Chapter Seven - Our Blood Now
991 Words
The hallway was quieter here—cleaner, warmer. The walls were painted, the lighting soft. The air didn’t smell like motor oil or stale beer, but something sweeter. Home-like.
Evelyn followed Remy down the corridor, hands fisted in the hem of the shirt she’d been given. She hadn’t asked where they were going. She didn’t ask questions. She never had permission to.
But something felt different this time.
Remy stopped at a door and opened it gently. “This is yours.”
Evelyn blinked.
The room was small, but it was… hers. A real bed. A soft comforter. A window that opened. A small dresser and a chair with a folded blanket on it. A lamp with a warm glow already switched on.
No locks. No bars. No rules posted on the wall.
Just freedom.
Remy stepped inside and gestured for her to follow. Evelyn hesitated before entering, still unsure if this was real or some sort of test.
“Sit,” Remy said gently, nodding toward the bed.
Evelyn sat on the edge, barely touching the mattress.
Remy pulled the chair close and sat, elbows on her knees, face sincere and calm—but her eyes burned with something hotter beneath.
“You’ve been through some s**t,” she said. “I won’t pretend I know all of it. But I know your type.”
Evelyn flinched, brows pulling in.
“I mean the kind of woman who got told to stay quiet,” Remy added. “Who got taught she didn’t matter unless someone needed her for something.”
She paused. “Your father? He’s a coward.”
Evelyn’s breath caught.
“Only spineless men treat women like that,” Remy said, voice low, sharp. “Only scared little boys crush their daughters just to feel big.”
She leaned forward, gaze locked with Evelyn’s. “But Ronan? He’s not like your father. And he made a choice today.”
Evelyn’s eyes widened.
“You’re one of us now,” Remy said. “Part of the club. Not a guest. Not a prisoner. Vultures blood.”
Evelyn shook her head slightly, unsure how to process that. “But I didn’t… I didn’t do anything.”
“You didn’t have to,” Remy said simply. “He saw who you are. And that was enough.”
Evelyn swallowed hard. “What does that even mean… being part of your club?”
Remy smiled—but not the fake kind. The kind that came with real strength behind it.
“It means you’re protected. It means you’re respected. It means if someone lays a hand on you, the entire club lays them into the ground.”
Evelyn’s lips parted. “Even if I’m... me?”
“Especially because you’re you.”
The words hit harder than they should have. They cracked something open.
Remy reached out and touched her hand—not forcefully. Just a soft gesture. “You don’t have to be tough to belong here. You just have to be. That’s enough.”
Evelyn nodded slowly, the motion shaky.
Remy squeezed her fingers gently. “This room is yours. You can close the door and be left alone. Or you can come out and sit with the women. You can talk. Or not. Whatever pace you need—we’ll match it.”
Then she stood, brushing her hands on her jeans.
“One more thing,” she added, her tone sharpening slightly. “You ever hear that voice in your head saying you’re nothing? That you don’t deserve this?”
Evelyn nodded again, almost too ashamed to look up.
Remy leaned in one last time.
“You tell that voice to shut the hell up. You’re Vultures now. That voice doesn’t speak for you anymore.”
The door clicked shut behind Remy, and the silence returned.
But it wasn’t the cold, suffocating silence of her father’s house. It wasn’t the kind of silence that punished you for breathing wrong or moving too loudly.
This one was… different.
Still, Evelyn stood in the center of the room like she didn’t belong in it. Her fingers curled around themselves, her arms wrapping tightly around her waist. The soft hum of the air vent, the gentle creak of the floor beneath her—none of it made her flinch.
No shouting. No threats. No footsteps coming to check if she'd “learned her lesson.”
Just her. Alone. Safe.
And she didn’t know what to do with it.
Evelyn moved to the bed, knees weak beneath her. She sat down, then slowly curled onto her side, tucking herself into the smallest version of herself she could manage.
Her breath hitched in her chest.
She bit her lip hard, trying not to make a sound. The last thing she wanted was for someone to hear her. She’d been taught early that crying was weakness. That tears got you nothing but bruises or silence.
But they came anyway.
Hot, silent tears slipped down her cheeks, soaking into the pillow.
She cried for the years lost.
For the girl she could have been.
For the kindness she didn’t know how to accept.
For the voice she’d been taught not to use.
Her chest shook, barely.
She kept her sobs quiet. Trained.
Her father would’ve yelled if she made a sound.
But he wasn’t here.
He’ll never come here, she reminded herself.
And if he did… they’d never let him past the gate.
Still, she stayed curled tight, knees drawn up, one arm under her head and the other clinging to the soft blanket like a lifeline.
She cried until her breath slowed. Until the tears dried on her skin. Until her eyes were sore and her body felt like it had been wrung out.
Then… silence again.
But it didn’t feel so cold this time.
It felt like maybe, just maybe, there was enough space in this silence for her to begin.
- Writer
