I liked to think it was because of whatever existed between us, but a trail of red droplets decorated the bare wood below. His blood splashed darkly on his large combat boots, looking like rusty tears.

Increasing his distance from me, he crossed his arms, flinching. His eyes tightened with agony but he was good at hiding it. “Take their clothes away, Grasshopper.”

The man with the mohawk did as he was told, scooping the mismatch of skirts, trousers, and dresses, wadding them into a ball and shoving them into a black rubbish bag.

Keeping his eyes from mine, Kill muttered, “You’ll be given new attire once you’ve been washed and inspected.”

More tears and whimpers.

But not from me.

I was steadfast in my concentration. Locked to the floor with the knowledge the man before me may seem invincible, but he wasn’t. He bled. Same as any other. He hurt. Same as the men he’d overthrown. He needed help, and soon.

“Once you’ve been inspected, you’ll be fed, given a room to sleep, and permitted a night of rest before your true fate is determined. I don’t care what your names are. I don’t care where you’ve come from. To me, you are nothing more than skin. Skin to sell, skin to trade. Tears won’t save you; screams will only hurt you. So fucking listen, keep quiet, and look at your stay with us as a small holiday before your new reality.”

The woman with the long blonde hair whispered, “Please… This can’t be happening. What do you want?”

Kill bared his teeth, wrapping his arms tighter around his middle. It projected as aggression but I saw the whiteness of blood loss creeping up his jaw.

“Told you; not my fault if you didn’t listen. And you won’t see me again after tonight.” Straightening his shoulders, he growled, “Mo, Grasshopper, get them bunkered for the night. I trust you’ll ship them out to their destinations tomorrow? I don’t have time to go over it with you.”

You don’t have time because you’re bleeding out.

The sandy-blond-haired man nodded. “Got the deets. Don’t worry about a thing.”

“Good,” Kill sighed.

A couple of women sniffed, tears trailing their cheeks. I quickly scanned our sad group. One pretty Asian girl, two blondes, one redhead, and one brunette. We were all similar in height, build, and curves.

We’d been chosen.

Hand-picked for whatever they meant to do with us.

A flutter of fear cut through my steadfastness.

Green eyes landed on mine.

The feeling of history, connection, and rebellion came again, thick and fast in our locked gaze. He suddenly stumbled to the left, shaking his head, eyes wide with amazement that his body disobeyed his order to stand.

I wasn’t amazed. I was stupefied he was still upright, let alone leading and possessing the respect of the men behind him.

Snapping his fingers, Kill growled, “I’m leaving. I’ll take the sixth trade with me until I can find a buyer. Don’t trust the brothers after what happened tonight.”

Mo, the sandy-blond-haired man, frowned. “Is that wise? I mean—”

“It’s very fucking wise.” Stalking forward, Kill beelined for me.

I took a step backward, but it didn’t do me any good. Grabbing my elbow, he snarled over his shoulder. “Give me something to dress her in.”

Immediately, a large black T-shirt with the words VENGEANCE IS SWEET across the front sailed from the bag in Grasshopper’s—the black-mohawked biker—hand.

“Put this on.” Kill balled it up, wedging it into my stomach.

With shaking hands, I shook the T-shirt till it faced the right way and pulled it over my head. It fit me like a dress, skimming my thighs.

Kill nodded. “It’s not perfect, but it’ll do.”

Grabbing my wrist, he jerked me toward the corridor. “I’ll call you guys tomorrow. Deal with this shit.”

Without another word, he yanked me to the garage and an awaiting black Triumph. Throwing his leg over the side, he tugged me close. “Get on.”

“I don’t like motorcycles.”

The thought came from nowhere. Why don’t I like motorcycles? Same reason I don’t like motorcycle clubs… the men who exist in this world.

It didn’t make sense. If I’d had anything to do with clubs and violence, I would remember—surely? After all, I remembered my profession. I wouldn’t have gone into healing animals if I’d come from an environment where women were subservient and more stay-at-home types.

Something about that thought didn’t sit right.

The itch in my brain wouldn’t give up, switching from a gentle annoyance to a full-on scratch-fest.

“This isn’t a negotiation. Get the fuck on.” Kill twisted and hoisted me onto his bike. His hands were large, encasing my waist easily. Once again the cognizant awareness and intensity shot through my blood.

The moment I sat behind him, he let me go, hissing in pain.

“You’re hurt,” I muttered.

He shook his head. “Superficial. Don’t think I’m gonna die and you’ll be free—you’ll be waiting a long time for that to happen.”

My stomach grappled with my heart at the thought of him dying. If he died, answers died with him. But if he dies, you’re free.

The thought of freedom didn’t excite me nearly as much as figuring out the riddle of my amnesiac brain.

“You need to see a doctor.”

You need to stay alive long enough for me to get the truth.