I couldn’t love. I couldn’t have a family. I couldn’t provide when I knew at any turn they might be in danger because of my forced change in lifestyle.

My purpose in life was to be alone, and I wasn’t sure if I’d rather eat a bullet after all.

Present

Ryker

He scared the ever living fuck out of me. He scared the ever living fuck out of everyone else too.

The scary man that everyone made sure to be away from. The one whose eyes were so cold, it made your spine stiffen and your heart rate accelerate. If he looked at you, you didn’t fucking dare look back at him. You just waited and prayed he left you alone.

I’d seen the biggest of men crumble around him. They knew what he was capable of. Stone cold murderer. Someone who could take a life away with his bare hands. His reputation was strong as the stone walls imprisoning us; there wasn’t a corner you could escape to without listening to whispers about what he’d done.

All the lives he’d taken.

The mercy he lacked.

I watched him every day. I saw the way he manhandled the men who pissed him off. He was large and robust, but I sensed that wasn’t entirely the reason he was capable of hurting just anyone. There was hunger in his eyes. He fought from within, and I noticed it the first time he beat some Nazi prick to the ground. It was the first day he stepped into the prison. Usually that was the day you got your ass beaten to the ground by the Nazi gang. They liked to pretend they were the strongest, but it was only because they were the largest crew, leading only by numbers over the rest.

He’d been so enraged by the attack, his shirt had come off, and he was pounding his chest with both his fists, screaming at everyone around him to come at him. This was after he effortlessly threw the largest man in the Nazi crew – and the prison – and beat the snot out of him with nothing but a lunch tray – the lunch tray that had been used on him initially.

“Come and try, you fucking fucks!” he shrieked, his voice deep and powerful. “Who else wants a taste of this?”

The prisoners had cheered from all sides, laughing and bouncing off the fucking walls like chimpanzees. They loved what they were seeing, probably because they’d been beaten by the same Nazi asshole before this guy had come around and danced circles around him.

But the second that shirt came off, mouths closed in the blink of an eye. Silence. For the first time since I’d been here, it was silent as a grave. I knew what they were looking at. It was the same fucking thing I was looking at. The giant tattoo on his back. An emblem of where he came from and who he was.

The tattoo only given to a member of the Black-backed Jackal MC – the most feared biker gang this last decade has ever seen, taking residence in almost every town across the country. But it was the other tattoos that gave him away. He was recognized immediately, and the name gave me chills when I heard it.

Reaper.

They called him Reaper, though his real name was Remy Martinez.

After he’d beaten the fool on his first day, the bloody man lay unconscious at his feet, his scrubs soaked in blood. When no one else stepped forward to fight him, Reaper casually sniffed and dusted himself off. Then he walked to an abandoned lunch tray, grabbed an untouched Granny Smith Apple in the assortment of food and ate it at a table in the far back.

He didn’t put his shirt back on the rest of the day, proudly putting on display the authority he truly possessed.

Hard as fucking nails, this guy. It wasn’t long after that he was ruling the roost. His outside connections had bought the prison guards off, so Reaper got what he wanted when he wanted. He lived in the lap of luxury here, and the fucker had an endless supply of cigarettes and blades he swapped throughout the day.

Like now, he was using his apple blade. Fucker liked his apples, had reserved his own fucking knife for his apples. Crazy fuck. One I needed to get close to.

I’d watched inmates approach him from time to time. They sought safety, wanted a place by his side away from the Nazi crew who still dragged the crying weaklings into the toilets for a screw. They were eyeing me more and more each day, with that arrogant look in their eyes like it was only a matter of time – and the last thing I needed was a frequent cock up my ass in this hell. I needed to be like Reaper, even if it meant not being able to stand by his side. I needed to have a shot at bringing down these bastards if I wanted to make it unscathed these next couple years. I’d been jumped enough times to make me realize I was bound to be someone’s bitch very soon.

Grabbing an apple off my tray one day, I summoned the courage and headed for Reaper. He had his own goddamn table, nobody else accompanying him. Bastard liked his solitude – his solitude and his apples. He didn’t stare at me once as I began to approach him, but I knew he was aware of me. He was aware of everything.

He held his apple blade in one hand and was slicing the skin off the fruit in a slow, calculated way. The skin dangled like a ribbon as he continued to round the blade. I stood before him, watching him silently, wondering if he expected me to talk first. I could never hear the exchange of conversations he’d had with the guys before me to know how they got rejected. Maybe that was why he seemed disinterested in me. I was just another beggar.

“Make it quick,” he finally said, still not taking his eyes off his bloody apple.

Feeling awkward, I leaned forward and set my apple on his tray. “For… you.” Fuck, I was lame, offering my apple to him like he was some god I was bringing trinkets to.

He stared at my apple for half a beat before continuing his peeling. “You came here to give me your fucking apple?”

“Peace offering,” I said on a shrug.

“I don’t need peace from a fuck I’m not warring with.”

I exhaled and ran a hand over my hair. “Shit, man, I don’t know what I’m doing, alright? I came here –”

“You came here like all the others begging me for safety. Like I give a fuck for you opportunistic pricks. I ain’t helpin’ shit, or doin’ shit for anybody. So how about you turn back around and get the fuck outta my face before I throw this knife at your head?”

I froze at his threat. Once upon a time I thought Boss was scary. This guy was something else entirely.

“You wouldn’t use that blade to kill me,” I found myself saying without thought. “You’ve got different blades for different things. When you stabbed one of the Nazis the other week, it was a brown handled knife you didn’t carry again. I’d say you disposed of it or some shit, and judging by the way you shuddered at the blood dripping from its blade, I’d say you don’t like blood period. In fact, you hate it so much, you can’t stand it touching something that’s yours. And that apple knife hasn’t changed once. You like it too much to want to throw it at my head.”