Page 24 of North’s Claim

“She wouldn’t say. Maybe doesn’t even know. Said she tried to run, and B beat her within an inch of her life. She woke up in a hospital and left before they could discharge her. Moved to a new state, got a job at a diner. That’s where she met Myka.”

I lean against the wall. My head drops. “That’s it?”

“It took everything in her to tell me even that. You could ask her, you know. She’s not stupid. She knows you care.”

“Then why do I still get the vibe she’s waiting for me to flip a switch?”

Maeve’s voice drops. “Because she grew up thinking kindness has a price. A cost. A motive. She doesn’t believe in free care, North. She’s never seen it.”

My knuckles crack from clenching my fists.

“She told me that when she zones out… It's because she’s bracing for something. Myka trained her like a damn animal. Conditioned her to respond to everything—food, drugs, sex—with fear.”

I step forward. “What the fuck does that mean?”

Maeve stands too. “It means if she drops a glass, she’s scared someone’s gonna slap her. If she enjoys a bite of food, she thinks she’ll pay for it later. If someone touches her, she doesn’t know if she’ll be used or punished.”

I don’t even realize I’m shaking until she grabs my wrist.

“You want to help her?”

I nod once.

“Then stop trying to fix her like she’s broken. She’s not. She’s wounded. There’s a difference.”

My throat tightens. “She said anything about me?”

Maeve smiles, soft and sad. “Only that she sleeps better here than anywhere else she’s ever been.”

My heart punches against my chest. “Then why does it still feel like she’s waiting for me to hurt her?”

“Because healing’s not a straight line, Vince. It’s a battlefield.” She grabs her bag and walks to the door. “And right now, she’s still checking the exits. Give her a reason to believe she doesn’t need one.”

And then she’s gone. Leaving me in the middle of his office, rage simmering, hands fisted, heart full of fire I don’t know how to fucking put out. And it’s driving me fucking insane. I can’t focus or sit still.

Tonight, I crack open a beer just to taste something bitter. It does nothing. I chuck it across the room. Glass shatters like my goddamn patience.

Storming out the door, I don’t say a word. My VP nods, a few brothers glance my way, but no one dares ask.

I jump on my bike. Fire it up like I’m waking the dead. Tires screech as I tear out of the compound and fly down the highway.

I ride.

Hard.

Faster than I should.

Wind screaming in my ears. Asphalt blurring beneath me, my pulse hammering like war drums. The Mississippi River is where I land. Towering cliffs stretch like jagged teeth against the horizon. Deep forests rise thick and wild. The backwater sloughs shimmer under the moonlight. I kill the engine and silence crashes in.

My chest heaves. I suck in breath after breath, but it’s not enough. The cold air tastes like pine and rot and mud. It burns. Feels good.

The bike ticks as it cools. My boots hit the dirt and I stalk toward the edge of the overlook. She’s in my head. Still. And now I know why.

I press my hands to the railing; she’s survived more than most men I know, and somehow she still looks at the world like it might give her something other than pain.

But she doesn’t trust me. Still flinches when I move too fast. Still looks like she’s waiting for a punch that never comes, and it fucking guts me because I’d rather carve my own heart out than ever see her bleed again.

And the worst part is I don’t know how to fix it.