Page 23 of North’s Claim

Seven days.

Feels like fucking forever and a blink at the same time.

She hasn’t left the house unless I told her to. Shopping once, and that’s it. No walks, no porch, no fresh air. And it’s starting to crawl under my skin like a goddamn infection.

It bothers me more than it should. Not because I want her gone but because I don’t want her to think she’s still trapped. I thought the clothes, the food, the clean sheets, the silence would help.

It didn’t.

She still flinches. Every now and then I can see the spitfire show up but it’s only for a second. Still stays quiet around me for most of the time like I’m gonna bark an order or raise a fist. She folds laundry like it’s a peace offering and eats like she doesn’t want to be seen doing it. Still hasn’t told me a damn thing about herself.

So I called in Maeve, an old friend and therapist. One of the only women who can handle the broken things in this world and still look them in the eye. She came over five days ago, talked to Nyxa on daily basis, and then nothing.

Not a word.

I sent Torment out to cover the warehouse delivery today because if I stayed cooped up here one more hour without answers, I’d break something.

When the knock comes, I’m halfway through a beer and one more phone call away from pulling Maeve’s head off her damn shoulders.

I yank the door open. “Took you long enough.”

Maeve arches a brow. “You look like shit, Vince.”

“Cut the crap. Sit down.”

She walks in like she owns the place, drops her purse and crosses her arms. “I can’t tell you everything. You know that.”

“You can if I’m the one paying you.”

“That’s not how therapy works.”

I grit my teeth. “Then give me something.”

She sighs. It’s deep. Tired. “She’s been through hell, North.”

“Be more specific.”

Maeve sits, leans forward, hands clasped. “Her trust in people is zero. Not low or damaged. Zero. She’s been abused for years. The kind of long-haul trauma that rewires how you think, breathe, exist. She talked about her dad—until he died. After that, her mother brought a new man home.”

I nod slowly. I’ve seen the ER records. The broken ribs. The fractured wrist. The fucking coma. “Her mom didn’t protect her?”

“Didn’t even try.” Maeve’s jaw tightens. “She made it through high school, then ran. Started working random jobs. Tried to build a life for herself.”

“And failed?”

“She got caught in a bad circle. Said she worked for someone she only referred to as ‘B.’ Wouldn’t give a name.”

“What kind of work?”

“Pole dancing at first. Then B tried pushing more.”

I narrow my eyes. “More?”

“Prostitution.”

I slam my fist on the desk and the bottle rattles but doesn’t fall, but Maeve doesn’t flinch.

“Where?”