Cam glanced up finally, nodding at me before returning to her feeding duties. Outside, the motion sensors and cameras kept watch. The team slept soundly in their rooms. Sabine was safe.
Everything was under control. For now.
20
Sabine
I woke to sunlightslicing through the drapes, drenching me in warm golden stripes. My body felt heavy, memories of last night weighing on me more than any physical pain. I swung my legs over the edge of the mattress, wincing as my injured ankle protested the movement.
The bruising had faded from angry purple to a watercolor of yellows and greens. The scrape running from my foot up along my ankle looked less angry too, scabbing over properly now. Progress, I supposed.
I reached for my suitcase, still unpacked on the bench at the foot of the bed. Black cotton panties, matching bra. The simple ritual of dressing myself felt like reclaiming something. The soft fabric of my favorite worn jeans slid over my legs. I pulled a long-sleeved gray t-shirt over my head, inhaling its clean laundry scent.
The real challenge came with the socks. I held the first one stretched between my fingers, then carefully guided it over my toes, easing it past the healing wound. My breath caught when the fabric brushed against the tender skin.
Sitting there, sock in hand, I couldn't help but replay last night in my mind. Kara's unexpected gentleness after Alex had walked out had surprised me. The badass blonde team lead had shown a vulnerability that had cracked me open in ways I hadn't anticipated. I wondered if anything would ever feel normal again.
I closed my eyes, remembering how it felt when Alex had left without a word after we'd finished. When we used to see each other—before the article, when she was just my source—I liked to imagine that she was as attachedto me as I was to her. The silence of her departure, last night and before, cut deeper than any knife. But Kara had stayed.
"You're trembling," she'd said, her voice softer than I'd ever heard it.
I had been. My body shook with aftershocks of pleasure mixed with the horror of my own words. Had I really asked if they were going to kill me? While we were...
"You're safe," Kara whispered against my hair. Her arms encircled me, strong and steady while I fell apart. She held me together as I cried, her lips pressing gentle kisses to my temple, my cheek, catching my tears.
When I could breathe again, she helped me stand. My legs felt like water as she guided me to the en-suite bathroom.
"Let me take care of you," she said, and I nodded, unable to form words.
The water came hot and plentiful. Steam rose around us, filling the bathroom until the edges of the room blurred into white nothing. Kara positioned herself behind me, one arm wrapped around my waist to keep me steady, the other reaching for the citrus body wash on the shelf. That small green bottle—my preferred brand, the expensive one I only bought when it was on sale—had been waiting here when I arrived. They'd known. They'd studied me, catalogued my preferences, stocked this bathroom before I'd ever set foot in this house.
Her hands moved with unexpected tenderness, lathering the soap across my shoulders, down my arms. Each stroke was deliberate, careful, as if she were washing away more than just the evidence of what had happened in my bedroom. The familiar scent cut through the steam—bergamot and verbena—grounding me when I felt like I might float away entirely.
"Breathe," Kara murmured against my ear when she felt my body tense. "Just breathe."
I hadn't realized I'd been holding my breath. I let it out in a shuddering exhale, and her arm tightened fractionally around my waist. Not restraining. Anchoring.
She washed my hair next, fingers massaging my scalp with a gentleness that surprised me. I'd watched those hands fieldstrip a rifle in under a minute, seen them check magazines with the same efficiency most people used to scroll theirphones. But now they moved through my hair with patient care, working the shampoo into lather, her fingertips pressing against my scalp in slow circles that made fresh tears spring to my eyes.
"I've got you," she murmured when I swayed against her, my good leg trembling with the effort of keeping me upright. The water sluiced away soap and tears alike, leaving me clean but raw, exposed in ways that had nothing to do with my nakedness.
When she turned off the water and wrapped me in a towel that smelled of lavender fabric softener, I wanted to thank her. Wanted to acknowledge that she had given me this moment of gentleness in a situation built entirely on control. But the words stuck in my throat, too big and too fragile at the same time.
Instead, I leaned back against her chest for just a second, feeling her heartbeat steady and sure against my spine. I felt something beneath Kara's controlled exterior—something soft and protective and utterly undeniable.
I didn't know what to do with that information. Didn't know if I could trust it. But standing there in the steam with her arms around me, I felt something shift. Not safety, exactly. Not yet.
But maybe the possibility of it.
I eased my weight onto my injured ankle, testing how much pressure it could take. Not great, but better than yesterday. I was pretty sure I could manage without the crutches. The carpet cushioned my steps as I limped across the room and down the hallway toward the staircase, gripping the wall for support.
My gaze caught on the library door halfway down the corridor. Through that door were Isabella Bellante's books, each spine embossed with that distinctive swirling silver B monogram I'd seen yesterday. The same symbol I'd spent months investigating, the one that appeared on shell companies and property deeds across three states. The same symbol that had killed countless people.
A chill ran through me despite the morning warmth. How had I ended up here, of all places? On Bellante property, surrounded by Bellante possessions, breathing Bellante air. Being fucked by a Bellante princess.
The irony wasn't lost on me. I'd spent a year trying to infiltrate their world, and now here I was, living in it. Were these four women really my protectors, or was this an elaborate setup before they disposed of me?
I reached the top of the stairs and stared down the wooden steps as though facing a mountain descent. My palms grew damp against the banister as I contemplated the journey. One step at a time, I told myself. I lowered my good foot to the first step, then carefully brought my injured ankle down to join it. Pain shot up my leg, but I bit my lip and continued.
