Total pages in book: 38
Estimated words: 35499 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 177(@200wpm)___ 142(@250wpm)___ 118(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 35499 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 177(@200wpm)___ 142(@250wpm)___ 118(@300wpm)
Make them like me? This has to be a joke.
These men don't want to like me. They want to own a piece of me, same as everyone else. Same as my mother with her camera. Same as Marcus with his ring. Same as Cash with his threats about inheritance.
But I'm still here.
Still standing.
And I've been making men like me since before I even knew what that meant. What's forty or fifty more?
Diesel's gaze cuts through me from behind the bar. Not a smile or a nod. Just that stare, assessing me like I'm a filly at auction. The glass he slides toward me is chipped along the rim, a jagged imperfection that might slice my lip if I'm not careful. The whiskey inside catches light from the neon beer signs, turning gold, then amber, then something darker as it sloshes against the sides. It reminds me of sunset through my bedroom window at home—a place that isn't mine anymore.
I lift the shot, feel its weight. Everyone's watching, waiting to see if Eleanor Ashby's perfect daughter will choke, or cry, or run.
I tip it back in one smooth motion.
The burn traces a map down my throat. The alcohol illuminates my injuries from the inside out, making me glow with hurt.
Before the sting fades from my tongue, Diesel places a second shot in front of me. No words. Just expectation.
I don't hesitate this time. Down it goes, chasing the first, pooling like liquid courage in my empty stomach. The drugs still lingering in my system dance with the whiskey, making my fingertips tingle and my cheeks flush.
A third glass appears. I can feel Legion watching me, his presence a gravity well I'm circling. I wonder if he's proud, or worried, or both.
I down the third shot, no longer tasting it.
The fourth glass arrives with a slight nod from Diesel, the barest acknowledgment that I'm exceeding expectations. The whiskey no longer burns—it warms, spreading through limbs that have been cold since Cash dragged me away from Legion at the silo.
And finally… it fades.
All of it.
it just fades and… it feels good.
Legion leans in as the men get rowdy. I think maybe they might like me. I think maybe I did OK.
And as these words form in my head, my mouth does something weird.
It smiles.
Not the smile my mother taught me—perfect teeth, practiced dimples, eyes that crinkle just enough to seem genuine on camera.
This smile is wilder, looser at the edges.
It belongs to the girl who used to meet Legion in secret, who gave herself to him under stars and grain dust while a dynasty waited at home.
This smile says: I'm not done yet.
This isn't over yet.
I'm here.
The whiskey settles into my bones, making everything soft at the edges. The room doesn't spin exactly, but it feels like I'm watching it through water. Colors blur. Sounds stretch. I lean against the bar, feeling the press of Legion's body beside me.
Across from us, Diesel laughs at something Legion says. I don't catch the words, just the low rumble of Legion's voice and the answering bark from Diesel. Their camaraderie feels strange—intimate in a way I've never understood.
Brotherhood, maybe.
Whatever it is, it makes Legion's face relax. The hard lines around his mouth soften.
He looks... happy.
And that—that single moment of seeing joy crack through his mask—makes something in my chest uncoil. If he can be happy here, with these men, maybe I can too. Maybe this isn't just survival. Maybe it's something else.
The music changes, shifting from something angry and pounding to a slower beat that feels like honey in my veins. I sway slightly, letting the rhythm catch me.
That's when I notice him.
A man materializes beside Legion like he's been summoned from smoke. Older than the others, with a face weathered into permanent vigilance. His leather cut is different—heavier with patches, worn like a second skin rather than a uniform. The patch at the top reads "President" in faded stitching. Below it, "Brick."
The man who holds Legion's loyalty.
He's speaking to Legion, but his eyes are fixed on me. Not examining my body like the others. Not assessing my worth or my use. He's looking at me, like he's trying to read what's written under my skin.
"What do we call her?" Brick asks Legion, his voice cutting through the murmur of conversation.
The room goes silent.
Everyone is watching us. Waiting. I realize with sudden clarity that this is some kind of test or ritual. My name—my real name—doesn't matter here. What matters is what Legion claims me as.
Legion doesn't hesitate. Doesn't even blink.
"Mine," he says, pointing to his chest. Simple. Direct. Like it's the only answer that could ever exist. "You will all call her Mine."
The word drops between us, heavy with meaning. Not a question. Not a request. A statement of fact.
Brick's weathered face remains impassive for a heartbeat. Two. Then something like approval flickers across his features. He lifts his pint glass, the amber liquid catching light as he raises it high.