"Don't compare yourself to us," Maggie murmurs, noticing my frustration. "We didn't spend five years in captivity. Any movement is progress."
Her words ease something in me, and I focus on what I can do rather than what I can't. By the time we move to light cardio, I've found a tentative rhythm. My lungs burn and my muscles tremble, but beneath the discomfort lies something precious—control. Each movement is my choice, my body responding to my commands rather than another's force.
"Ready to learn something useful?" Tessa asks after I've managed a five-minute stint on the elliptical. "Basic self-defense. Nothing fancy, just how to break a hold."
Fear spikes through me at the prospect of being restrained, even in practice. Tessa reads my expression with uncanny accuracy.
"No contact today," she amends. "Just movements. Maggie will demonstrate with me."
For the next thirty minutes, I watch and mimic as they show simple but effective techniques—how to break a wrist grab, where to strike for maximum impact with minimum strength, how to use an attacker's weight against them. My movements are clumsy, unpracticed, but each repetition feels like reclaiming territory that was stolen from me.
"Not bad," Kira comments as I complete a set of movements. "You've got good instincts."
"Survival instincts," I correct quietly.
She nods, understanding darkening her eyes. "Those count most anyway."
By the end of the session, my body is trembling with exhaustion, but something else thrums beneath the fatigue—accomplishment. I did this. I chose to push my limits, to rebuild what was taken. The ache in my muscles feels like victory.
As we gather our things to leave, I catch Maggie watching me with a thoughtful expression.
"What?" I ask, self-consciousness creeping in.
"Just thinking," she replies. "About the shelter. We could use someone with your background there."
The casual offer stops me in my tracks. "My background?"
"Legal training," she clarifies. "Before... everything. You were in law school, right? Even preliminary knowledge would help our residents with paperwork, restraining orders, custody issues."
Hope flutters dangerously in my chest. "You'd let me help? Even like this?" I gesture to my still-too-thin frame, the visible evidence of what I've endured.
"Especially like this," Maggie says firmly. "Who better to help these women than someone who truly understands?"
"I'm not recovered enough," I protest weakly, though everything in me yearns to accept.
"Recovery isn't a destination," she counters. "It's ongoing. Purpose helps—trust me on that." She watches me consider. "Start small. Two hours, twice a week. See how it feels."
Purpose. The word echoes through me, filling spaces that have been empty for too long. "Yes," I say, surprising myself with the firmness of my response. "Yes, I want to try."
The clubhouse is buzzing with activity when we return, tension evident in the controlled chaos. Additional guards patrol the perimeter, and members move with heightened alertness that speaks of imminent action.
"Something's up," Tessa murmurs as we enter through the side door. "Emergency meeting, looks like."
In the main room, club members cluster around a table covered with maps and photos. Falcon stands at the center, pointing to locations and issuing directives. His shoulder has healed well, though he still favors it slightly when he thinks no one is watching.
He looks up as we enter, his eyes finding mine immediately. Something passes between us—acknowledgment, maybe. Recognition. Since our conversation about my abduction, a fragile understanding has formed. Not forgiveness, exactly, but the potential for it.
"Information on the Hargrove meeting got moved up," Zip announces to the room. "Tomorrow night, not next week. We're accelerating surveillance setup."
"Burns Harbor team leaves in an hour," Falcon adds. "Recon only. No engagement."
I hang back as the tactical discussion continues, absorbing details without interfering. The club has accepted my presence in their space, but operational planning remains their domain. Still, I note the location they mention—an exclusive hunting lodge outside Burns Harbor. The kind of remote, secured location perfect for conducting business away from prying eyes.
As the meeting breaks up, Falcon approaches, his expression guarded but not cold. "How was training?"
The question surprises me—he's been keeping track of my movements. "Good," I answer simply. "Needed it."
He nods, understanding in his eyes. "Listen, things are accelerating with Hargrove. We'll have increased security around the clubhouse for the next few days."
