"Let me," I say, approaching slowly. I crouch down a few feet away, making myself smaller, less threatening. "It's okay," I say softly. "We're here to help. We're here to take you home."
Her shoulders shake as she whispers, "I don't have a home." When she looks up, her eyes are wide and hollow, reflecting nothing.
The emptiness in her gaze cuts through me. I've seen that look before—in war zones, in the aftermath of violence that strips away everything that makes a person whole.
"We'll find someone who loves you," I promise, inching closer. "We'll get you home."
She sobs then, the sound breaking from her like it's being torn out. "No one loves me. They won't want me after what's happened. They think I left."
Something in her voice catches at the edges of my awareness. A ghost of familiarity that makes my heart stutter.
"You've been through hell," I acknowledge. "But you're safe now. I'm going to get you out of here."
I reach for her slowly, giving her time to pull away. When she doesn't, I lift her gently, cradling her against my chest. She weighs nothing, just bones and trembling limbs. Instead of fighting, she collapses against me, too broken to resist. She clings to me, fingers knotting in my shirt, refusing to let go.
The van arrives, and we load the remaining women quickly. When we reach it, the woman in my arms refuses to let go, so I climb into the back with her. Vulture takes the driver's seat next to Zip, and we pull away from the docks, tires squealing against the wet pavement.
"I don't have a home," she whispers again, her voice breaking. "No one will want me now."
I stroke her matted hair, careful to avoid what looks like a healing wound near her temple. "Why not? What happened?"
"I've been with them for five years," she says, each word like glass in her throat. "Five years of hell. No one will love me now."
Five years.
The words hit me like a physical blow. My mind races back, calculating. Memories I've spent years drowning in whiskey suddenly sharpen with crystal clarity. The night I came home to find her gone. The empty closet. The note that said nothing but "I'm sorry." No explanation. No goodbye.
Five years ago tonight.
I turn her face toward me, heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my fingertips. The woman in my arms is filthy, gaunt, haunted—but I would know those eyes anywhere. The curve of her cheekbone. The small scar at the corner of her mouth from when she fell off her bike as a kid—she told me that story on our second date.
"Cara," I whisper, my voice cracking.
Her eyes widen with recognition and something like shame. She tries to pull away, but there's nowhere to go in the confines of the van.
"You weren't supposed to know," she whispers. "You weren't supposed to find me like this."
The implications slam into me like a freight train. She didn't leave me. She was taken. All this time, while I cursed her name and hardened my heart, she was suffering unimaginable horrors.
My vision blurs with tears I can't afford to shed. Not here. Not now. I swallow the knot in my throat and pull her closer.
"I've got you now," I tell her, the words inadequate against five years of hell. "You're coming home."
The woman I loved. The woman I hated. The woman I mourned.
I don't know how to reconcile these truths, but one thing is certain: whoever put her in that container is going to die screaming.
When we arrive at the clubhouse, she stiffens in my arms, looking out at the neon-lit building with its row of motorcycles out front. Then she burrows deeper against me, as if trying to disappear.
"It's okay," I murmur against her hair. "You're safe here."
I carry her through the common room, ignoring the stares of my brothers. Doc is waiting in the medical room, ready to treat the women we've rescued.
"This one first," I tell him, my voice rough with emotions I can't name.
I lay her gently on the bed, but she clings to me, refusing to let go. For the first time, I really look at her face in the harsh fluorescent light.
Five years of hell have changed her. The Cara I knew had laughing eyes and a smile that could light up a room. This woman is all bone and shadows. But underneath it all, she's still there. Still Cara.
