He stopped pacing and turned to her, his eyes felt as though they were boring holes into her as he stared her down. “Those two things aren’t always separate.”
She stood, closing the distance between them despite the fear screaming in her veins. “I didn’t tell you everything because I didn’t want to be someone you felt obligated to protect. The MC who held me—they’re involved in a lot of bad things, and not just here in America. They traffic women and have ties all over the world. That’s where their hired muscle came from. You alreadygot mixed up in my mess, but knowing the whole story would put you in greater danger. I didn’t want to do that to you.”
Nitro cupped her face gently, thumbs warm against her skin. “Too late,” he breathed.
Her voice broke. “I don’t want to be owned again. I can’t let them find me, Nitro.”
“You won’t have to go back to that life, honey,” he said fiercely. “No one will own you again—not ever.” When he said those words to her, she believed him. Maybe it was because she had no choice but to believe that he’d help her, but the way that he looked at her gave her hope, and that was something that she hadn’t had in a damn long time.
She searched his face for doubt, for fear, or for the moment he decided she was too broken to stand beside him, but it never came.
Instead, he pulled her into his body, holding her like she was something precious, not fragile. Aurora closed her eyes and let herself lean into him—just this once.
“I survived my father,” she whispered. “I survived all of them.”
Nitro pressed his forehead to hers. “And now they’ve made it my problem. Coming after you while you were with me was a mistake.”
For the first time in years, Aurora didn’t feel so alone. She never had anyone in her corner, not even her own father, but Nitro promised to be that for her. And somewhere deep in her bones, something shifted. She wasn’t healed, not yet—but not being alone anymore felt like a balm to her aching soul.
Aurora had always believedthat telling the truth would feel like freedom. Almost like a door opening, or like air rushing back into her lungs after she had forgotten how to breathe. Instead, it felt like standing in the wreckage after an explosion—everything exposed, everything raw, and nowhere left to hide. And right now, all she wanted to do was hide from Nitro.
She sat on the edge of the bed long after the words had left her mouth, her arms wrapped around herself as if she could physically hold the pieces together. Nitro hadn’t let go of her, not once, but even his presence couldn’t quiet the tremors running through her bones.
She felt smaller now. Not because of him—but because the story was no longer just hers. Her ugly past had been her dirty secret for so long now that she didn’t know how to react to someone else knowing it. “I shouldn’t have said it,” she murmured. “I shouldn’t have told you everything.”
Nitro stiffened slightly beside her. “You don’t mean that,” he insisted. “Telling me was the right thing to do, Aurora.”
“I do mean it,” she said softly. “I survived by locking my past away. I made it something that only lived inside me.” She swallowed hard. “Now that it’s out there, it’s real again.” The memories crept back in without permission. The sound of engines at night, and the way laughter could turn cruel without warning. The feelings of being watched—even when she was alone, were the worst part of her captivity.
Aurora pushed to her feet and crossed the room, pacing like the walls were closing in around them. Her chest felt tight, her breath shallow, and her pulse too loud in her ears. “I don’t sleep right after I talk about it,” she admitted. “I don’t eat. I don’t trust my instincts.” She pressed her palm flat against her sternum. “It just brings up too many bad memories. Almost like my body thinks I’m back there.”
Nitro moved closer but didn’t touch her this time, giving her space when she needed it most. “You don’t have to relive any of it,” he said quietly.
“But I already am,” she whispered. That was the cost of telling him the truth about her past. It wasn’t the danger or the men hunting her. It wasn’t even her father’s betrayal. It was the cost of feeling thirteen again. The feeling of being powerless, exposed, and afraid that survival had only been temporary. The fear of having to go back to them plagued her every damn day, and she had a feeling that she wouldn’t be able to run far enough to escape it.
Aurora sank onto the couch, her head in her hands. “I hate that they still own parts of me,” she said. “I changed my name and the way that I look. Hell, I even changed my entire life, and my past still gets to reach inside me and pull me apart.”
Nitro knelt in front of her, slow and deliberate, like he didn’t want to startle her. “It doesn’t own you,” he said.
She shook her head. “It does when I can’t stop shaking because I’m so afraid that those men will find me again.” He took her hands into his own then. He felt warm, steady, and real—everything that she hadn’t felt in a damn long time now.
“Trauma doesn’t mean weakness,” he said. “It means your body remembers how to survive.”
Her breath hitched. “I don’t want to just survive anymore, Nitro. I want to live. I’ve never had a life outside of that club, and I’m worried that I might never have one.” The words came out broken, fragile, and honest in a way she rarely allowed herself to be with anyone else.
Nitro’s grip tightened slightly. “Then don’t just survive,” he said. “I’m going to find a way to help you get the life that you want, Aurora.” She knew that his pretty promises were just that—promises, and they were meant to be broken.
She laughed softly, bitterly, and tiredly. “You make it sound easy.”
“It’s not,” he admitted. “But it’s possible.” Aurora leaned forward, resting her forehead against his shoulder. The contact cracked something open inside her, and before she could stop it, a quiet sob slipped free. It wasn’t loud or dramatic, but it was the most honest that she had been with herself or anyone else in a long time.
Nitro wrapped his arms around her, solid and grounding as she cried. She didn’t cry for the girl she’d been, but for the woman she had to become while surviving. She cried for all the nights she’d spent running, and for all the versions of herself she’d buried along the way. When the tears finally slowed, she felt hollow inside—drained.
“I’m scared,” she whispered.
“Of them?” Nitro asked.
She shook her head. “Of hoping.” That was the truth beneath all the others. Hope was dangerous. Hope made you want things that weren’t always possible. Hope made you trust men who promised safety and delivered cages instead.
