"I need to step out for a minute," I tell her, gently detaching her fingers from my shirt. "Doc will take good care of you. I'll be right outside."
I make it to the hallway before my legs give out. I slide down the wall, head in my hands, as five years of anger, grief, and misdirected hate crash through me.
She didn't leave me. She was taken.
And I never looked for her. Not once.
I pound my fist against the floor, welcoming the pain that shoots up my arm. It's nothing compared to what she's endured. Nothing compared to what I deserve for giving up on her.
But self-pity won't help her now. I push myself to my feet, wiping my face on my sleeve. There'll be time for reckoning later.
Right now, Cara needs me. And this time, I won't fail her.
Chapter Two
CARA
Softness.
That's the first thing I notice. Wrongness follows immediately after.
My body remembers concrete floors and metal shipping containers. Years of hard surfaces have trained my muscles to brace against unyielding resistance. This softness beneath me feels like quicksand, like I'm being swallowed alive.
My eyes snap open to unfamiliar darkness. Not the pitch black of the container or the harsh fluorescents of the "processing" rooms, but a gentler shadow. Moonlight filters through blinds I don't recognize, casting stripes across an actual bed. The sheets smell of laundry detergent instead of sweat and fear. The space around me stretches too far in every direction after years of confinement.
Wrong. All wrong.
My heart thunders against my ribs as memories fragment and collide. Men with guns. The container doors opening. Being carried. His face?—
Falcon.
The memory of his expression when he recognized me sends a fresh wave of panic through my system. Shock. Horror. Disgust? I couldn't read him like I used to.
Male voices rumble somewhere outside the door, and my body reacts before my mind can catch up. I'm on the floor, wedged between the bed and wall, making myself as small as possible. A skill learned through pain and repetition.
"This one needs special attention. The boss has plans."
Rough hands dragging me by my hair. Laughter as I struggle.
No. I'm not there anymore. I press my palms against my eyes until colors burst behind my eyelids. Focus on now. On here.
I take inventory: someone has cleaned me up. The grime of countless unwashed days is gone. I'm wearing soft sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt that smells faintly of motor oil and sandalwood. An IV line runs into my left arm, the needle taped securely in place. My hair feels damp—someone washed it while I was unconscious.
The realization that strangers handled me while I was vulnerable sends another spike of terror through me until I remember where I must be. The Saints Outlaws MC clubhouse. Falcon's home.
I was rescued. I'm safe.
Five years of captivity have taught me to distrust such simple statements.
The door opens, and I press myself harder against the wall, fighting the urge to scream.
"Easy," says a female voice. "Nobody's going to hurt you here."
A woman enters, moving slowly into my field of vision. Late thirties, maybe. Dark hair pulled back in a practical ponytail. She keeps her distance, hands visible at her sides. Her eyes assess me with knowing recognition.
"My name's Maggie," she says. "I work with the Saints Outlaws. Help women like us."
Like us. The words land like a weight.
