Page 46 of North’s Claim

If he lets me go… where would I go? I have no home. No savings. No job. No plan.

Just him. Just this life he’s let me have for a little while. A borrowed existence. One I was stupid enough to believe might be permanent.

A sob breaks through and I gasp, trying to silence it, but it’s too late. My whole body trembles as the tears pour out, hot and endless. My vision blurs and the coffee I spilled earlier spreads like a stain, just inches from my hands.

I don’t even clean it.

I just stay there, knees on the tile, heart in my throat, mind spinning so fast I can’t keep up. Can’t breathe. Can’t stop imagining a door closing behind me.

Maeve said I should build something for myself. Find a path. Learn to stand on my own. But I don’t want to stand alone. And the fear of being told I have to guts me.

I press my forehead to the floor, trying to ride it out, the way she taught me.

In through the nose.

Out through the mouth.

But it’s no use. I’m already drowning in the idea of being forgotten. Of being… nothing.

The first time I walk into the training gym for self-defense classes, I feel like an impostor. Not because I don’t belong but because this isn’t the version of me I’m used to.

This version isn’t caged. She’s not afraid of taking up space. She’s curious. A little shaky. But she showed up. I showed up.

“North’s orders,” Julie, one of the candies, smirks as she ties her laces next to me. “Mandatory for all the girls. Even if we never have to use it, we learn. A few minutes can make the difference.”

I nod, absorbing her words. They echo with weight I understand all too well.

Pain, I know. It’s carved into my memory, but this might be the first time my body learns something else. Strength.

New prospects come in. Each candy gets paired up, trained and flirty, throwing their weight around. Some girls tease, others stay chill. I get paired with a man named Jude.

He’s lean, but solid. Looks more quiet than cocky, but still grins like trouble. “You look like you could break someone,” he says as we square off.

“Only if they deserve it,” I shoot back.

“Good answer.”

We warm up. I’m shaky at first, trying to remember how to stand, how to hold my weight. But Jude’s patient. Not soft, not condescending. Just solid.

“Feet shoulder-width. Knees bent. Hands up like this—see?” He adjusts my wrist. “Fist loose. Thumb outside. Don’t break your own damn fingers.”

I nod.

We practice strikes: elbow to jaw, palm to nose, heel to groin. My muscles scream, but I keep going.

“Again,” Jude says. “Harder.”

I think of Myka: his laugh, touch, the pills, the leash.

I scream inside. And I hit.

The sound of flesh on padding echoes loud. My whole arm burns.

Jude steps back and whistles. “Remind me not to piss you off.”

“Too late,” I mutter.

By the time class ends, I’m drenched in sweat, breathing hard. But something inside me clicks into place.