55. Cam
Nell’s laugh rings through the kitchen—fragile, rare, and more beautiful than I remembered. It’s been ages since I heard her truly laugh.
She folds one leg over the other, settling into the kitchen chair as she digs into the plate of scrambled eggs and bacon I laid in front of her. She’s in a good mood today, and somehow, that lifts me too. For now, at least.
I know the night still drags her through the wreckage of her mind. I go there too. But she’s holding steady, and that’s enough. Still, I find myself watching—quietly scanning her features for the switch that might pull her under again. So far, nothing.
“You’ll have to teach me how to make this,”
she says, stabbing her fork into the plate with mock accusation, already going in for the next bite.
I’ll absolutely never teach her how to make these. I’ve seen her in the kitchen—survival by sheer luck, really. Her culinary skills could power a horror film.
“Maybe one day,”
I lie, letting the words settle between us like soft dust. I’m not about to spark an argument this morning—not when her smile curls that perfectly across her face.
A scream rips down the hallway.
Kyla.
I flick off the hob and sprint to her room.
She’s bolt upright in bed, clawing at her arms, eyes wide and bloodshot. A look that doesn’t belong to the woman I married. Recognition isn’t what stares back—it’s pure, primal fear.
She was beautiful once. Now she’s something else. Hollowed out. Haunted.
“Keep away from me!”
she snarls, teeth bared, animalistic and unhinged.
“It’s okay, Kyla. It’s just me… you remember me, don’t you?”
I keep my steps measured, slow enough not to startle, fast enough to reach her before she spirals. I hold her gaze, silently begging for recognition.
“You’re not him,”
she spits.
“Don’t you dare fucking lie to me.”
Her voice is wild, venom coursing through every syllable. I expect this. I’ve seen what being hunted by monsters does—how it rewires every instinct into survival.
Her stare flicks past me, locking onto Nell. Fury erupts behind her eyes.
“Who is she?”
“Hi Kyla,”
Nell offers, voice soft, eyes full of empathy.
“I’ve heard so much about you—”
I want to stop her. I should’ve stopped her. Putting these two women in the same house, without warning, was a mistake.
“Get the fuck out of my house! Fuck off!”
Kyla screams, voice shredding at the edges. She’s drowning in it—panic, confusion, rage—and we’re just another set of shadows on the walls to her.
It’s not Nell’s fault. She doesn’t know—how could she? I never explained what it looks like, what it feels like, when someone survives the rings after years of abuse.
“Nell, go back to the kitchen,”
I say quietly but firmly.
“Trust me—you don’t want to see this.”
She doesn’t budge. Of course she doesn’t. Stubborn to the bone.
“Get her out of my house!”
Kyla screams, lunging like some wild thing that’s long forgotten what it means to be touched gently.
God. What they’ve done to her.
“Kyla, calm down.”
My voice hardens as I catch her, pulling her tight against my chest. She thrashes, furious, brittle.
“You’re safe now. No one’s coming for you. Not here.”
Nell hesitates. Her gaze darts between us—between the wreckage of one woman and the wrecked memory of another. She sees it. The fragility. And she retreats, quietly, into the kitchen.
It’ll be easier when Talia gets here. Managing both of them… it’ll tear me in half. And I still have to keep my cover in the inner ring—keep playing loyal, keep whispering into the dark until I can get close enough to gut the Broker from the inside out.
“You fucking left me there to die!”
Kyla screams, and the words hit harder than fists. No warning. No mercy.
She doesn’t know what it cost me. Doesn’t see the miles I bled chasing dead leads and false promises, trying to bring her home. Yes—I’ve changed. I’m not who I was. I’ve made peace with the fact that maybe marriage wasn’t right for us. That doesn’t mean the love vanished.
She deserves safety. A reset. A life not marked by cages or screams. One day, she’ll understand. She’ll see that I didn’t move on to abandon her—I moved forward to find a version of peace we were never going to build together. But she can still be happy. And I’ll make sure of it.
“I never left you, Kyla. I’ve been searching for you all this time,”
I say, though I doubt she hears me through the storm raging inside her.
“You haven’t.”
Her voice fractures, collapsing into quiet sobs as she slumps into my chest. I tighten my arms around her, letting her shake against me.
“You don’t understand what they did to me.”
“I do,”
I whisper.
“I know exactly what they did. But you’re safe now. They can’t touch you here.”
Eventually, the Valium eases her into sleep. Her breathing steadies, face softened in a way that breaks my heart more than her screams ever could. I slip out of the room and return to Nell.
She’s in the kitchen, wiping down counters in frantic little circles—nowhere close to my standard, but she’s trying.
“She okay?”
she asks without turning. She knows I’m there by the shift in the air, by the way I stand behind her, close enough to taste her silence. I run my fingers through the golden curls spilling down her back and watch her breath hitch.
“She’s sleeping. It’s going to be like this for a while.”
“It’s messed up, you know. I’m in your bed, and your wife’s down the hall in mine.”
“More messed up than you sleeping with the man you tried to kidnap?”
“Tried?”
Nell turns, smirking.
“We both know I had you wrapped around my finger the second we met.”
“Sure, trouble. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
I brush her hair aside, letting it fall like silk over her shoulder as I press soft kisses to the curve of her neck, halting her half-hearted scrubbing.
“I still need to show you my moves,”
she says, trying to sound unaffected. But I can feel the tension in her stomach, the war beneath her skin whenever I stand this close.
I’m addicted to her.
My queen. My fucking queen.
“You do indeed. Come on—before you add more chaos to your tower of crockery,”
I tug her arm gently.
She scowls, casting one last look at the wobbly pile of dishes she’s stacked like kitchen Jenga.
In the gym, I stand with arms folded, watching her like a hawk as she ties her hair up and bounces on the balls of her feet near the opponent bag. Her shoulders roll, her weight shifts—she’s jittery with adrenaline. Or nerves.
“You know if this were real, he’d have already dropped you,”
I tease, leaning against the doorframe, a grin pulling at the corner of my mouth.
“Shut up.”
She throws me a glare.
“I’m just warming up.”
This is going to be fun.
My phone buzzes again—another distraction. I silence it with a swipe and pocket it. Right now, I need to be here. Whatever’s clawing at me from the outside world can wait.
She throws her first punch—clean, fast—and ducks away like she’s dancing with ghosts. A roundhouse kick follows, fluid and sharp.
“See?”
she calls, cocky now.
“I told you.”
Cockiness. That will get you killed.
“Yeah, you’re doing great against something that doesn’t fight back,”
I say, deliberately backhanded.
“Oh, he fights back,”
she scoffs, throwing a lazy jab at the bag.
“You’d be surprised.”
“Alright then.”
I push off the doorframe and approach, slow and deliberate.
“Try it on me.”
The moment she realises I’m stepping into the ring, her swagger flickers. She swallows, glancing up. Calculating.
“That’s not fair. You’re like twice my size.”
“There’s no fair in a fight. Not where I’m going. No skinny girls looking for a spar. Just men who’d carve you up and laugh about it. Show me what you’ve got.”
I tighten the belt on my combats and shift my weight under the black tee. She huffs and cracks her knuckles, but the heat in her eyes never dims.
Her first move is clever—hands feint high, then she aims a kick at my groin. I catch her calf mid-strike, twist, and send her sprawling onto the mats.
“Again,”
I say, backing off just enough for her to stand.
This time she charges, shoving my chest hard—but I don’t flinch. Her fist swings up, aiming for my jaw, but I block it clean with my forearm, snatch her wrist, and twist it behind her back.
She grunts, caught. Staring at the floor, then back at me. Something fierce flickers behind her eyes. Not fear. Not defeat.
Defiance.
“You’re cheating,”
she grumbles, the embodiment of a sore loser. Classic.
“No,”
I counter, arms folded.
“You’re just not as strong as you think. A man won’t square up—he’ll overpower. He won’t fight fair.”
Her brow knits, but there’s hunger in her expression.
“So how do I get out of it?”
She’s eager. I’ll give her that.
“On the floor. On your back.”
She hesitates only a beat before dropping down, wriggling into position. I shift, knees settling between hers as I nudge her legs apart.
“This is one of the most common control positions. If someone’s going to strangle you, it’ll likely look like this.”
I lean forward, hands brushing her throat gently.
“In a second, I’m going to press down. You’ll pluck my hand off, strike me in the ear with your right. Got it?”
She nods slowly, eyes tracking every motion.
“Once I’m off-balance, twist your hips—get me off you.”
Her gaze flickers from my face to my shoulders, doubt creeping in.
“You’re huge. I’m not going to be able to move you.”
I tilt my head, raising a brow.
“Where’s the fire gone? Thought you were ready to take me down.”
Her jade eyes flash—something wild sparking behind them. She draws in a breath, sharp and steady.
“Alright,”
she murmurs.
“Although if he’s as hot as you I might ask him to strangle me harder.”
She’s joking… I think.
It’s good to hear her laugh—proof the fire’s still there. But now? While I’m teaching her something that might one day save her life? Not the time.
“Be serious, Nell. Laughing won’t stop me strangling you.”
“Right,”
she murmurs, trailing her fingertips up my arm—a calculated move. Classic distraction.
Trouble in every inch.
She won’t be laughing in a second.
Without warning, I press down—more force than comfort allows. Not cruel. Just real. This is survival, and she needs to know how fast it can turn.
Her breath snags. Eyes wide, panicked. But I don’t ease off, I wait.
Then something clicks and she remembers.
Her fingers snap to my wrist, plucking at it while her palm hammers the side of my head, fast and furious. I stagger just enough for her to drive her hips and twist, shoving me off.
I hit the mat hard. She crashes down with me in a tangle—hair, limbs, adrenaline.
But she pauses, blinking down at me, and her mouth quirks with triumph.
“Stalker boy,”
she teases, breath still ragged from the scramble.
But while she’s celebrating, I flip her in one fluid movement—her body pinned beneath mine, face down on the mat, breath catching with a sharp gasp.
My hand skims her neck—not harsh, just deliberate. Pressure at the muscles. A reminder. Then it slides lower. Down her back, her waist, until my fingers rest at her hip, and I feel the tension ripple beneath her skin.
“You know what he’d do when he’s got you like this?”
I ask, voice low and close.
She doesn’t answer. Just shifts—subtle, slow. Her hips press back, grazing against me.
I’m so fucking hard for her right now.
I bite down on every instinct screaming at me. I shouldn’t react. Not now. Not like this. But she’s so aware. So dangerously reactive.
“He wouldn’t ask permission,”
I murmur near her ear.
“He’d explore where he wants. Take what he wants.”
My hand edges lower, slipping beneath the waistband of her leggings. Just barely grazing the curve of her ass.
“How do I get out of this?”
she whispers, though her tone betrays something else entirely—curiosity, challenge, maybe even anticipation.
“You don’t.”
I thread my fingers into her hair and brace my forearm across her spine, locking her down in a way that says everything without words. Her body arches beneath me—caught between defiance and submission. And my fingers slip to the apex of her thighs, coated in the pleasure that soaks her sweet cunt.
“Cam?”
Talia’s harsh use of my name cuts through the tension and with a deep frustrated growl I lift from Nell.
Perfect timing.