“Wrath’s gotta name everyone,” Murphy mutters.
Wrath’s mouth slides into a half-smirk. “I name you, it means I most likely won’t kill you.” He hooks an arm around Murphy’s neck and drags him into a choke hold. “Even if you piss me off.”
“Peachy.” Carter grins. “I can live with Scribbles.”
“It covers all the bases of your talents.” Wrath releases Murphy and slaps Carter’s shoulder. He frowns when Carter wobbles to the side. “You all right?”
Carter holds his foot out. “I’m missing my toe.”
Wrath meets my eyes. Scary fuck or not, Wrath’s code is the same as mine—club business doesn’t involve cutting body parts off of guys like Carter.
“It’s okay.” Nerves push Carter’s voice higher. “I don’t need it. I’d rather get the fuck out of here.”
“We’re going,” I assure him.
“Rock!” Grinder shouts from deeper inside the trailer.
“Stay here,” I warn Carter.
Z, Rock, and I follow Grinder’s voice to a bedroom at the back of the trailer. A small, dark-haired woman dressed in black pants and a black T-shirt is tied spread-eagle to the bed, tears leaking from her frightened eyes.
Grinder kneels at the foot of the bed, slicing through one of the ropes. “Help me,” he growls.
As Rock, Z, and I crowd into the room, her eyes widen and she screams into the cloth stuffed in her mouth. She coughs and chokes, frantically thrashing her head from side to side.
“It’s okay, June!” Carter yells from outside. “They won’t hurt you.”
“If we wanted to hurt ya, we’d leave ya tied up,” Z says in a bored tone, neatly slicing through one of the ropes binding the girl’s wrists.
“Stop moving,” I snap, tugging on the bandanna tied around her face. “I don’t want to accidentally slice your cheek.”
She goes stone still.
I carefully cut the material away from her face. She spits out the gag, wiggles her jaw, and sobs.
Once her limbs are free, the girl backs up to the wall and wraps her arms around her knees. She doesn’t say a word, but eyes us warily.
“Yeah, I don’t trust you either, sweetheart,” I sneer, quickly scanning the room for signs of any other weapons. A peek inside the nightstand yields a pistol, bottles of lube, and other stuff I don’t want to think about. I tuck the gun in a side pocket of my pants. Need to toss it later—fuck knows how many bodies can be traced to it—but for now, I want it out of June’s reach.
Jigsaw’s big frame fills up the tiny doorway. He lifts his chin at the girl and rubs his gloved hands together. “What’s this? Consolation prize for our toy box?”
“No,” Grinder grumbles. He slaps Jiggy’s chest. “Stop staring at her like you want to hang her over a barbecue pit.”
Jiggy sniffs the air Hannibal Lector-style. “But she looks like she’d be tasty with a ribeye and a rich, imperial stout.”
The girl whimpers and hugs herself tighter.
Chuckling, Z pushes Jigsaw away from the room. “Cut it out.”
Rock stands at the foot of the bed, hands on his hips, and stares at the girl. “What are we doing with her?” he asks me.
If this really is the daughter of South of Satan MC’s president, I get why he’s not eager to take responsibility for her.
I’m not exactly thrilled about it myself.
I kick the side of the bed to get her attention. “You really try to take care of my brother?”
Face all red, blotchy, and bruised, she turns and lifts her chin with defiance and sticks out her tongue.