Blood and Grace – Book of Legion – Badlands MC Read Online J.A. Huss

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Biker, MC Tags Authors: J.A. Huss Advertisement

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"You're being so good today," he says, like I'm a child or a pet. "Much better than yesterday."

I barely even remember yesterday.

Hell, at this point, I barely remember what freedom tastes like.

Is this how it was for Legion? Being locked up in that prison for things he never did? To earn his place in that club? Some stupid patch?

Marcus places the pie container on the nightstand and checks his watch. "Time for your medicine."

"Please," I say, trying to keep the trembling out of my voice. "Marcus, my dear. Can you please let me go to the bathroom."

"Of course, Savannah," He pets my head like I'm a dog. "You didn't respond well to the catheter on the first day, so I've been drugging you just enough to allow you to walk and relieve yourself after eating."

What kind of drugs? How long do I have?

Marcus goes into the bathroom, turns the light on, and I watch as he gets a pill bottle. Twenty minutes, I decide. It will take about twenty minutes to work. Marcus will know this. He will be timing it.

I need to stay awake and lucid. Because this is something far worse than kidnapping.

It's enslavement.

He comes back out, places two white pills on my tongue, and offers me the water glass with the bendy straw.

I sip, try not to swallow them, but they go down anyway.

Stay awake, I tell myself. Over and over in my head. Stay awake. One chance, Stay awake….

"Ready?" Marcus asks. He cuts the zip ties. "Oh…" He chuckles. "This one was nearly broken. Well, we'll double up next time." Come along,"

Stay awake. Stay awake.

Marcus helps me up into a sitting position, my eyes swing wildly around the room, searching… searching….

"Let's stand now, sugar-plum."

My feet hit the floor.

I walk.

Stay awake. Stay awake.

But the next thing I know, I'm once again waking up in bed.

My bindings tighter than ever.

CHAPTER 4

The ropes give another fraction. I can feel the fibers splitting one by one against my raw wrists, each snap a whispered promise. Blood makes for good lubricant when you've got nothin’ else.

Life lessons you wish you didn't have to learn so young.

My left wrist is a mess of torn skin and exposed meat. The right isn't much better. But pain's just a message, and I've gotten real good at putting those messages on hold.

The cabin's quiet except for the wind findin’ its way through cracks in the old logs that make up the walls. Somewhere outside, a crow calls.

Silence can be a warning all its own.

I need to get out of here.

I twist my wrist again, feeling something tear. My skin or the rope, doesn't matter. Both are coming apart as I work the rope against a splintered edge on the support beam. My shoulders scream from being pulled back at this angle for hours. Feels like my joints are trying to separate.

But it's my only way out of this. So the blood and the pain doesn't matter.

The only thing that matters is escape. Because he's got Savannah up at North Ridge. She’s with him. Even Cash and Wyatt were second-guessing that move.

Don't think about it, Legion, I caution myself.

You can't help her until you're free, so thoughts don't matter. All it'll get you is anger. And anger only works in the desperate end of a fight.

This is not the desperate end of a fight. This is the precarious beginning of a war I never wanted, but will fight to the death anyway.

The thought sends fresh heat through my veins. My right hand curls into a fist, and I feel the rope give another fraction.

Almost there.

I picture Marcus touching her. Hurting her. "Cleaning" her.

"Stay strong, Savannah. I'm coming," I promise this, though no one hears it but the walls.

Another twist. The rope stretches. One more⁠—

There's a sound. Almost musical. The sound of fibers finally surrendering.

My right hand pulls free with a wet slide, arm falling limp at my side. Dead weight. Useless for a minute until the blood starts flowin’ back. I grit my teeth against the pins and needles, knowin’ what's coming next will hurt worse.

I reach across with clumsy fingers, workin’ at the knots on my left wrist. Each touch feels like I'm digging into my own grave, but I keep going. Keep breathin’.

The left hand comes free, and I lean my head back against the beam. For thirty seconds, I allow myself to just breathe. To feel how close I came to never getting up again.

Then I'm moving.

I crawl first, then stagger to my feet. My legs are weak from sitting so long, and the cabin spins. But I find the wall and steady myself against the rough-cut logs.

Cash's boot did some damage. Each breath bubbles something wet in my chest. I spit blood onto the floor, adding to the mess I've already made.

"Not dying here," I tell the empty room. "Not today."


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