Only the girls remain—tucked behind a reinforced metal door. I see the craters and warps on its surface, dents pressed deep by stray rounds. Had it not been sealed tight, there would be casualties stacked on the other side too.
But my girl’s safe, and now, so are the others.
61
Nell
We wait. The girls huddle behind me, frozen in terror—some sobbing, others panting so heavily I worry they’ll collapse.
Footsteps echo just beyond the door, heavy in the wake of gunfire. A fresh wave of dread crawls up my spine. I pray it’s Cam—not one of the others.
“It’s okay,” I whisper, more for myself than them, trying to anchor my erratic pulse as the bolt unlatches with a solid, metallic thud.
A figure fills the doorway—tall, broad, masked in black, armour glinting under the flickering overhead light.
I tense—unsure—until that voice rolls in, gravel-soft and familiar. “It’s okay. We got them all.”
Cam.
My lungs flood with air. The pins and needles in my feet recede and I stumble forward, unsteady from adrenaline and relief, and wrap my arms around his neck.
He smells like cordite and heat—a mix of smoke, sweat, and survival—and I hold on like I might fall apart if I let go.
Like I’ve been waiting years to do it.
“Bloody hell, stalker boy—for a second I thought it wasn’t you.”
His gloved fingers trail along my spine, slow and deliberate, pulling me flush against him. My hip brushes the cold steel of the holstered sidearm strapped to his thigh—the other, heavier one angled downward like it’s waiting for permission to kill.
“You doubted me, trouble?” he murmurs, voice low like it’s been raked over coals. “I said I’d handle it.”
God, I want to drown in him—tongue first—but the balaclava steals that possibility. All I get is the intensity behind his eyes, those mismatched irises boring through me like truth serum.
“All clear,” he says to his comms. “Extraction can commence. Get all assets to the vehicles.”
I assume he’s talking to someone else—squad leader voice locked in—but he doesn’t confirm. Just presses his earpiece tighter and flashes the smallest wink.
That wink, paired with that armour, is now permanently inked into my memory.
He’s unfair levels of hot.
I should care about the cleanup, the logistics, the bodies cooling behind us. But all I can do is watch the way he moves—the swagger, the taut muscle under tactical gear.
He walks past and I catch myself staring at his ass.
And hell, it’s a work of art.
More of them pour into the room—identical shadows of Cam, masked and tactical, moving like extensions of the same force. They wordlessly begin lifting the women to their feet, each gesture efficient and careful. I nod to them, silent confirmation; this is your rescue.
The girls look wrecked. Gaunt, bruised, some barely conscious. But they’re still breathing—and if they’ve survived this long, they can survive a little more. I’ll see to that. Rebuild them, piece by piece, until Manticore’s ghost has no place left to cling.
Because if one of them doesn’t make it… that’s another win for Manticore. And I don’t plan on losing.
One by one, they’re escorted out—some limping, some too weak to walk at all. But there’s a flicker in their eyes, a spark I recognise from the day he saved me. That moment when you realise you’re actually free. When the world opens up past the pain.
And it’s all because of Cam—my man. My fucking hero.
Once they’re loaded into the van, Cam leans into the cab beside Talia, deep in conversation, no doubt dissecting next steps—the man loves a plan like he loves oxygen.
