Saving his woman. Instead he was standing here like a loser. A quick glance at the tight faces of his brothers told him he wasn’t alone. Then the gunfire stopped. Everything went silent. That was worse.

  Bull stormed over to the uniform left watching them. “What the fuck is going on?” he growled.

  The uniform paled and he seriously looked like he was going to piss himself. Pussy. Bull was about to do something that may or may not get him arrested when the radio crackled.

  “Got her, she’s pretty banged up. Think her arm’s broken—need a paramedic in here, stat,” Crawford’s voice clipped. “Also need bolt cutters. She’s fuckin’ chained to the wall.”

  Bull froze for a split second, then his monster roared to life. He did not give a fuck about uniforms or deals. He was going to his woman. As he strode towards the police tape, a uniform stood in his way.

  “You can’t go in there—”

  He didn’t even think; he just plowed his fist through the fucker’s face and kept walking.

  He heard the sounds of a struggle behind him and he was pretty sure his brothers were doing similar shit to what he’d done. If it had been any other day, he might’ve almost grinned. But Crawford’s voice repeated in his head. “Chained to the wall. Broken arm.” He broke into a run toward the house.

  He didn’t take in the carnage, the uniforms cuffing various well-dressed scum. Nor did he move slow enough for any of the fuckers to act on the questioning looks that were sent his way. His eyes darted around the living room, aiming for where a basement would be. They fell on Bill, the sheriff, who upon making eye contact with Bull merely shook his head like a disapproving father. The old cop was a lot less high strung than his piece of shit son and was the only reason they had some form of relationship with the local PD, which was necessary when the Sons needed them to look the other way. Not often, but on occasion. Bill was usually down with that, on the provision shit didn’t hit his jurisdiction and they lined his pockets every now and then. Despite that, he was a good man. Bull didn’t think too much of him though, more on the man who was in front of him, his hands cuffed behind his back.

  Slightly younger than him he guessed, well dressed, in a white shirt and ridiculous fuckin’ shoes. Hair all slicked back like a greasy piece of shit. The eyes. That’s how Bull knew who he was. What lay behind them. The eyes of a killer. Empty. Devoid of anything that could be construed as human. Bull knew that look because it was what he used to see in the mirror after he went to work for the club. After he drained the life out of whatever fucker that deserved to be taken off this earth.

  That look wasn’t permanent. It was like the effects of a drug. A while after the killing it drained away, back into the darkest recesses of his mind. After spending time with Mia, with Lexie, that look became a memory. The dark corner where it retreated to was bathed in light. The look in this man’s eyes was permanent. Bull’s entire frame tightened. This was the man. Responsible for taking Mia. Shooting Killian. Trying to take Lexie. Almost killing her sixteen years ago. Almost killing Mia. Thank fuck Lexie didn’t look a thing like him. He found himself stepping toward the man who was staring at him. Involuntarily reaching for his piece in order to put a bullet through his brain. Didn’t give a shit he’d be killing an unarmed man in a room full of cops. Not in that moment.

  Bill stepped forward, jerking the man behind him roughly.

  “Not the time, son,” he tol
d him firmly, meeting his eyes.

  Bull stared at him, struggling not to pummel the old man from getting in the way of justice. Of revenge.

  “Go to your woman,” he continued, not backing down at the no doubt murderous look on Bull’s face.

  That jolted Bull out of his haze. The monster took a backseat and Bull realized what was most important in that moment.

  “Basement,” he barked.

  Bill nodded at him, a look of relief flooding the old man’s face. He jerked his head to the hallway behind him. “In the kitchen, first door to your left.” His voice held a note of something; couldn’t be respect, but as sure as shit sounded like it.

  A meaningful look was communicated between the two before Bull moved past them both in search of his woman. Bull didn’t look at the maggot, because if he did, he wouldn’t have been able to control himself.

  When he found the basement, he struggled not to take the stairs two at a time. He got to the bottom, not fully prepared for what he would see. His entire frame locked in place.

  Mia on the ground, Crawford crouching beside her, gently moving her arm in his hands. Bull gritted his teeth at the fucker’s hands on her. But he didn’t focus on that, not for long. He focused on her face. Her beautiful peaches and cream face. It was now covered in purplish bruising. Both of her eyes were darkened with evidence of the brutality she withstood, one almost swollen shut. There were rings around her neck. Hand marks. Someone had tried to strangle her. Tried to squeeze the life out of her. Unbidden, the memories assaulted him. A surprise attack.

  Four Years Ago

  His eyes watched the monitor that measured the beats of her heart. That showed him that she was still alive. Barely. Barely holding on, he knew that. His eyes moved to the bandage that covered half her face. He knew what was underneath it, what that tattoo meant. Meant he’d failed. Failed his most basic job. Protecting his girl. Shielding her from the horrors that came with being connected with him. Shielding her from the darkness. The evidence of his failure was everywhere. The burn marks decorating her delicate arms. The cuts and bruises covering almost her entire body. Couldn’t even let himself think of what else they’d done to her. Not in this moment. But that was his failure too.

  “Brother.” He heard his best friend’s voice, felt his hand on his shoulder. He didn’t look up. Didn’t move his eyes from that machine.

  “Don’t fuckin’ touch me right now, Cade,” he ordered quietly, his voice dead.

  The hand left, but the presence didn’t. There was silence for a moment, the beeping the only sound in the room.

  “This isn’t your fault,” Cade began.

  “The fuck it isn’t,” Bull snapped. “This shit,” he nodded to the bed. To his broken angel. “Is all on me.”

  “Bull,” Cade’s voice was stronger, ready to fight him on this.

  Bull whipped his head around to meet his friend’s eyes. “They fucking raped her,” he yelled, the ugly word seeming to echo in his brain, slice him up inside. “Repeatedly,” he continued quieter and he watched his friend flinch. “She’s scared of mice,” he told him. “Laurie’s fuckin’ terrified of the tiny things.” His eyes moved back to the machine. “She’s afraid of mice. How do you think she felt when they were doing, that,” he spat the word, “to her?” He paused, choking on his breath. “Yeah, that’s on me,” he repeated. “Girl who lived her life in sunshine, losing it in the blackest, ugliest depths of hell,” he choked out. And as if she heard him, as if she couldn’t keep it up any longer, the beeping stopped.

  A single tear trickled down Bull’s cheek.

  “Zane?” A small voice shocked him out of his own head. His own horrors.

  He realized he had been locked in the spot. His eyes glued on Mia, his mind straying to someone else entirely.

  That voice, that very alive, very strong voice got him moving. He managed to make his feet move and in a moment he was in front of her, kneeling. He managed not to kick Crawford in the face, who merely released Mia and moved slightly away with a hard glare.

  Bull cupped Mia’s face with his hands gently, aware of the pain she must be in. But he had to touch her. To feel her warm skin under his. She met his eyes. He flinched, but not out of pain. Out of relief.

  Her good hand stroked his jaw. “You’re here,” she said.

  “I’m here,” he repeated, his voice sounding rough, even to his own ears.

  “Lexie?” she asked, her voice tight with worry.

  He stroked her face. “She’s good, baby,” he muttered. “Killian too,” he added when he saw her mouth open again.

  Her entire body sagged. She searched his face. “I’m okay now,” she promised him.

  His eyes ran over every inch of her body. The clothes weren’t hers but they weren’t ripped. They weren’t betraying signs of an unspeakable assault. That didn’t mean it didn’t happen. Bull swallowed the fire tickling at the base of his throat. His eyes worked their way back up to his face. It was covered in bruises. Bruises that made his own fists clench, and made him want to neuter the coward who thought he could lay hands on a woman. His woman. The eyes that met his once more made him calm. Because even though her face was battered, those bruises bringing the worst kind of déjà vu, the eyes were what held him together. They weren’t broken, weren’t empty. They were full, whole, strong.

  “Marry me,” he whispered.

  Her entire frame jerked. “What?” she whispered back.

  “Marry me,” he clipped.

  She regarded him. “You’re asking me to marry you, while I’m assuming I’m a delightful shade of purple?” she asked, half teasing.

  Bull didn’t react. Outwardly, at least. Only Mia. Only his Mia would find a way to make a joke at this moment.

  She took his silence as affirmation of his seriousness. Her own face turned serious. “Of course I’ll marry you,” she whispered with tears in her voice.

  Bull didn’t hesitate. As gently as he could, he claimed her mouth. He had needed to since the moment he laid eyes on her. Once he was done he pulled back slightly. She was smiling. Almost laughing. Bull didn’t know how the fuck this was possible. She had just agreed to become his forever. He was happy. Ecstatic. But she was still sitting in front of him, injured. Battered, but not broken. And somehow smiling.

  “What?” he clipped.

  Her eyes twinkled and flickered to Crawford, who had been watching the entire exchange with a blank expression. Bull had decided to ignore him.

  “We totally have to make up a ‘how did he propose’ story,” she informed him in a light tone. “The whole ‘he did it in a basement where I was chained up after being kidnapped,’ might not be appropriate for the grandchildren,” she finished on a smile.

  The tightening of his form went unnoticed at the mention of their grandchildren as paramedics and more cops arrived. Bull was gently pushed to the side and he struggled not punch the fucker that suggested he move farther away. The look he gave the paramedic seemed to communicate something because no one uttered such a suggestion again.

  One Year Later

  “Mom!” a familiar voice screamed at me from downstairs.

  I jerked slightly, my eyes focusing on the thing in front of me. The thing I was both crazy happy about and equally shitting myself about.

  “Mom!” the voice repeated with impatience.

  I sighed.

  Once I got to the hallway I came face to face with my beautiful girl. Usually in a year, a teenage girl’s style changes about fifty times, as did her room decoration choices, makeup application, and boyfriends. As mentioned many times before, Lexie was not a normal teenage girl. Had I not birthed and raised her myself I wouldn’t have believed such a creature existed. Her style had not changed, evidenced by her faux leather shorts with a silky tank tucked in, a printed kimono layered over top. A single braid with a feather hanging off it was almost buried in her ringlets, which reached the small of her back when they were out, like they were now. Even at seventeen—nearly eighteen as
she loved reminding me—she wore little makeup. Not that she needed any, the little minx; her freckles were still prominent under the little dusting of powder on her face. And the boyfriend? Still the same. I would be surprised if that ever changed. Killian started prospecting for the Sons six months ago when he turned eighteen. All of his time was either spent at the clubhouse or with Lexie. He still adored her with that furious intensity that had worried me up until the day he saved her life. Then there was the day he took a bullet for her. So yeah, it was safe to say the fact that the kid loved my daughter more than anything wasn’t the problem. The problem was Lexie was heading for somewhere bigger, better, and more glittery than Amber, evidenced by the success of her band in the past year. It seemed every weekend I was dragging Zane and more than likely Amy and or Rosie to gigs. They had just started putting their songs on YouTube and were getting crazy amounts of attention already. Keeping his promise, Clay had invited a record exec friend of his to the band’s latest gig. They had called the next day for a meeting, which was tomorrow. It was safe to say Lexie and the boys utterly lost their shit and were rehearsing non-stop to make sure they were flawless for the meeting. I wasn’t even sure they’d need to play; actually I didn’t know anything about the ins and outs of a meeting with record industry big wigs. As a momager I so needed to brush up on that stuff. I’d planned on doing Googling or something today, but what I’d held in my hands moments before had made me reevaluate the day’s plans.