Cam doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. He just holds me, his forehead resting gently against mine, his breath mingling with mine in the quiet.
And finally, now that I’m actually free, I let myself cry.
For her.
48
Cam
I still can’t believe she’s here—warm, breathing, in my arms. Safe. The word feels too fragile, too temporary, like if I say it too loud it’ll vanish. But she’s here.
After everything. After the dead ends, the false leads, the nights I thought I’d never see her again. I got her back. The odds were stacked so high against us it felt like chasing a ghost, but somehow, I pulled her out. And now she’s lying here, curled against me like a shadow of the girl I remember—her body limp, her skin pale and clammy, her eyes vacant and drifting like she’s still trapped somewhere I can’t reach.
She hasn’t spoken properly since she came home, other than a few words and the odd question. She hasn’t even looked at me. Just stares through the room like it’s not real.
I lower her gently onto the bed, careful not to jar her, and she folds into the mattress without a sound. Her silence is terrifying. I brush a strand of hair from her face—it’s tangled, dull, sticky with sweat—and tuck the blanket tighter around her.Her lips are cracked, her wrists still bear the faint, angry marks of restraints, but she’s home, which is the main thing.
She looks like she’s been carved out from the inside. I tell myself it’s the drugs. The trauma. That she just needs time. Time to remember who she is.
Time to feel safe again. Time to come back to me.
Boomerang stands in the doorway, tail low, ears twitching. He hasn’t come near her. Not like before. He sniffs the air, lets out a soft meow, then backs away a step. Maybe he doesn’t recognise her scent anymore. Or maybe he does—and he senses the fracture in her spirit, the way she’s not quite here.
She hasn’t even noticed him. That alone guts me.
Talia’s on her way now, already shifting gears into the next phase. She’ll want updates, names, access points. She’ll want to know how deep I’ve gotten into the Broker’s world and how much further I can go.
Because this doesn’t end with Nell.
Not while the network’s still running.
Not while girls like her are still being bought and broken.
I’m in now—deep enough that they trust me. Deep enough to start pulling the whole thing apart from the inside. And I will. I’ll burn it all down. But right now, none of that matters.
Right now, it’s just her.
I sit beside her, elbows on my knees, watching the slow, shallow rise and fall of her chest.
She hasn’t cried. Hasn’t even blinked. I reach for her hand, carefully and as slow as I can manage, wrapping my fingers around hers. She doesn’t squeeze back. But she doesn’t pull away either.
That’s something. That’s a start.
And I make a silent promise, right here in the quiet; whatever it takes, I’ll bring her back. Piece by piece. Memory by memory. Until she knows she’s safe. Until she knows she’s home.
“Your bath’s ready,” I whisper before leaving her curled on the bed to shut off the taps as steam curls up from the water, thick and fragrant. I made it hot—just the way she used to like it.
She blinks slowly from the bed, like she’s waking from a dream she hasn’t escaped yet. I’m quick to move to her side and offer my hand. She doesn’t speak, but she lets me guide her, her bare feet silent against the floor as I lead her into the bathroom. She moves like she’s forgotten how—every step hesitant, every breath shallow.
I help her out of the scraps of clothing they shoved her into before handing her over like property. The fabric peels away from her skin, stiff with sweat and blood and something worse. Her body is a map of bruises—some fresh, some old—littered with grime and the kind of damage that makes my chest ache just to look at. But I don’t flinch. I don’t let her see the rage boiling under my skin. She doesn’t need that right now.
She needs gentleness.
I kneel beside her with the toothbrush in hand, moving slowly—brushing the remnants of the last few days from her mouth. The bitterness, the blood, the rot of captivity. Shedoesn’t fight it. She just lets me do it, her eyes half-lidded, lips parted slightly like she’s somewhere far away. I work carefully, scrubbing away the grime and neglect, rinsing each stroke with water. It’s such a small thing—mundane, simple even—but it feels like restoration. Like she’s regaining an ounce of her dignity.
Then I lower her slowly into the tub, the water lapping at her skin as she sinks down with a soft hiss. She doesn’t cry out, but her eyes flutter shut, and for a moment, she just breathes. I give her that moment. Then I reach for the jug on the side and begin to pour warm water over her hair, letting it run down her back in slow, soothing waves.
“How are you feeling?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. I’m not sure I want to hear the answer. Not sure I’m ready to know just how deep the damage runs.
