After she leaves, I return to the evidence board, mind clearer than it's been in days. The trafficking network is vast, powerful, protected by money and influence. But now we have names, connections, a pattern to follow.
Hargrove. The Kings of Purgatory. The Reapers. A web of exploitation larger than I ever imagined when we first started hunting traffickers. A web that caught Cara in its strands five years ago, changing both our lives forever.
But webs can be torn apart, strand by strand. And now we know where to start pulling.
Chapter Eight
CARA
The alarm clock reads 5:17 AM when I open my eyes. For once, nightmares haven't jolted me awake—a small victory I add to my growing collection. Three weeks since the rescue, and I'm slowly reclaiming pieces of myself, one fragment at a time.
I stretch carefully, cataloging the changes in my body. The hollow spaces between my ribs are filling in, my arms showing definition rather than just bone. Doc's high-calorie diet and consistent sleep are working their magic. The physical transformation is the easiest part—it's the rebuilding of my mind that comes slower.
My morning routine has become a meditation of sorts. Shower with water as hot as I can stand it. Dress in clothes that actually fit now, thanks to Tessa's shopping trips. Three minutes of staring in the mirror, forcing myself to really look at the woman I've become instead of searching for the ghost of who I was.
Today, I see something new in my reflection—restlessness. The need to move, to act, to be more than just a recovering victim. My body hums with unused energy, muscles wanting purpose beyond existing.
I slip into the hallway, following the scent of coffee that always seems to be brewing in the clubhouse kitchen regardless of the hour. Voices drift from the common area—female voices, a rarity in the male-dominated space.
"Seven AM, same as always," says a voice I recognize as Tessa's. "You coming, Maggie?"
"Someone's got to keep your form in check," Maggie responds with a laugh. "Besides, it helps me work out frustration before dealing with bureaucrats all day."
I hesitate in the doorway, watching the three women gathered around the coffee pot. Tessa, tall and athletic in workout clothes; Maggie looking more put-together in leggings and a tank top; and a woman I've only seen in passing—Kira, one of the prospects' girlfriends, her arms corded with lean muscle.
"Morning," I say, stepping into the light.
They turn, surprise flickering across their faces before Tessa grins. "Early bird. Coffee?"
I nod, accepting the mug she offers. "I heard you mention seven AM. Training?"
"Gym session," Kira explains. "Club converted an old warehouse off-site. Weights, bags, mats. The whole deal."
"Keeps us sharp," Tessa adds, stretching her shoulders. "And keeps the boys from thinking they're the only ones who can throw a punch."
The idea of physical training both terrifies and calls to me. Five years of captivity left my body weak, my instincts either dulled or hyperactive depending on the threat. The thought of reclaiming physical capability, of transforming this fragile shell into something strong again...
"Could I come?" The question slips out before I can reconsider.
The women exchange glances, something unspoken passing between them. Maggie answers carefully, "Are you sure you're up for it? Doc said?—"
"Doc said I need to rebuild muscle mass," I interrupt. "And I need... I need to feel strong again." The admission costs me, vulnerability still an uncomfortable fit.
Tessa studies me for a moment, then nods decisively. "Hell yes, you can come. We'll start light. Just don't push too hard your first day out."
"I've got extra clothes that might fit you," Kira offers, already moving toward the door. "Give me five minutes."
As she disappears down the hallway, Maggie steps closer to me. "You're sure about this? There's no rush, Cara."
"There is for me," I say quietly. "Every day I spend just... existing, they win a little more. I need to start living again."
Understanding passes across her face, and she nods. "Alright. But you tell us when it's too much. No pushing through pain—you've done enough of that."
The Saints Outlaws' gym looks nothing like the sleek fitness centers I once frequented. Housed in a converted warehouse, it's all exposed brick and metal, equipment arranged with function rather than aesthetics in mind. Heavy bags hang from steel beams, a boxing ring dominates one corner, and weight stations fill the central space. It smells of sweat, leather, and determination.
I hover near the entrance, suddenly aware of how out of place I must look in Kira's borrowed workout clothes, too loose despite being her smallest sizes. Tessa notices my hesitation and calls over, "Start with stretching. Mat area."
Following her direction, I join the women on a series of padded mats. They move through a warm-up routine with practiced ease while I struggle with the simplest stretches, my body protesting movements it's forgotten.
