48. Cam
I still can’t believe she’s here—warm, breathing, in my arms.
Safe.
The word feels too fragile, too temporary, like if I say it too loud it’ll vanish.
But she’s here.
After everything.
After the dead ends, the false leads, the nights I thought I’d never see her again.
I got her back.
The odds were stacked so high against us it felt like chasing a ghost, but somehow, I pulled her out.
And now she’s lying here, curled against me like a shadow of the girl I remember—her body limp, her skin pale and clammy, her eyes vacant and drifting like she’s still trapped somewhere I can’t reach.
She hasn’t spoken properly since she came home, other than a few words and the odd question.
She hasn’t even looked at me.
Just stares through the room like it’s not real.
I lower her gently onto the bed, careful not to jar her, and she folds into the mattress without a sound.
Her silence is terrifying.
I brush a strand of hair from her face—it’s tangled, dull, sticky with sweat—and tuck the blanket tighter around her.
Her lips are cracked, her wrists still bear the faint, angry marks of restraints, but she’s home, which is the main thing.
She looks like she’s been carved out from the inside.
I tell myself it’s the drugs.
The trauma.
That she just needs time.
Time to remember who she is.
Time to feel safe again. Time to come back to me.
Boomerang stands in the doorway, tail low, ears twitching. He hasn’t come near her. Not like before. He sniffs the air, lets out a soft meow, then backs away a step. Maybe he doesn’t recognise her scent anymore. Or maybe he does—and he senses the fracture in her spirit, the way she’s not quite here.
She hasn’t even noticed him. That alone guts me.
Talia’s on her way now, already shifting gears into the next phase. She’ll want updates, names, access points. She’ll want to know how deep I’ve gotten into the Broker’s world and how much further I can go.
Because this doesn’t end with Nell.
Not while the network’s still running.
Not while girls like her are still being bought and broken.
I’m in now—deep enough that they trust me. Deep enough to start pulling the whole thing apart from the inside. And I will. I’ll burn it all down. But right now, none of that matters.
Right now, it’s just her.
I sit beside her, elbows on my knees, watching the slow, shallow rise and fall of her chest.
She hasn’t cried. Hasn’t even blinked. I reach for her hand, carefully and as slow as I can manage, wrapping my fingers around hers. She doesn’t squeeze back. But she doesn’t pull away either.
That’s something. That’s a start.
And I make a silent promise, right here in the quiet; whatever it takes, I’ll bring her back. Piece by piece. Memory by memory. Until she knows she’s safe. Until she knows she’s home.
“Your bath’s ready,”
I whisper before leaving her curled on the bed to shut off the taps as steam curls up from the water, thick and fragrant.
I made it hot—just the way she used to like it.
She blinks slowly from the bed, like she’s waking from a dream she hasn’t escaped yet.
I’m quick to move to her side and offer my hand.
She doesn’t speak, but she lets me guide her, her bare feet silent against the floor as I lead her into the bathroom.
She moves like she’s forgotten how—every step hesitant, every breath shallow.
I help her out of the scraps of clothing they shoved her into before handing her over like property.
The fabric peels away from her skin, stiff with sweat and blood and something worse.
Her body is a map of bruises—some fresh, some old—littered with grime and the kind of damage that makes my chest ache just to look at.
But I don’t flinch.
I don’t let her see the rage boiling under my skin.
She doesn’t need that right now.
She needs gentleness.
I kneel beside her with the toothbrush in hand, moving slowly—brushing the remnants of the last few days from her mouth.
The bitterness, the blood, the rot of captivity.
She doesn’t fight it.
She just lets me do it, her eyes half-lidded, lips parted slightly like she’s somewhere far away.
I work carefully, scrubbing away the grime and neglect, rinsing each stroke with water.
It’s such a small thing—mundane, simple even—but it feels like restoration. Like she’s regaining an ounce of her dignity.
Then I lower her slowly into the tub, the water lapping at her skin as she sinks down with a soft hiss.
She doesn’t cry out, but her eyes flutter shut, and for a moment, she just breathes.
I give her that moment.
Then I reach for the jug on the side and begin to pour warm water over her hair, letting it run down her back in slow, soothing waves.
“How are you feeling?”
I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. I’m not sure I want to hear the answer. Not sure I’m ready to know just how deep the damage runs.
She doesn’t look at me. Her voice is distant and hollow.
“I… I don’t know. I couldn’t save her.”
The words hit like a stone in my chest.
She’s not talking about herself.
“Who couldn’t you save?”
I ask gently, crouching beside the tub. I need to keep her talking—keep her tethered to something real so she doesn’t sink back into that bottomless pit. Her voice is the only sign I have that she’s still in there.
Her arms tighten around her knees, knuckles white as she curls into herself. “Lea,”
she whispers.
“She… they broke her.”
The words crack in her throat, and my heart breaks for her. She’s not just remembering—she’s reliving it. Her whole body trembles, like the memory is something physical clawing its way out of her.
“What did they do?”
I ask, even though I already know. I’ve seen enough to fill in the blanks. But she needs to say it. Needs to own it on her terms.
She squeezes her eyes shut, shaking her head like she can shake the images loose. Her voice is barely audible when it comes.
“They raped her. And they killed her.”
The silence that follows is deafening.
I want to reach for her. Want to pull her into my arms and shield her from everything she’s seen, everything she’s survived. But there’s no shielding her now. No undoing what’s been done.
I wish I could take it all from her—the pain, the memories, the weight of guilt she never should have had to carry. I wish I could make her unsee the horrors I know too well.
Trafficking rings don’t just destroy bodies—they dismantle souls. And the things these girls endure… no one walks away untouched.
But she’s still here.
Still breathing.
Still fighting, even if she doesn’t know it yet.
And I’ll be here, every step of the way, until she remembers how to live again.
“Look at me, Nell,”
I say, voice steady but low. She lifts her eyes without hesitation, locking onto mine with the most clarity I’ve seen in her since she came home. The way she holds my gaze—it’s raw, almost defiant. Like part of her still wants to fight.
“It wasn’t your fault,”
I tell her, holding that eye contact, refusing to let her sink back into silence.
“I’ve seen what they do—how they twist things, make you think it was on you. But it wasn’t. None of it. You didn’t do this. They did. And now you’re safe.”
I reach out slowly, lifting my hand from the bathwater to stroke the soft line of her jaw—just enough to let her know I’m here, that this touch is hers to accept or refuse.
She snaps her hand around mine, fast—so fast it steals my breath. It’s the first time she’s moved with any force since I pulled her from that car.
“Don’t,”
she whispers, her voice sharp, carved from pain.
“Don’t what?”
I ask, not backing down.
Her jaw tightens but her grip doesn’t loosen.
“Don’t pretend there’s any way to come back from this. I’m not worth your time anymore. You should’ve left me—”
I cut the words off with my lips. Soft, but firm. Unshakable. Her breath catches against mine, and I press my forehead to hers, grounding us both, our eyes falling closed like the outside world doesn’t matter.
“You’re worth everything, trouble,”
I murmur, voice shaking but resolute.
“More than I ever knew. And I swear to you, I’m going to destroy every bastard who laid a hand on you. Every one of them. But you’re not going to stay broken. You don’t get to fall now. Not while I’m here.”
Tears slide down her cheeks, silent and slow, emotion finally catching up to her like an avalanche.
“I’m too broken, Cam,”
she whispers.
“I don’t think I know how to come back from this.”
“You don’t have to know,”
I whisper back, brushing my thumb gently beneath her eye.
“You just have to try. I’ll do the rest.”