Chapter 3
Carly
“You’re safe here,” he says.
The door shuts.
The lock clicks.
I keep staring at it. Waiting.
I’m wrapped in a blanket on the couch. Warm now. Warm enough that the shaking’s quieted to a low buzz under my skin. But my head’s still out there, on that porch.
I heard voices. Men. I didn’t catch it all, but I heard the tone. Heard it shift. Heard them leave.
Something happened out there.
Doc kneels in front of me again, calm like the world didn’t just tilt sideways.
“I meant it,” he says. “You’re safe.”
I swallow. My throat still hurts. My voice feels like it belongs to someone else.
“I heard them,” I say.
“I know.”
“And your… brothers.”
“Yeah.”
I study him.
Broad shoulders. Worn shirt. That leather cut hanging open now. The patch on his chest.
He doesn’t look dangerous in a wild way. He looks dangerous in a controlled way.
That should scare me more.
It doesn’t.
It scares me a little.
It steadies me a little more.
He sits back on his heels. Gives me space.
“You want to tell me what happened?” he asks.
There’s no push in it. No impatience.
Just a question.
I stare at my hands under the blanket. They’re scraped and red and ugly.
“I was stupid,” I say.
His jaw tightens. “Start before that.”
Something in my chest cracks at that.
Before that.
Like I’m more than the worst choice I made.
“My roommate,” I say. “Tessa. I don’t really have anyone. No family. Not anymore. She knew that.”
He doesn’t interrupt.
“She told me about a job. Cleaning at a club. Cash. Easy. I needed money.”
“What club?”
“Red Hot Velvet.” My mouth twists. “Stupid name.”
His eyes sharpen at that. I see it. He files it away.
“She said it was just wiping tables. I believed her.”
My voice starts to shake and I hate it.
“I always believe people when they sound confident,” I say. “I don’t know why.”
“You were set up,” he says.
“I walked in,” I snap, then flinch at myself. “I walked in on my own. Wiped, cleaned, did the job.”
“And someone lied to you.”
The way he says it makes it sound simple. Clean.
Like blame is a straight line instead of a knot.
“There was a man,” I say. “Badge. Said he needed to verify my age. I followed him.”
Doc’s face goes still.
“The door locked,” I whisper. “And then… it just turned into a room.”
I don’t give him everything. I can’t. The pieces are sharp and I don’t want to bleed all over his floor.
“They talked about me like I was inventory,” I say instead. “One of them said I’d sell for more.”
His hands curl into fists on his thighs.
“They said no one would look for me,” I add.
Silence stretches between us.
He doesn’t fill it.
He lets it sit.
“I ran when the door wasn’t latched,” I finish. “I didn’t think. I just ran.”
“You weren’t stupid,” he says quietly.
“I was.”
“No,” he says, firmer now. “You trusted someone. That’s not stupidity.”
I laugh once. It sounds wrong in my own ears.
“You don’t even know me.”
His gaze holds mine.
“I know enough.”
And that does something to me I’m not ready for.
My body feels heavier now. The adrenaline is draining out, leaving nothing but aches behind.
“I feel disgusting,” I whisper.
His expression shifts again. Softer now.
“You’re not. Did they… do something to you?”
“No.” The word escapes fast. “They said I was worth more as a virgin.”
Something flashes through his face. Rage, sharp and contained.
“I smell like dirt,” I say.
“That’s fixable.”
The corner of his mouth moves just slightly. Not quite a smile. Something close.
“You want to shower?” he asks.
I nod too fast. “Is that okay?”
“It’s your call,” he says. “Bathroom’s down the hall. I’ll leave clothes outside the door. Clean towel’s already in there.”
He watches me for a second. “You good on your feet? Or you want a hand?”
“I’ve got it,” I say.
I pull the blanket tighter around me and rise slowly, both hands clutching the edges. It’s heavy and awkward, but I’m not letting go. My hoodie’s cut. My jeans are gone. This blanket is all I have.
I stumble a little as I straighten. He steps in close anyway, one hand bracing gently at my upper arm.
Warm. Steady. Solid.
Even that small touch sparks something low in my stomach. My body notices him. Even now. Even like this.
It makes me feel disloyal to my own fear.
The bathroom’s clean. I step inside and turn the lock, then glance up at the mirror.
Blonde hair tangled. Face smudged with dirt. Eyes too wide.
I don’t look like myself. I barely recognize the girl staring back.
I strip out and step under the hot water.
The first touch of heat makes me gasp.
It stings. It soaks in. It hurts and helps at the same time.
I stand there longer than I should, letting the water run over bruises and scrapes.
I don’t cry.
I just breathe.
When I turn the water off, there’s a folded stack of clothes outside the door like he promised. Sweatpants. A long sleeve shirt that smells like detergent and something faintly woodsy.
I put them on.
They hang a little loose, but they’re warm.
When I step back into the living room, he’s at the table in the kitchen area, a small kit open in front of him.
He looks up.
Something in his eyes shifts.
Relief. Quiet and real.
“You okay?” he asks.
“I think so.”
“Come here.”
I sit across from him.
“We’ll wrap these again. Shower loosened the first set.”
He works in silence at first. Cleans my scrapes. Applies ointment. Wraps my worst cuts.
His touch is careful. Precise. It moves like I’m made of glass.
“Tell me if it hurts,” he says.
“It’s fine.”
“It’s allowed to hurt.”
That makes my throat tighten again.
He moves to my wrists last. The bruises there are darker.
His thumb pauses just above one.
His jaw ticks.
“I’m sorry,” I say without meaning to.
“For what?” His voice sharpens.
“For bringing this here.”
He leans back slightly.
“You didn’t bring anything here,” he says. “They did.”
There’s no room for argument in that tone.
He stands when he’s done and goes to the stove.
“I’ve got stew,” he says. “Nothing fancy.”
“Stew sounds perfect.”
He ladles it into two bowls and sets one in front of me.
The smell makes my stomach twist in a different way. Hunger.
We eat in silence. It’s quiet, but not heavy.
I watch his hands around the spoon. The way he sits. The way he glances toward the windows without making it obvious.
He’s still on alert.
Even now.
“I don’t have to stay,” I say suddenly. “If this puts you in danger.”
He looks up.
“Carly,” he says, and hearing my name in his voice feels strange and steady at the same time, “I’ve been in danger before. This isn’t new.”
“But I am.”
He studies me for a long moment.
“You showing up doesn’t make you a burden,” he says. “It makes you someone who needed a door opened.”
That world-tilting feeling flickers again.
Dangerous.
Stupid.
Comforting.
I look down at my bowl so he doesn’t see it on my face.
He’s still a stranger. I don’t know his favorite color. I don’t know how he takes his coffee. I don’t know what makes him laugh.
A part of me wants to.
But I do know he stood between me and those men without blinking.
I know he cleaned my wounds and heated stew like it mattered.
My body loosens a fraction more.
Just a fraction.
“I’m still scared,” I admit.
“Good,” he says.
I blink.
“Fear keeps you sharp,” he adds. “Panic gets you hurt. You’re past panic.”
I nod slowly.
He stands and picks up our bowls. “You’re taking the bed,” he says. “I’ll crash on the couch.”
I blink at him. “It’s your house.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
Outside, the night presses in. The trees, the road, the dark that almost swallowed me.
Inside, he’s already clearing space for me like it’s settled.
Since the door locked behind me at Red Hot Velvet, I’ve felt like something being hunted.
Right now, I’m not bracing for hands on me.
I’m not running.
I’m still scared.
But there’s a bed waiting down the hall, and a man who just chose the couch without hesitation.
That feels like something real.