22. Nell
I make it two steps down the hall before my breath decides to compete with me.
It rushes in sharp and ragged, like I’ve just surfaced from deep water. My hand finds the wall—steadying, anchoring—because everything feels off-kilter now, like the floor’s tilted and no one warned me.
He kissed me.
No warning. No lead-in. Just heat and want and a hand at my waist like he knew exactly what would happen the moment he touched me.
And I let him.
Worse—I kissed him back.
I can still taste him on my lips. Still feel the press of his body against mine like an echo. And it wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle. It was a break in everything we’ve both been pretending isn’t there.
I should feel ashamed. Or furious. Or something other than this frantic, aching buzz pulsing under my skin.
But instead, I feel… seen. Exposed in a way I wasn’t ready for.
God, what the hell am I doing?
Boomerang winds around my legs like nothing’s changed. Like I didn’t just detonate a live wire in a house already built on tension.
I crouch and scratch behind his ears, pretending that helps. Pretending I’m still the same girl who stumbled into this place with a bruised skull and too much sarcasm. But something shifted in that room—something I can’t put back.
He hasn’t followed me. Which, I guess, is a good thing… right?
Space is good. Space is neutral. Space means I can breathe and maybe scrape together some kind of emotional sense out of what just happened.
Except I can’t.
I keep circling back to the same snag in my thoughts—he doesn’t like me. Not really. No one does—not in the way that sticks. And he’s still holding a candle for his wife, practically trying to drag her ghost back into this house.
So why the hell did he kiss me?
God, adulthood is exhausting.
Right now, I’m filing that moment under ‘Too Much to Process’ and shoving it into the mental cabinet labeled ‘Avoid Until Further Notice’. I’ll follow the evening routine. Do the rounds. Pretend everything’s normal.
And maybe—maybe—if I feel brave, I’ll ask stalker boy later what exactly that was.
The afternoon slips by faster than I expect, especially given the fact I’m actively avoiding Cameron. It’s a delicate dance—room to room, noise to silence, trying not to collide with him in any of the shared spaces we’re both pretending aren’t emotionally radioactive.
Boomerang, traitorous little ginger fluff that he is, has been uncharacteristically well-behaved. Maybe he senses the shift in energy. Or maybe, having successfully wedged himself between us, he’s simply satisfied with the chaos he’s sown.
By the time I re-enter the kitchen, intent on scraping together some form of dinner, I stop short.
There’s already a plate waiting for me.
Pasta and salad. Nothing flashy, but still warm. No note. No sign of him. Just the quiet hum of the fridge and the silent implication—don’t cook. Just eat.
I stare at it for a moment, unsure if I should feel grateful, irritated, or quietly disarmed.
Maybe all three.
There’s no point in overthinking it right now—not with my stomach staging a full-blown protest. I haven’t eaten properly all day, and it makes its displeasure loud and clear as I settle at the counter.
I take a bite.
Of course it’s good. Better than good.
He’s annoyingly competent in the kitchen too—just enough seasoning, dressing balanced like it’s been calculated to the gram. Every bite says I pay attention, even when he pretends he doesn’t.
Maybe I should learn to cook properly, when this is all over.
Normal things. Nothing fancy—meat and rice would suffice. The kind of foods that, apparently, normal adults can cook.
But the thought makes something twist behind my ribs.
Because when this is over—if it ever is—what do I go back to? There’s nothing steady waiting for me. No rhythm. No routine. No meaning.
Here, oddly, I almost feel like I have a purpose.
A plan. Somewhere I could potentially be missed. Where I could come back to someone who expects me to walk back through the door.
And ever since that moment with Cameron—messy, impulsive, terrifying in what it exposed—I’ve started to wonder if maybe, maybe, he wants me to stay.
Not just for safety. Not just until it’s over.
But for something real.
The night air bites harder than I expect—a sharp reminder that summer’s slipping away, and with it, the illusion of warmth. I pull Cameron’s hoodie tighter around me as I step out. It’s oversized, heavy with his scent, and I hate how safe it makes me feel.
At least he hasn’t saddled me with some regimented workout routine. Small victories. A steep incline walk is about as much motivation as I can scrape together tonight. Anything beyond that? Not happening.
Still, I don’t mind the walking.
It’s quiet. Predictable. Gives me space to think. To unpick all the noise building up behind my ribs since that moment.
Because all I can think about is his touch. The heat and certainty of it. The way it sparked something in me I didn’t realise was still capable of sparking.
I’ve seen him in action—he doesn’t know that, of course. Doesn’t know I’ve watched the footage. The ease with which he takes control. How he moves. How he dominates. How he slung that girl’s thighs over his shoulders without a single wobble.
It should unsettle me, but it doesn’t.
And the fact that it doesn’t is… distracting.
Okay, more than distracting
It’s playing on a loop in my head—entirely unhelpful while I’m trying to breathe and walk, and not spiral into fantasies I’ll absolutely regret by morning.
I need to focus. Stay steady. Because whatever this is—whatever line we crossed—it needs to be talked about. Faced head on.
Eventually.
But for now… I’ll walk.
The local shop is next on my list, and for once, I actually need a few things.
I hover in the feminine hygiene aisle, eyeing the rows of razors like I’m sizing up weaponry. It’s not glamorous, but let’s be honest—if something does happen between us, I’d rather not resemble a grizzly bear from the waist down. I need to have some standards, even in crisis.
I did manage a quick shave before I left home, but in the chaos I forgot to pack one. Typical. Survival essentials; minimal. Razor? Completely overlooked.
I’ve been so caught up in everything else—the kiss, the confusion, the questions I’m not ready to ask—that I almost forgot I’m still being trailed by an actual sex trafficking network.
Neat, how the brain files that one under ‘later.’
For a Wednesday night, the streets are unusually quiet—too quiet, like even the silence is holding its breath. The calm makes the walk back feel deceptively peaceful. Almost safe.
Until I see him.
Adam.
Leaning against a brick wall like he owns the pavement, a friend slouched beside him—both of them lingering on the corner I need to pass.
He doesn’t belong here. This isn’t his end of town. He has no reason to be anywhere near this place. Unless he’s following through… the threat he made suddenly doesn’t feel so hypothetical.
I lower my gaze, tug my hood forward, and veer across the street, hoping the dim lighting and distance might be enough to keep me invisible. But my hair betrays me—blonde strands slipping out from under the hood, catching the streetlight like a flare.
“Where d’you think you’re going?”
His voice cuts through the air like a whip. I don’t look back. I walk faster, heart slamming against my ribs, pulse pounding in my ears.
And all I can think is how much I hate that I have to bring this to Cameron’s door.
Again.
“Come back here, you little bitch,”
his voice cuts through the air, laced with venom—louder now, uglier than the last time I came face to face with him.
“Running off to your new boyfriend, are you?”
He and his mate laugh behind me, that mockery slicing deeper than I want to admit. I keep walking. Head down, fists clenched, every instinct screaming not to flinch.
I won’t give him the satisfaction. Not tonight.
I follow Cameron’s instructions to the letter. No black gates, no big entrances—just a sharp detour into the shell house like I belong there. I close the door behind me and lean into it, breath held. Victory, however small.
Until the first bang rattles the wood behind me.
My heart stops, mouth instantly dry, and my mind spirals.
Another kick. Louder this time.
The door shudders beneath the impact, and just like that, the illusion of safety splinters.
He’s here.
He’s really here.
Without hesitation, I bolt, stumbling over my own feet in my panic. Down the hallway, carrier bag swinging, feet thudding against the floor like thunder. My breath’s ragged, frantic. All I can think is weapon. I need something I can actually use. Something I won’t hesitate with.
The rolling pin.
It’s solid and familiar, and it might not much, but it’s mine. And right now, it’s all I’ve got.
The second I cross into the familiarity of Cameron’s house, I break for my room—no hesitation. Just motion. As soon as I barge through the doorway, I shoot straight to the fuse box in the hallway, flick the master switch, and plunge the house into darkness. A heartbeat later, I’m gliding into my room, low and silent, every step calculated.
The rolling pin is right where I left it—perched like a waiting weapon atop my bag. My fingers close around it, and just like that, I’m armed.
I don’t want to go back down there.
Not really.
My stomach’s twisted, and fear is gnawing at my ruffled edges like moths on silk.
But I’ve got no choice.
Whatever’s waiting in the dark—whatever mess I’ve invited into this place—I’m the one who has to face it.
My grip tightens around the handle, knuckles pale. I’m ready. Or, at least, I have to be. I slip back down to the kitchen in darkness, keeping my back flat to the wall, arm tensed and ready to spring when I need to.
Their voices echo louder somewhere deeper in the tunnel now. They’re closing in. Which means I’ve got maybe seconds to prepare.
I press myself into the nearest patch of shadow, heart hammering so hard I can feel it in my teeth. I edge backward, trying to melt further into the wall—until I hit something solid. Warm.
Shit.
A sharp jolt of panic slices through me—freezing my breath, locking every muscle in place like a trap. My heartbeat stutters, blood roaring in my ears.
Then a hand finds my jaw.
A slow and intentional touch that stops me from spiralling. Not rough, but deliberate—fingertips anchoring me with quiet control. His control.
Cameron.
And then his scent hits me. That signature mix of cedar and spice—impossible to mistake. And in this moment, despite every nerve screaming at me to run, my body remembers one thing—in this house, with him?
I’m protected.
He pulls me back into a deeper cut of darkness, one arm across my body like a steel bar, the other already pulling the dart gun from his shoulder.
He presses a finger to his lips through the darkness, eyes locked on mine—steady, composed and utterly dangerous.
And just like that, the panic fades.
Now it’s just the hunt.
Cameron moves like smoke—silent, efficient, a reaper in the dark.
I, on the other hand, trip over the first damn step.
He slips away before I can recover, fading into the shadows like he was born there. Just like that, I’m exposed. Alone. But I can handle myself. I have to be able to handle myself.
The voices grow louder, closing in—but then they split. One veers deeper into the corridor, the other cuts closer.
Too close.
I don’t know where Cameron is. No flicker of movement, not a single creak of a footstep. He’s vanished like a ghost, and I can’t afford to sit here and wait for whatever’s coming.
So, I don’t.
I lunge from the darkness and swing.
The first attempt whistles through empty air. The second thuds into muscle—close, but not clean. Then the third lands solid, the bat striking bone with a sickening precision that folds the man like laundry.
He drops at my feet.
And in the silver bleed of moonlight from the stairwell, I see Cameron appear—arms half-raised, eyebrows carved into some hybrid form of disbelief and exasperation.
His face reads one clear question—why is it always you?
Then Adam’s voice cuts through the corridor in a furious rumble.
“What the f—”
He doesn’t get to finish.
He barrels straight into Cameron’s chest. Bad move.
Cameron doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even bother pulling the trigger.
Instead, he lifts the dart gun like it weighs nothing and drives it upward—an effortless, brutal arc that cracks clean beneath Adam’s chin. A sharp thwack, and Adam drops like dead weight.
No warning. No flair.
“Can you not see the dart gun?”
he snaps, gesturing like it should’ve been obvious I was meant to stand down.
“I handled it, didn’t I?”
He steps over the crumpled body and throws me a look that’s half-annoyed, half-seriously?
“Barely. And now there’s a blood trail soaking into my floor.”
“I’ll clean it—”
“No, Nell. You won’t.”
His tone slices through mine before I can finish, like the very idea of me handling bleach and a mop is more dangerous than the two unconscious men at our feet.