The meeting ends with assignments distributed, a plan taking shape. As the others file out, Vulture holds me back.
"You sure you can handle this?" he asks, eyes searching mine. "Working with her, after everything?"
I think of Cara's hollow eyes, the way she flinched at sudden movements, the strength it took for her to survive five years of hell.
"I'll burn their world down for what they did to her," I say, conviction hardening my voice. "Then I'll figure out what the hell to do with the ashes of ours."
Chapter Four
CARA
Sunlight filters through unfamiliar curtains, painting stripes across my body. One week since the rescue, and I still wake disoriented, heart hammering against my ribs. One week of safety, and my body refuses to believe it.
I push myself up, noting the improvement—the stabbing pain in my ribs has dulled to an ache, and my arms no longer tremble with the effort of supporting my weight. Doc says I'm healing faster than expected. My body was always stubborn.
The floor is cool beneath my feet as I pad to the small bathroom. The woman in the mirror is still a stranger—hollowed cheeks, eyes too large for my face, collarbones sharp enough to cast shadows. My hair is growing out, the ends ragged where someone hacked it off during my captivity. I touch the scar that runs along my collarbone, a souvenir from my second escape attempt.
Five years of captivity, and all I have to show for it are scars and bones.
"You're alive," I whisper to my reflection. "That's enough."
It became my mantra in the dark places. When they broke my fingers for fighting back. When they starved me for speaking out of turn. When they sold my body like it wasn't mine to claim. You're alive. That's enough.
But is it enough for him?
Yesterday was the third time I tried to explain. The third time Falcon walked away, shoulders rigid, jaw clenched against words he refuses to hear. It's there in his eyes—he blames himself for not protecting me, for not finding me, but he also hates me. Part of him still believes I chose to leave.
I don't know how to bridge that gap when he won't even stand on the same shore.
The clubhouse is quiet at this hour, most members still sleeping off whatever chaos filled the night before. I've learned their rhythms over the past week—which areas to avoid, when the common rooms are emptiest, which members look at me with pity and which with suspicion.
I move through the hallways silently, a habit born of necessity. Making noise meant attention. Attention meant pain. I know it's different here, but my body hasn't caught up to my mind yet.
The kitchen is empty, sunlight streaming through windows that overlook the compound. A pot of coffee sits on the warmer, and I pour myself a cup with hands that shake only slightly. Small victories.
"You're up early."
I nearly drop the mug, turning to find a woman leaning against the doorframe. Tessa—the club's enforcer's old lady. She's all sharp edges and knowing eyes, leather jacket thrown over pajama bottoms.
"Sorry," she says, moving to the coffee pot. "Didn't mean to startle you."
I force my heart rate to slow. "It's fine."
"Bullshit, but whatever." She fills her own mug, studying me over the rim. "You're looking better. Less like death warmed over."
A surprised laugh escapes me, rusty from disuse. "Thanks. I think."
"You're welcome." She hitches herself onto the counter, legs dangling. "So you and Falcon, huh?"
My stomach drops. "He told you?"
"Nah, but Vulture has a big mouth when he's drinking, and these walls ain't exactly soundproof." She sips her coffee. "Must be weird seeing him again like this."
"Weird doesn't begin to cover it." I lean against the counter, needing its solidity. "He's... different."
"No shit." Tessa snorts. "Five years'll change anyone. Especially five years thinking the love of your life ditched you without so much as a goodbye."
The words sting, though I know she doesn't mean them to. "I didn't leave him."
