54. Nell
I glance at the clock—9:15. He’s still lingering in the bathroom, fussing with his shirt and pretending not to be nervous as hell.
Now that he’s explained the plan in full, I’m not as anxious. But the reality of sharing a house with his wife if this goes through? That’s a whole new kind of nerve-wracking.
I’m still not entirely convinced he won’t cast me aside. But I owe him the benefit of the doubt—even if my heart feels like it’s standing on a ledge.
“Ready?”
I ask, wrapped tight in the duvet, Boomerang stretched long across the bed, purring like a tiny engine in deep sleep.
He looks up, that pale ghost of an eye cutting straight through me before he forces a smile.
“I’m always ready.”
But I see it—the tension in his jaw, the barely-there crease between his brows. His mind is anything but still.
“Hurry back,”
I whisper, burrowing deeper into the pillow.
“I don’t like it when you’re not here.”
This bed is too big without him. Too quiet. Too cold.
“I will, baby girl,”
he sighs, adjusting his cuff as he steps closer.
God, he’s gorgeous. Men in suits were never my thing—but him?
Christ. The ache for him settles low and hot, twisting through me. His hair’s slicked back from his face, sides freshly shaved, and my eyes trace the ink climbing his neck, disappearing into the roots of his hair.
“Keep the bed warm for me,”
he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to my forehead.
I catch him by the neck before he can pull away, my lips claiming his, still drunk on the high of our last tangle.
“Be safe, stalker boy,”
I whisper into his mouth.
He groans as I slide my tongue between his lips, clinging to him like I might never get another chance.
“And keep out of trouble, trouble,”
he teases, knuckle tipping my chin up.
“I can’t promise that,”
I breathe.
Okay, so maybe watching a horror film before bed wasn’t my brightest idea. It felt fine back at the flat—surrounded by people, strangers, sure, but company all the same.
Out here? Fuck. It’s a whole different kind of terrifying.
On the upside, at least it’s distracted me from the whole Kyla mess.
Then the kitchen door creaks.
Not gently—loud enough to freeze my blood. I stop breathing. Light spills into the hallway as the door inches open further, the sound sharp in the silence.
Is it an intruder?
Or worse—Manticore, come to drag me back?
My heart pounds like a war drum. Palms slick. Muscles locked.
Then a meow.
Boomerang appears, tail puffed and eyes wide, like he hasn’t just triggered my fight-or-flight response.
“Goddamn it, Boomerang,”
I hiss, but he meows again, demanding food like he didn’t already get fed before the film started.
I flick the kettle on, hiding in the harsh brightness of the kitchen, clinging to the illusion that ghosts won’t dare show up somewhere so well lit.
Boomerang eats without a care in the world, tail flicking happily, and I add milk to my tea and slip back into Cam’s room. I turn on the side lamp just as the film credits roll.
Even the end-credit music is unsettling enough to make me change the channel—something light and silly, anything to untangle the nerves knotted in my gut.
It’s ridiculous, really. A woman who’s been through hell, faced monsters in real life—and I still lose it over fake ghosts and CGI demons.
Not that I’d ever admit it to Cam.
He’d absolutely be the type to throw on a mask and scare the shit out of me just for laughs.
It’s just gone 1 a.m, and the weight in my gut won’t let up.
I hope he’s safe. I hope he brings Kyla home—not just for her, but selfishly, more for him. Because if he doesn’t… I don’t know how he’ll carry it.
She was the beginning of all of this. The catalyst. And for that, maybe I owe her something. Because if she hadn’t been taken, I might never have met him.
I owe her a lot.
But I don’t owe her him.
The thought of him coming back to me—to this bed, to these sheets—makes the wait feel bearable. Makes the dread just a little easier to carry.
I just hope he’s okay.
“You know you’re my favourite, right?”
Uncle Mick whispers—his breath too close, too warm against my ear.
But he loves me. He wouldn’t hurt me. This is normal.
That’s what he said.
He said I’m special. Chosen by God.
But it has to stay secret.
Mom and Dad can’t ever know.
If they find out, I’ll go to hell
And I don’t want to go to hell.
I squeeze my eyes shut, willing it all to stop.
I just want to sleep.
I don’t want him here.
Every time he touches me, my stomach knots. I feel sick.
But I lie still.
Because what if God punishes me for being afraid? For being weak?
The sound of his watch shifting behind me turns my insides to ice.
But I don’t move. I lie here, frozen, hoping, pretending to sleep in hope it will make him leave.
“You’re such a good girl, Nell. God’s watching over you, you know that?”
His breath licks my skin, hot and unwanted.
But I stay perfectly still.
Like stone.
He grabs for my wrist roughly, and when I feel his cock, I bite down on my tongue and allow him to manipulate my hand around it.
He guides my movements, but all I can think is it doesn’t feel right.
This doesn’t feel like it should be normal.
I wake with a jolt, slick with sweat, heart racing like it’s trying to outrun something I can’t see.
“Nell?”
The voice slices through sleep—too familiar, too wrong. I lunge, refusing to freeze this time. Not again. I’ll fight.
“Whoa, calm down! It’s me!”
“Cam?”
My breath stutters, my attack falters. I blink hard, adjusting to the dark.
Still night. Still safe.
“I’m here,”
he murmurs, wrapping me up in his arms, chest firm and reassuring.
“It was just a dream.”
But reality crashes into me like a wall of bricks.
“Did you get her? Kyla—did you bring her home?”
I let the steady rhythm of his heartbeat bleed into mine, anchoring me.
“Yeah. She’s in your old room, sleeping off the drugs.”
He did it. Relief unfurls—sharp and sudden—but it doesn’t last.
“She’s not the way I remembered,”
he adds, voice strained and raw.
“I don’t know how she’s going to cope.”
“Do you need to be with her?”
I ask quietly, even though the thought of him leaving slices through me. I know what it’s like—coming back from hell, trying to claw through the aftershock.
And she lived it longer than I ever did.
“No,”
he says softly.
“Not tonight.”
Which means eventually, just not yet.
“What were you dreaming about?”
“Nothing,” I lie.
I’m not even sure why. Fear, maybe. Or maybe it’s the creeping dread that he’ll see me differently once he knows the grotesque truth of my past. The parts I keep buried.
We’re both fractured, haunted—but we don’t have to be ruled by ghosts.
We can choose something else.
We can choose forward.
“You’re a terrible liar, Nell,”
he murmurs, pulling me closer until my leg loops around his.
My nipple brushes his chest through the soft cling of my oversized t-shirt, sparking warmth in the chill that still clings to my bones.
“We don’t need to talk about it,”
I whisper, curling into him.
“Just hold me. I’m so glad you made it back safe.”
A beat passes, quiet but heavy. Then I trace the ink on his chest with the pad of my finger, grounding myself in him.
“Was it the same kind of auction you found me in?”
“Yeah,”
he says.
“Though I think the Broker was there this time. I didn’t see him—just heard a few of them talking about him.”
His voice tightens.
“I’m getting closer. I can feel it.”
“I still want to make those bastards pay for what they did,”
I murmur—a quiet vow, a reminder that we’re in this together.
“Don’t worry,”
he says, brushing a kiss to the crown of my head.
“I haven’t forgotten.”
His tone shifts, lower now.
“Actually, Talia’s found leads on the owner of the club you were taken to. With Kyla back… we might take him down sooner than I thought.”
“Promise me you’ll take me with you when you go?”
“Nell… if things go sideways, I won’t be able to protect you—”
“I’ve been training,”
I cut in.
“Honestly, Sack Man’s taken so many beatings I’m surprised he hasn’t filed for retirement. If he could talk, he’d testify to how lethal I am.”
He sighs. The kind that carries history—heavy and familiar.
“Nell. This isn’t you versus gym equipment. It’s real. It’s messy. And I can’t risk you getting hurt. Let me handle what I’m trained to handle. You focus on keeping out of trouble. And try not to torch my kitchen again.”
I scowl into his chest.
“Sexist,” I mutter.
“What was that?”
His voice sharpens—enough to send a prickle down my arms.
“I’ll show you,”
I say, quieter now.
“Tomorrow. You’ll see.”
My eyelids dip, the weight of safety pulling me under as his warmth anchors me in the dark.