“You were a fucking toddler, Savage, when they started on you,” Czar bit out.
Savage nodded. “I realize that. My world had been turned upside down. Reaper was in bad shape. They murdered my sisters. Everything around me was blood and pain. I needed to focus on something, and you were the only thing that made sense. You fought back. Even then, the idea of fighting back gave me hope when nothing else could. So I practiced on developing that talent because it was all I could do when I was so scared something would happen to you.”
“How could I not know?”
“Probably because I wasn’t very good at it,” Savage replied with a humorless smile, but the rage was building in his eyes. In his gut. Already he was pulling it from Czar in the way he had been doing all his life. There was no way to stop it, no way to control it—he’d been doing it since he was a little child. Too many years had gone by, and it was so ingrained in him he practically bled the rage from the others in steady streams.
“I had no way of knowing back then, although I think even as a child, I realized the tremendous amount of weight you carried. The basement was enormous, and many of the others were older. It was like a jungle down there with so many territories. Everyone owning their own piece, like gangs. You were the youngest and yet the strongest, holding one of the best spots. You had to make decisions, turning away children that wanted to be with us, children we wanted to have join our group. Sometimes we’d be angry about your decision. That was so hard on you, but in the end, you were always right about them. They ratted on everyone.”
Every day had been a lesson in survival. Czar had been so young and yet he’d guided them through the pitfalls of the older boys trying to steal food, encroach on the meager territory they had. Viktor had chosen what had seemed to the others as one of the worst spots in the basement, but it was below the kitchen and the ovens, so in the freezing of the winter, they had some heat. He planned out everything carefully and chose each person to join their group—only the ones he knew would stay loyal no matter what.
Czar studied Savage’s face for a long time. “I think you were very good at what you did, and you got even better as time went on. The girls you trained?”
Savage shook his head. “Physical pain isn’t the same as emotional, and by that time, they’d already conditioned me to need both from them. It was too late for me and them. I just had to get them to a place where they accepted what was happening to them.”
“You did your best, Savage, one hour at a time, like we all did,” Czar said. “I wish I’d known what you were doing. You already carried a heavy enough burden. Crawling through the vents with Reaper, our appointed assassin, when we knew they were going to kill one of us. Those bastards forcing you to use those whips. It was bad enough what they did to all of us, but . . .” He trailed off. “No matter what I did, I couldn’t protect any of you.”
“We were all kids, you included. It’s all good now, Czar.” But Savage knew it wasn’t. Unless he was able to convince Seychelle to give him another chance, nothing in his life was ever going to be right again. He wouldn’t give up. When he wanted something, he kept going until he got it. Her life was too important. If she absolutely refused to take him back even as a friend, he had to find a way to get her in touch with Libby.
* * *
For the next three weeks, Savage found it impossible to stay away from Seychelle. He couldn’t sleep more than a few minutes at a time. The nightmares were worse than ever. He spent as long as he could pacing in his room at the clubhouse and then he rode to her cottage. He would sit on his bike for several minutes, listening to the sound of the ocean as the waves battered the rocks and cliffs. The frogs would start up. The crickets would call to one another. That was his signal to get off his bike and walk over to the side of her house.
He sat under her bedroom window. That wasn’t violating the code. He didn’t go inside. He just sat there. The first night, the bedroom window was closed. He knew she heard and recognized his Harley. She couldn’t fail to recognize it. After the first night, her window was open, and he swore she was awake, and he could breathe her scent into his lungs. He imagined her sitting just on the other side of the wall, breathing him in at the same time. Hurting like he was. Those were the best and the worst nights. He was hurting. But he knew she was hurting because she stayed to herself, according to his brothers watching over her. She didn’t eat much, and she walked alone along the headlands. She cried herself to sleep.