Chapter 2VoxRose

Chapter 2

Vox

An angel was watching me all evening, hiding behind her window, thinking I couldn't see her.

Freakin’ cute.

Couldn't help but smile when she took one last look before turning her light off. Since I saw her in the driveway, my body has been hyper-aware of her, like I instantly knew each time she was near by. As if there was a magnetic force pulling me towards her.

As much as I tried to focus on my brothers and their last tales of fights and won bets, I couldn't stop thinking about her. I'm usually into small chicks with a taste for adrenaline and a good time. It's never about having something real, serious, that lasts after sunrise.

Twenty-eight years into this messed-up world made me forget about finding an old lady like some of my brothers. Each girl I came across was either eager to sleep with an MC member or tryin' to secure a decent future.

I had enough on my plate, and becoming somebody else's lifeline wasn't part of my plan.

Losing my family in a car crash at fifteen wasn't on my list of things I would've ever anticipated. Before that crap hit, life wasn't easy. We were struggling to make ends meet with shitty jobs, tryin' to protect my seven-year-old brother, Jamie, from the streets.

We were so damn poor, tryin' to stretch a can of tomato soup for days, takin' cold showers, and fightin' to stay on the right track, surviving and hoping for a better future.

But even with all this crap, my parents were doing their best, and most importantly, Jamie had decent grades at school. Working day and night at the mechanic shop, we would've been able, in a year or two, to find a new place and maybe a better school for Jamie.

We were happy.

But fate had other plans.

The night of the crash tore apart everything I ever had. And the worst part of it is that I lost my brother that day. Jamie was gone, taken from me in a split second of twisted metal and shattered glass.

The evening started innocently enough. My parents, exhausted from another long day of work, decided to take Jamie and me on a rare outin’ at a nearby diner. It was supposed to be a simple family night out, a momentary escape from the relentless grind of our daily lives. On our way home, laughter and chatter filled our old car. Jamie, way too excited, begged to sit up front with Mom and Dad, eager to soak in every moment of our family time together.

In the darkness, a drunk driver swerved into our lane, their headlights blinding us in a flash. The sickening crunch of metal and the screech of tires filled the air as my world was torn apart in fucking seconds.

My parents were gone. And Jamie…

It’s always so fuckin’ hard to remember this.

Jamie was lyin’ motionless on my mother’s lap, his innocent face frozen in a mask I would never erase from my mind.

The aftermath was a blur. Funerals and legal crap all over the place. Losing my family hit me hard and left me shattered.

After that mess, ain't no way I'm lettin' anyone else get close.

Love? Nah, not for me.

Sure, my brothers from the club tried to help. Some say finding a woman again might ease the pain. But I ain't buying it.

Too damn scared to risk that kinda hurt again.

So, I made a choice. Locked my feelings away, buried 'em deep.

I stick to my bike, my brothers, and keep moving forward.

I met Ares after the accident. He found me one night after watchin’ me fight a guy in the street. The fucker had tried to rob me so I knocked him down in two punches. And next thing I knew, Ares was there, askin’ me if I wanted to make somethin’ out of my life.

He was the enigmatic president of The Raven Sons, with a presence that commanded respect and a reputation that preceded him. I had heard of him. Ares was like a shadow in the night, drawing people to him like moths to a flame.

He took me under his wing, recognizing whatever the fuck he found in me that others hadn't seen. Showed me the ropes, taught me the code of the club, and made me feel like I belonged.

A mentor, a friend, and a leader all rolled into one.

Over the years, I climbed the ranks of the club, earning my spot at Ares' side as his right-hand man. The club became my refuge, a place where I could turn the chaos in my head into a fierce drive to protect those I cared about, letting me rewrite my story.

That’s why I had to stay away from the girl.

This blonde angel, looking like temptation incarnated and wrapped in an innocent disguise.

As the evening went on, only one thought remained in my mind. I needed to know more about her without fucking up the balance I had worked so hard to maintain.

The pull toward her is strong, but I can’t afford to let my guard down and, as much as it pains me to admit it, gettin’ involved with her is out of the question.

With every glance in her direction, I felt the weight of my past bearin’ down on me, remindin’ me of the pain I had endured and the scars I carried.

The road I have chosen is a lonely one.

So, as the night wore on and her bedroom light turned off, I made a promise to myself.

I would keep her at arm's length and try my best to ignore the spark she had ignited in me.

-

I wake up with the sun hittin’ my face, squintin’ at my new place. There's still a few boxes that need emptyin’, but everything’s pretty much settled. Not big on procrastination, there's enough chaos in my head, I don't need it around me as well.

I stroll out of bed in my black sweatpants, heading to the kitchen to make a much-needed coffee. Glancing out the window above the sink, I spy my neighbors in their living room. The mother's knittin’ while the father's reading a book.

Where is she?

I’m glad I’ve put curtains on my window, don’t want them to see my place.

Before I doze off to the club, I order a few cameras online to stick in her room.

Old school method but I’ll be enough to quench my thirst for her. For now.

I'll set them up when they're out of the house. That way I can learn more about her while keeping my distance.

Grabbing my cup of coffee, I stride to the garden and plop into a chair, soakin’ in the morning air.

Fuckin’ great feeling.

A small noise jars me from my thoughts, and I snap my head toward it immediately. Reflexes matter when you're always expecting a rival gang to put a bullet in your head.

There she is.

Kneeling in the dirt, planting flowers. She hasn't seen me yet. I can tell by the way her body moves, effortlessly bouncing her curves as she meticulously tends to her garden.

Could look at her all day and never get tired of it.

"Good mornin’," I greet, waitin’ for her reaction. Her body jerks, and she turns toward me, her eyes widening with each passin’ second. A nice flush spreads across her face at the sight of my bare chest, and it makes me smile.

So innocent.

She stands and wipes her hand on her brown apron, a bit of mud smudgin’ her cheek.

Wish I could get closer to remove it myself.

Expecting her to reply with somethin’, anythin’ that a neighbor would say, I'm met with silence. So I try again. "Nice mornin’ to garden, right?"

What the fuck am I sayin’?

I'm not used to small talk. Usually, chicks come to me at the club, and we don’t make a fuss about gettin’ to know each other. That’s the good side of never having anything serious; you don’t actually need to get involved, and that's what I need. Just enough to satisfy my hunger.

"I’m Vox. What’s your name, sweetheart?" She blinks as if caught off guard and it only makes me smile wider.

Damn, she looks like a deer caught in the car lights.

She fidgets and lowers her gaze, frowning at her hands. Her lips part before closing, and she bites down hard. Somethin’s bothering her. Her eyes meet mine briefly before she quickly grabs something on the floor behind her gardening tools.

It's a notebook.

Oh.

My angel can't speak.

I'm surprised, but I don't show it. Keeping a straight face has become second nature since I joined the Raven Sons. Hiding your emotions becomes a way to survive, not a choice. It keeps you from looking vulnerable and maintains strength and control at all times.

She scribbles something in the notebook. I wait, watching as her hand moves across the page with practiced ease, enjoying the sight of her and noticing a strand of hair falling on her cheek.

Too fuckin’ pretty.

Finally, she holds the notebook out for me to read. Her handwriting is neat, perfectly shaped letters carved by what I gather are years of strict education.

“I’m Rose,” she wrote.

I imprint her name in my mind like a tattoo etched into my flesh.

"Nice meetin’ ya, Rose," I say with a slight nod, trying to keep the conversation flowing smoothly despite the unexpected twist. She nods in return, a shy smile tugging at the corners of her lips. My chest tightens at the sight of her dimples.

Fuckin’ adorable.

We stay like this for an instant before the sound of steps from her house break the moment, causin’ her to step back and almost trip on her fucking long skirt. By reflex, I reach forward, looking to grab her, but she lifts her palm to me, silently asking me to not touch her.

What the fuck was this?

Her eyes, well, her eyes are full of fear and panic, a look I've seen all too often in my enemies when they realize they've crossed paths with a member of the Raven Sons. She steadies herself and pulls back as if my touch could burn her, anxiously peerin’ at the inside of the house.

She’s scared to be caught with me here.

Seeing someone fear me is usually pleasant, but right now, it ain't. I don't want her to be scared of me. The whole conservative outfit, spartan house, and Amish parents look like a mindfuck, and I'm pretty sure there's a fucking long list of things she's not allowed to do. Based on her actions, I'd wager she ain't allowed to touch a man. Hence why she refuses my help. She turns toward her house, her eyes locked with mine for a second. Big, gorgeous doll eyes, lookin’ sorry for something that ain't her fault.

“Rose, it’s okay,” I say, wanting her to know I get it. But she’s already gone.

I sit alone in the garden and try to push aside the unsettling feeling in the pit of my stomach.

Whatever it is, it's best left buried beneath the surface.

Rose

Vox.

What a strange name.

And he called me sweetheart.

Never have I ever, in my entire life, heard someone call me like that.

And honestly, I don’t hate it.

I’m flushed and breathless as I run away from him and the possibility of his touch. It would have been a sin to touch another man's skin before my husband’s.

But it didn’t feel like one.

The way he didn’t react when he figured I couldn't speak and how he tried to reassure me when I refused his hand makes me confused and intrigued.

Who is this man?

Since birth, I’ve been told that the outside world, outside of the Faithful Lambs I mean, was an evil place filled with twisted individuals and temptations.

Yet I’m drawn to him like a flower to the sun.

It was my first time seeing a man's bare chest from this close. Once in school, a classmate removed his shirt after football practice, where us girls were not allowed to participate. From a classroom window, I tried to get a closer look at what was hiding beneath the fabric, but the boy was too far away so I couldn’t really see anything.

Although the last time was more of a scientific study, this time had nothing to do with it. Vox’s chest is strong and muscular, like he was carved from stone. His tattoos come alive with every movement he makes, the ink flowing all over his abs and arms. His chest looked like a canvas of his story where the ink seemed to come alive with every movement. It was as if I could trace the lines with my fingertips and uncover the secrets hidden beneath the surface.

Rose, get yourself together.

Every muscle seemed to ripple beneath his skin, and I couldn't help but be mesmerized by the way it moved when he breathed. Like a work of art, so captivating I struggled to look away.

I’m sitting on my bed, closing my eyes and picturing his smile when he said my name out loud. There was a gentleness in his voice that resonated with me.

“Rose, down, now!” Jumping at the sound of my father's command, I hastily push aside my thoughts of Vox, removing my apron and hurrying downstairs with my Ascendium under my arm, my notebook and a pencil case.

“Come on, I don't have all day,” he says, annoyed at me when I'm, in fact, on time.

We go outside, entering the car, my father driving and me in the back. While he starts the car, I look at the stranger’s house.

His bike is parked in front of it, a black metal beast with flames painted on its sides. I imagine him seeking freedom on the open highway, feeling the wind on his face and the blood pumping under his flesh. He must be fearless and adventurous, quite the opposite of me. Too bad he’s put up curtains; I wish I could see what his house looks like inside.

Rose, you’re going to put yourself in trouble at this rate.

We arrived at the Institute twenty minutes after a long silent drive. I walk to my study class, taught by one of my least favorite teachers, Mr. Collins. He’s an Elder, a member of our community who has reached a higher state of consciousness and showed undeniable commitment, and by that, took the new role of guiding the younger members into following his steps.

My father is an Elder too. It’s a role reserved for the men of our community, the only ones worthy of reaching the highest rank to the Ascension. I used to follow their principles without asking myself a single question, but since the accident, I wonder more and more why I should even listen to them.

It’s a dangerous path I’m well aware of… But I find myself unable to resist. The more contradictions I see, the more I want to dig further.

Why must we girls be offered in marriage like sheep to wolves when our male members have the freedom to choose to marry or not?

Why do some of us ride expensive cars and wear luxurious watches when the Shepherd ordered us to spartan belongings?

Also, the wedding ritual faced by each bride-to-be isn’t written in the Ascendium, but somehow it’s performed each time even if it has killed two of our members in the past.

Questions appear in my head at the speed of a racing heartbeat, each one a thorn of doubt digging deeper into the fabric of tradition.

Something isn’t right but I can’t put my finger on it. Why so many disparities between our members?

I spend all day in class, learning about the tales of our Shepherds and his many victories, fighting holy wars in his past lives. Greta and Jezabel, my closest classmates, are listening carefully, writing every single word coming from Mr. Collins’ mouth.

“And that’s how, children, he made the ground open under his feet and called for the Divine to choose him a woman to bear the fruit of our community,” he says, his palms in the air. Stopping to write, I stare at him.

What?

Our Shepherd is about sixty years old, how could he and his wife bear enough children to create our community? And what would it make of us? Cousins? All coming from the same original womb? The thought of it makes me want to vomit. It doesn’t add up, it must be fabricated, how could it be otherwise?

I look around searching for a reaction, anything that would show me that I’m not alone listening to this masquerade. But no one reacts, speaks, or raises their hand, questioning this tale.

“Head down, Mrs. Parker,” orders Mr. Collins. I want to ask, just to see if I fell on my head this morning, just to understand that I’m wrong and that all of this is the only truth of our world. So I take a piece of paper and write a question, extending my arm to him.

He grabs it, reads it quickly and crumples it in his hand. Acting as if nothing happened, he carries on with his lesson until the end of the day.

The clock rings and we all stand.

“To cleanse our sins…"

"…We must obey," the class answers. But this time I don’t make my lips move. And this small act of rebellion doesn’t go unnoticed by him. My classmates leave the room, and Mr. Collins calls me in his nasal voice, “You stay here, Mrs. Parker,” before I get the chance to go out.

I know I’ve misbehaved, and I’m fully aware that a punishment will be coming. Which one I do not know.

“Sit and put your fingers on the table,” he says blankly, keeping his back turned to me. “Why are you questioning the words of our Shepherd, Rose?”

I shake my head, unable to speak. If only he would give me some paper to explain myself. But he doesn’t really care; Mr. Collins loves to humiliate and hurt his students. I just gave him an opportunity too and I know he won’t let it go.

“Doubting, thinking, all of this shouldn't even be a part of your vocabulary, Rose. This is the greatest sin of all, to wonder about the truth of our world,” he says with a twisted grin on his face, making it look even more scary.

“I’m going to punish you ten times now, and then I will inform your father so he can make sure you fully understand the consequences of your actions.” My body shivers, knowing I will have to fight for my life, once again, tonight in the tub.

He turns and walks to his desk, taking out a long wood ruler.

I stay still, dissociating myself from this moment like I’ve done so many times. Training my mind to save itself by wandering into differently made-up realities in my head, taking away momentarily the hardship I’m not able to face. I look at my fingers, photographing their delicate shapes before he crushes them. I saw a classmate endure this once, and his fingers never fully recovered after.

One.

I inhale deeply.

Two.

I wince.

Three.

A small silent cry comes from me.

And then again, and again, and again.

Until my cheeks are covered with tears and my fingers throb with pain and blood, coming out of my nails, staining the table underneath.

“In your pain, little lamb, find the seeds of redemption and embrace the only truth of our world,” he says, looking at his bloody ruler, satisfaction on his face.

“Now go.” Dismissing me without a look.

I stand with difficulty, my hands weighing heavy and my eyes seeing black and white spots.

I fight to carry myself outside to my father’s car. He doesn’t say anything nor help me. Instead, he sits in the driver's seat, watching me in the rearview mirror.

“Mr. Collins called. Your mother is preparing your bath,” he says, his voice running on my skin like poison.

I turn my head to the window, knowing what’s expecting me at home. The bath punishment is the most common one in our community. We believe water can cleanse sins and help members find the truth of the Ascension in the struggle for air. My father performed it on me many times since I was a child, while my mother sat in the back, simply waiting for me with a towel. I’ve learned quickly to hold my breath for as long as I can, training myself at night in my bed.

The drive takes less time than usual, probably because for once I wished I could stay in it forever. We arrive in front of our home, or should I say our house.

Is it really called home when you’re afraid of it?

I walk directly to the stairs, then to my bathroom. There’s no point fighting it, I know my parents will do it no matter what. My mother is kneeling on the ground, her hand in the tub.

“It’s ready,” she says, as if I was going to enter it to relax myself after a long day.

I remove my wool jacket painfully, seeing the state of my fingers leaving crimson drops on the brown fabric, and let it fall on the ground. My eyes look at the emptiness of my reality and I kneel next to her waiting for my father. His heavy footsteps echo in my back, carrying the threat of my upcoming torture.

He fists my hair with his hand, enough to make me wince. “Daughter, your actions have gathered our household. Today’s punishment is not made to break you but to mold you into a stronger vessel, one that can navigate the path of the Ascension. You must embrace the challenge to reach enlightenment. Let this be a reminder of the consequences of your behavior.”

What kind of man talks like that to his child?

I wonder if other girls out there have the same life in the outside world. Is it really normal to be drowned by your own parents?

Suddenly, my head is pushed into the water, my hair sticking to my face like sand on a wet body. I can hear my heartbeat pounding in my ears, and I try as hard as I can to stop myself from fighting my parents with my free arms. As each second passes, I count them in my mind like petals on a flower that never cease to grow.

One minute.

I can’t breathe; my fingers are throbbing, making it hard to focus on my breathing. I can’t think anymore. I’m too tired and I stupidly forgot to relax my body to conserve oxygen.

Two minutes.

I try to count, but the numbers get confusing, disappearing into one another each time I try to find my thread back. I push the tub with my arms as hard as I can, trying to get away from it. But someone else grabs my hands and attaches them behind my back, making me cry from the pain of my bloodied fingers.

I’m going to die, I can feel it.

It’s been too long. The water starts running inside my nostrils, leaving me drowsy and suddenly heavy. A voice talks to me. It seems far away, so far.

Father?

His tone is calm, as if he has all the time in the world. I grab onto life listening to his voice. I can’t hear him, but I feel the intention behind his words.

This was all a mistake. I should have known better.

My mind drifts into a space of acceptance and submission.

This is all for my own good. I am a faithful lamb and I must be punished for wandering off the sacred path. If this is what I get for doubting our community, then perhaps I made a mistake. My parents love me, they would never try to do something voluntarily hurtful.

Right?

Just when my body starts to let it go, consenting to death and welcoming it with open arms, the hand pulls my head out of the water. I mustn't be reacting quick enough because someone slaps my cheek, yelling at me. I open my eyes, dazzled by the harsh lighting, my body heavier than ever, my hair sticking to my face.

I made it.

They carry me to my bedroom where my father lays me down on my bed, still wet and dizzy. Narrowing my eyes on them, I see my mom putting a bowl of soup on my nightstand before retreating to the hallway. My father stands for a second on my doorframe.

Is he satisfied? Does he wish I had died in there?

Perhaps I did, when I lost the fight and accepted my fate. Perhaps a small part of me was relieved, to finally leave this life, this burden that has become my reality.

Exhausted, I drift into sleep, picturing my stranger holding me in his massive, tattooed arms, protecting me from the darkness.