Claimed By The Three Bikers I Swore To Hate

Chapter One The lights in this place always sound like they are about to die. That thin, high buzz sits right behind my teeth and never goes away. I wipe the metal exam table again with a damp paper towel, even though I already wiped it ten minutes ago. Three times is the number that feels right in my head. My hands need something simple to do, or they start shaking for no reason that I can control. The black hair dye is growing out at the roots. If you look closely under the bright white bulbs, you can see the bright red hair trying to come back through. I touch my neck and feel the dark strands, and I remember why I use the cheap dye every single week. I keep the long sleeves of my gray scrub top pulled down over my left wrist, even when the small room gets hot and stuffy. The skin underneath is tight and uneven. The scars pull and burn when I stretch my arm too far. They always pull when the weather changes or when I am nervous. This town is small enough that people stop looking at you after a while. Nobody cares who you are as long as you do your job. Cash pay. Night shifts. No questions asked. If you keep your mouth shut and your head down, the world leaves you alone. Elena is a name I left behind in a different life, buried under blood and smoke and fire. Here, I am just Lara. I count pills, I restocks the white gauze rolls, and I do not make conversation with the few sick people who walk through the door. Then the front door hits the wall hard enough to make the glass rattle in its frame. I drop my clipboard on the counter. A man falls halfway across the small reception desk. He is too big for the space, sliding down until he hits the floor. Blood is already dripping onto the linoleum in thick, heavy drops. He looks like a fighter, the kind of man whose body takes punishment for a living. His face is badly swollen, one eye is completely closed, and his leather jacket is torn and soaked dark with blood. I move before the fear has time to catch up with my body. The training I was forced to learn is older and deeper than the fear inside me. I rush around the desk, get my shoulder under his heavy arm, and drag him down the narrow hallway toward the treatment room. He is dead weight. His heavy boots leave dark smears across the clean white floor. I heave him up onto the metal table, and his body goes completely still. I press two fingers to his neck. His pulse is wrong. It is fast and weak, fluttering like a trapped bird under his skin. His breathing is shallow and wet. I pull open his torn jacket and see a long, deep cut across his ribs that is still pumping dark red blood. I grab the metal trauma shears from the tray and cut the heavy fabric away. The room fills with the strong smell of copper, old sweat, and motor oil. And then I see the ink on his skin. It is a black serpent wrapped tightly around a broken chain. It is the syndicate mark. It is the exact symbol they put on the people they owned, the people they locked away in the underground rooms where nobody could hear them scream. My hands keep working because my mind refuses to stop, even though the rest of me feels like it is floating away from the room. Cut the cloth. Apply direct pressure. Wipe away the blood. The motions are completely automatic, driven by muscle memory that I hate. Under the smeared blood, smaller marks start to show up on his skin. They are numbers and symbols, cut deep into the flesh like someone used a sharp needle and a very steady hand. They are coordinates. It is the exact same style they used on the other prisoners. It is the same style that used to be carved into my own arm before the fire and the scars took most of it away. My fingers start that fine, constant tremble that I hate the most. I lock my wrists hard against the edge of the metal table so the shaking will stop. The overhead lights suddenly feel too bright, hurting my eyes. The buzzing sound behind my teeth gets louder, filling my head. Heat crawls up the old scars under my long sleeve, feeling just like the actual fire used to feel. The man makes a deep, wet sound in his throat and tries to lift his arm. I push his shoulder back down against the table and tape a thick pressure bandage over the wound, pressing down with all my weight. I notice more blood higher up on his chest and shoulder. Another wound is hidden under the torn fabric. I keep wiping the black ink tattoo clean with a sterile gauze pad, even though I already know what the numbers mean. They burn themselves into my memory whether I want them there or not. The heavy metal scissors slip out of my sweaty hand and hit the steel tray with a sharp clatter. The noise is much too loud in the quiet room. I freeze completely, holding my breath, and listen to the building. Outside, the night is quiet. There is only the sound of the wind blowing through the pine trees on the mountain and a dog barking somewhere far down the road. I tell myself that I still have time. I just need to stop the bleeding, stabilize him enough to put him in the back, and call the volunteer ambulance service. I can be packed and gone before anyone connects me to this man or his past. Then the sound starts up outside. It is low and heavy, rattling the dust on the window sills. Multiple engines are rolling slowly up the empty mountain road. They are not the sound of regular cars or trucks. They have the rough, uneven growl of heavy motorcycles that have been ridden hard through the cold night. They do not pass by the clinic. They slow down, turn into the small dirt parking lot, and stop right outside the front door. One by one, the loud engines cut out, leaving a heavy, dead quiet in the air. I stand frozen in the bright room with my hand still pressed hard against the stranger's chest. I can feel his warm blood soaking through my latex gloves, and I listen to the silence that waits on the other side of the door.