"Don't," he cuts me off, his expression shuttering closed again. "Hope is a luxury we can't afford. Not in this life."
Before I can respond, a knock interrupts us. Ice Pick peers in, glancing between us with barely concealed curiosity.
"Vulture's called a meeting. We've got confirmation on Burns Harbor activity."
Falcon nods, the club enforcer mask slipping back into place. "I'll be right there." As Ice Pick leaves, he turns back to me. "We'll use the information you provided. Thank you for that."
The formality is a knife twist. "You're welcome," I say, matching his tone.
He hesitates at the door, looking back with an expression I can't quite read. "For what it's worth, I am glad you survived."
Then he's gone, leaving me alone with the ghosts of what we used to be.
I make my way back to my room slowly, each step heavier than the last. Exhaustion pulls at me—the emotional confrontation draining what little reserves I've built over the past week.
A knock on my door comes just as I'm sinking onto the bed. I consider ignoring it, but the possibility it might be Falcon, returning with more to say, propels me to answer.
It's Tessa, holding a folder. "Club's mobilizing for a Burns Harbor reconnaissance," she says without preamble. "Thought you might want to know your intel checked out." She hands me the folder. "Vulture said to give you this. Port schedules, container manifests. See if anything looks familiar."
I take it, surprise washing through me. "He wants my help?"
"Your insights helped before." She shrugs. "Besides, no one knows the operation like someone who lived through it." She studies me for a moment. "Falcon might be a stubborn ass, but the rest of us value what you bring to the table."
After she leaves, I flip through the documents, scanning for patterns, anything that might help. The simple act of being useful, of contributing to something larger than my own trauma, feels like the first real step toward reclaiming my life.
Under the stack of papers, I find a small photograph, worn at the edges. Falcon and me, five years ago, at the beach. His arms around me from behind, both of us laughing at something long forgotten. I don't remember this photo being taken, but I recognize the day—three weeks before I was taken.
Did Vulture include this intentionally? A reminder of what was lost, or what might still remain?
I trace Falcon's face in the photo, so much younger, unburdened by the years of believing I'd abandoned him. We were different people then—naive, unbroken, full of plans for a future we thought was guaranteed.
Tessa's words come back to me: Some walls gotta come down from the inside.
I can't tear down Falcon's walls. Only he can do that. And maybe he never will. Maybe the man who loved me is buried too deep under layers of hurt and betrayal to find his way back.
I set the photo aside and focus on the documents. If I can't heal what's broken between us, I can at least help prevent other women from suffering what I endured. I can turn my nightmare into something useful, something meaningful.
He might not believe my past, but he'll have to reckon with who I am now. And that woman—scarred, changed, but unbroken—she has work to do.
Chapter Five
CARA
Hands around my throat. Can't breathe. Men laughing somewhere above me.
"She's a fighter. The clients like that."
The pressure increases. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision. This is it. This time they'll go too far.
Then air rushes back into my lungs as the hands release. Someone grabs my hair, yanking my head back.
"Not yet, sweetheart. You're too valuable to break... completely."
I jolt awake with a gasp, clawing at my throat. My heart hammers against my ribs like it's trying to escape. Sweat soaks the sheets twisted around my legs.
Not real. Not now. I'm safe.
The words feel hollow, even as I repeat them. My body doesn't believe them, still locked in fight-or-flight, muscles coiled tight. The darkness of the room presses in, suffocating, until I fumble for the lamp beside the bed.
