A beat passes, quiet but heavy. Then I trace the ink on his chest with the pad of my finger, grounding myself in him.
“Was it the same kind of auction you found me in?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Though I think the Broker was there this time. I didn’t see him—just heard a few of them talking about him.” His voice tightens. “I’m getting closer. I can feel it.”
“I still want to make those bastards pay for what they did,” I murmur—a quiet vow, a reminder that we’re in this together.
“Don’t worry,” he says, brushing a kiss to the crown of my head. “I haven’t forgotten.”
His tone shifts, lower now. “Actually, Talia’s found leads on the owner of the club you were taken to. With Kyla back… we might take him down sooner than I thought.”
“Promise me you’ll take me with you when you go?”
“Nell… if things go sideways, I won’t be able to protect you—”
“I’ve been training,” I cut in. “Honestly, Sack Man’s taken so many beatings I’m surprised he hasn’t filed for retirement. If he could talk, he’d testify to how lethal I am.”
He sighs. The kind that carries history—heavy and familiar.
“Nell. This isn’t you versus gym equipment. It’s real. It’s messy. And I can’t risk you getting hurt. Let me handle what I’m trained to handle. You focus on keeping out of trouble. And try not to torch my kitchen again.”
I scowl into his chest.
“Sexist,” I mutter.
“What was that?”
His voice sharpens—enough to send a prickle down my arms.
“I’ll show you,” I say, quieter now. “Tomorrow. You’ll see.”
My eyelids dip, the weight of safety pulling me under as his warmth anchors me in the dark.
55
Cam
Nell’s laugh rings through the kitchen—fragile, rare, and more beautiful than I remembered. It’s been ages since I heard her truly laugh.
She folds one leg over the other, settling into the kitchen chair as she digs into the plate of scrambled eggs and bacon I laid in front of her. She’s in a good mood today, and somehow, that lifts me too. For now, at least.
I know the night still drags her through the wreckage of her mind. I go there too. But she’s holding steady, and that’s enough. Still, I find myself watching—quietly scanning her features for the switch that might pull her under again. So far, nothing.
“You’ll have to teach me how to make this,” she says, stabbing her fork into the plate with mock accusation, already going in for the next bite.
I’ll absolutely never teach her how to make these. I’ve seen her in the kitchen—survival by sheer luck, really. Her culinary skills could power a horror film.
“Maybe one day,” I lie, letting the words settle between us like soft dust. I’m not about to spark an argument this morning—not when her smile curls that perfectly across her face.
A scream rips down the hallway.
Kyla.
I flick off the hob and sprint to her room.
She’s bolt upright in bed, clawing at her arms, eyes wide and bloodshot. A look that doesn’t belong to the woman I married. Recognition isn’t what stares back—it’s pure, primal fear.
She was beautiful once. Now she’s something else. Hollowed out. Haunted.
