A sob hiccupsin my chest. I reach for him again, needing the solidity of his body, his warmth, the truth about him.
He kisses my forehead,my hairline, and the corner of my cheek.
“What did they do to me?”I whisper.
Pain ripples through his face,deep and raw. But he stays steady. “We’re going to talk about all of it,” he murmurs. “Piece by piece. Only when you’re ready.”
My breath shudders.
“You’re safe,”he repeats. “You’re protected. You’re surrounded by the entire team, by my brothers, by every agent working this case. You’re not alone for a single second. Not anymore.”
I closemy eyes and lean into his palm. He holds me like I’m something precious. And for the first time since I was taken, I believe it. A nurse steps inside quietly. “Sorry to interrupt, but…”
"What?"Erik nearly barks out, his voice steady as steel. “Whatever it is, I’m staying here with her.”
The nurse nods gently.“Just here to check her vitals.”
Erik brushesa tear off my cheek. “I’m not leaving this room.”
“Okay,”I whisper, my voice trembling. “Thank you.” He sits back down, taking my hand again. His thumb strokes my palm slowly, grounding and anchoring me.
And somewhere deepinside the fog and fear, a small spark of me flickers awake.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CLAIRE
3 weeks later…
The office is warm. There are soft lamps, plants reaching toward sunlight, and two leather chairs angled slightly toward each other… inviting.
Erik sits next to me on a loveseat, one knee touching mine, grounding me. My hand is in his, but loosely. He knows I need the option to pull away. He never holds too tight anymore.
Dr. Elena Alvarez sits across from us with her notebook resting in her lap. She’s in her late forties, with silver beginning to streak through her dark curls and eyes that feel like open doors instead of bright interrogations.
I’ve seen her three times in the hospital. Twice in her private office. This is my sixth session with her. And still, today feels like the first time I’m truly inside myself enough to speak.
Dr. Alvarez smiles gently. “Claire, would you like to start by telling me how this week has felt?”
I exhale slowly, the kind of breath that shakes. “Different,” I say quietly. “Not better. Not worse. Just… different.”
She nods, always patient. “Different can be progress.”
I rub my palms against my thighs. My body still feels unfamiliar, fuller curves and heavy breasts gradually returning to normal under medical care, with new soft curves and weeks of forced nutrition. I’m relearning myself and grieving myself at the same time.
Erik’s thumb lightly sweeps my knuckles. I swallow. “I… slept through the night.”
Dr. Alvarez’s smile warms. “That’s huge.”
“But I woke up panicking. I didn’t know where I was for a second. I thought I heard the pump again.”
She writes a note. “That’s your brain integrating traumatic memory into your present moment. It’s not failing you, it's trying to process what happened.”
A tremor moves through me. “I feel broken.”
She sets her pen down. Leans forward slightly. “Claire, what you’re experiencing is not brokenness. It’s what happens when a nervous system survives overwhelming stress. You adapted beautifully. You survived. And now we help your body remember it's safe.”
My eyes burn. “But I don’t feel safe when I’m alone.”
