How I knew the nuances of pain and body language, I didn’t know. It wasn’t explainable to have my entire life wiped out and only parts of my past just there… to be used unthinkingly.

But it was.

The men’s eyes trailed to us. A line up of despairing females waiting to hear our fate.

One cocked his head, sneering, “What about them? Unwilling women would be a damn sight more fun than the Club whores lurking around this joint. Wouldn’t mind me some live skin.”

Skin?

The women on either side of me whimpered, slapping shaking hands over their mouths.

Kill glared at us, before looking back to his men. “Five are already spoken for. You know the trades will happen tomorrow.”

“Okay, the sixth can be ours. Give her to us and we’ll forget about tonight.” Shaved Skull grinned.

Kill moved, charging into motion from a standstill. His face shot white as pain laced his system, but he didn’t hesitate.

His fist collided loud and hard with the man’s face. He went down like a heavy piano, complete with a bone-rattling crash.

“Get. Out,” Kill whispered. “I’m done with your shit. You’re cut.”

The man glowered up, his nose gushing blood. “You can’t banish me. I took the oath, motherfucker!”

“Can and just did. My Club. My rules. Tear off your patch.”

The man snarled, “You’re a fucking dead man, Killian.”

“Like I haven’t heard that before.” Kill snapped his fingers. Black Mohawk and Sandy-Blond charged to his side. “Strip his patch. Get rid of him.”

“With pleasure.” The men scooped the bleeding man from the floor, shoving him toward the exit.

“You’re dead. The lot of you—you hear me?” Shaved Skull waved his fist, uncaring that his nose rivered crimson.

“Yeah, yeah. Look at us—we’re fucking petrified,” Black Mohawk said, pushing him hard.

The other men stopped lounging against the wall, standing tall.

Stringy Moustache stomped forward, grabbing his bleeding comrade. “We’ve got him.” His eyes fell on Kill. “You look like the reaper’s ridin’ you, Kill. Get this done”—he pointed at us as if we were melting groceries needing a home in the fridge—“we’ll catch up at the meetin’ in a few days.”

Killian huffed, his chest rising and falling with a mixture of testosterone and adrenaline. He finally nodded. “Fine. Hopper, Mo, stay here. Need your help with the women. Keep them safe. The trade is for unsullied, unmarked stock. Don’t need any refunds being demanded.”

My back went rigid. He made us sound like animals.

We weren’t items to sell or be used.

Fear slowly crept thicker through my veins.

My eyes narrowed, searching for the shred of truth beneath his tone. He wasn’t like the men who slinked back to the garage. Yes, he was rough, tall, angry, dangerous, and entirely in bed with criminals, but there was a shrewd intelligence and rational mind hiding in his green, green eyes.

He was a walking contradiction.

Same as me.

Kill didn’t say a word, only nodded as the arrivals became deportees, and we were left in an eerily silent bubble of eight. Five women, three men.

If I knew who I was—what skills I possessed other than veterinary—I might’ve been tempted to negotiate for freedom or help grant a way out of this for the women crying beside me.

I pursed my lips, searching for the overwhelming need to run, to hide—but it was still missing. The trickle of fear was my only hint of being alive. And that was directed at the man with the green eyes, rather than the horrific situation I faced.

I’m broken.

My fight or flight reflex had been torn out along with my memories.

We’re to be sold.

Kill ran both hands through his hair, centering himself. He winced, hissing between his teeth, and dropped his right arm immediately. Swallowing hard, he growled, “You’re lucky to overhear Club business. No one outside our oaths is privy to inner workings. But it’s probably best you saw that. You can take my word for it when I say things aren’t… stable. I’m the only one keeping you intact, so show some respect and believe me when I say, you do not want to piss me off.”

His voice increased in volume, the timbre echoing from gruff to gravel. “Forget what you heard. You can’t bargain with it. You aren’t lucky to know it. You’re damned. Forget about your old life because you’re never seeing it again.”

The coldness in his tone sent icicles shimmering in the air.

Another ooze of fear slithered through my blood.

A girl clamped a hand over her ears, a small scream erupting from her mouth.

Kill scowled, flinching as another wave of agony assaulted him. “You’re probably wondering why you’re here, who we are—what we want. If you’re smart, you’ll have figured it out, but I’m going to lay it out in black and fucking white.”

His eyes latched onto mine, drowning me in green grass, moss, and emerald. “You are mine. Ours. The Club’s. We own you—every inch. I’m in power, which means your welcome is a shitload better than it would’ve been four years ago, but my temper is short.”

His voice lowered to a decibel that echoed in my heart. “The only thing you need to remember—to make your stay with us seem like the fucking Ritz rather than a prison sentence—is to obey me. If I ask you to do something, you follow immediately and explicitly. You don’t, and my courtesy will end. And when that courtesy ends—it’s gone for fucking good.”