Chapter 17
Skye
By the time the final resident reached the upper corridor, Croft House no longer resembled the carefully controlled recovery center I had entered two days earlier.
Doors that once required staff cards stood open, abandoned blankets and medical supplies cluttered the hallways, and women who had spent months or years moving only when someone gave permission now hesitated at thresholds because nobody was ordering them through.
Storm and Maverick worked slowly among them, answering questions about transportation, medical care, solicitors, and temporary housing without rushing anyone who needed time to believe the doors were truly open.
Watching it happen made the building feel different—not redeemed, because nothing could redeem what had happened there, but stripped of the control Dr. Croft had built into every room.Isla sat wrapped in a blanket near the end of the west corridor while the physician Maverick had arranged checked her pulse and asked questions in a voice so quiet I had to strain to hear.
I wanted to stay pressed against her side, to hold her hand and refuse to let go until there was an ocean between us and this place, but the first time I reached for her without thinking, she flinched.
The movement was small enough that anyone else might have missed it. I didn't.
I pulled my hand back immediately, and horror replaced the fog in Isla's eyes when she realized what she'd done.
"Skye, I didn't mean—"
"You don't have to explain."
Rather than moving beside her again, I crouched in front of her. "Can I hold your hand?"
Isla stared at me for a moment before nodding. "Yes."
I offered my hand instead of taking hers, and when she placed her fingers into mine, the physical difference was almost nothing. Emotionally, however, it felt enormous because the decision had belonged entirely to her.
Her grip tightened slowly, as though she needed time to believe nobody would pull her anywhere she had not chosen to go.
The physician glanced toward me. “She needs fluids, bloodwork, and observation. I don't see anything immediately life-threatening, but she's dehydrated and appears to have been sedated repeatedly. I would strongly recommend a hospital.”
Isla's grip tightened sharply.
“No hospital.”
The doctor didn't argue. “All right.”
I looked at him.
He must have seen the question.
“Maverick arranged a private medical property with appropriate equipment. It's not a hospital, and nobody will admit her anywhere without her consent. I can do the initial work there if she agrees.”
Isla looked from him to me.
“Will you be there?”
“If you want me.”
“Yes.”
“Then I'm there.”
The tension in her shoulders eased by a fraction.
Behind us, voices moved through the corridor as authorities began entering through the front of Croft House.
Maverick had called in people he trusted only after Cipher finished copying the records and enough residents had been moved out that nobody could quietly seal the building again.
Detective Kerr had already been contacted through Scottish channels, while an English investigative team with no known connection to Covenant Renewal was on its way.
The entire operation had shifted from covert extraction to something public enough that Croft House would have difficulty pretending nothing had happened.
The growing police presence should have made me feel safer, but Dr. Croft had escaped and the building around us was proof that she had never been acting alone.
Someone had built this place, funded it, staffed it, and connected it to Blackridge Hall, and I no longer believed Helena Croft had done any of that alone.
Irish stood several yards away speaking with Trigger near the concealed stairwell.
Concrete dust still marked one shoulder of his jacket where the bullet had struck the wall beside him, and every time I looked at it I remembered the instant he stepped into the open because a gunman shifted toward me.
Anger still lived beneath the relief that he wasn't hurt, but I couldn't deal with that now. Isla came first.
Maybe Irish understood that, because he hadn't tried to come closer.
When he finally looked toward us, he met my eyes and waited.
I nodded once, and only then did Irish approach. He stopped nearly six feet away the moment Isla noticed him and stiffened, leaving far more distance than he needed because he understood before anyone asked that crowding her would only make the introduction harder.
“Isla.”
She watched him carefully.
He kept his hands visible.
“My name's Callum. Most people here call me Irish.”
Her gaze moved briefly toward his cut.
“The motorcycle club.”
“Aye.”
“Skye told me.”
I looked at her.
“When?”
Isla gave me the faintest hint of the woman I knew. “You talk loudly.”
Despite everything, a laugh caught in my throat.
Irish's mouth shifted.
Isla noticed that too.
“You're the one she trusts?”
The question landed harder this time because Irish was standing close enough to hear the answer.
I looked at him.
Then at her.
“Yes.”
His expression changed, but he didn't interrupt.
Isla studied him for another long moment. “Did you get her into this?”
Irish answered without hesitation. “No. She got herself into most of it.”
My head snapped toward him.
A tiny smile appeared at the corner of Isla's mouth.
“Good answer.”
“I've been learning.”
“You'll need to.”
Even exhausted and drugged, my best friend was apparently prepared to become a problem for him.
Relief moved through me so abruptly that I had to look away for a second.
The physician returned with a wheelchair.
Isla stared at the wheelchair with the same stubborn expression she'd once used whenever a contractor suggested she couldn't carry something because she was wearing heels. Normally I would have argued until one of us won, but this time I stopped myself before deciding what was best for her.
“Do you want me to walk beside you?”
“Yes.”
“And if you get dizzy?”
She frowned.
I waited.
Finally she sighed. “Then I'll sit in the bloody chair.”
“Fair.”
The physician nodded as though a binding treaty had just been negotiated.
Irish stepped aside as Isla rose.
Her knees nearly gave out immediately.
I caught myself before reaching without permission.
“Can I?”
“Yes.”
I slipped one arm around her waist.
Isla leaned into me.
We made it seven steps before Isla stopped pretending she could manage the distance and quietly asked for the chair. Nobody treated the request as failure or made her justify changing her mind, which allowed her to sit without the embarrassment I knew she was already fighting.
I helped her sit, and the physician pushed only after asking whether she was ready.
We moved through the west corridor slowly.
Several residents had gathered near the open doors rather than leaving immediately, and Storm sat on the floor with two women explaining the temporary housing arrangements Maverick had found.
One woman wanted a solicitor before she went anywhere.
Another wanted to call her sister. A third refused to enter a vehicle unless the door remained unlocked from the inside.
Every request was met with the same answer: yes, or we'll find a way.
Croft House had spent years teaching people that every need was evidence of instability.
Watching those needs be treated as ordinary felt revolutionary.
At the upper landing, Isla gripped my fingers again.
“Wait.”
I stopped.
“What?”
She looked toward a young woman standing near the residential corridor. I recognized her as one of the women we had found downstairs, though I didn't know her name.
“Emily?”
The woman looked over.
Her face changed when she saw Isla.
“You're leaving?”
Isla nodded.
Emily's eyes filled.
“They said if you left, everyone else would be punished.”
Isla's expression went still.
I felt her fingers tighten around mine.
“No one is being punished because of me.”
The woman looked toward the open front doors as though expecting someone to close them.
Storm approached carefully. “Do you want to leave too?”
Emily hesitated.
“Where?”
“We have several options. Private temporary housing. Medical care if you want it. A solicitor. Police if you want to make a statement. Nobody has to decide tonight.”
Emily stared at her. “I can choose?”
“Aye,” Storm said.
Emily covered her mouth as tears began sliding silently down her face, as though even crying openly was another permission she wasn't certain she had.
Isla looked at me.
I knew exactly what she was thinking.
How many times had women inside this building been told choice itself was dangerous?
Emily eventually nodded.
“I want to go.”
Storm smiled gently. “Then let's get you out.”
We continued.
Near the main entrance, one of the officers tried to approach Isla with a notebook.
Irish stepped between them before I could.
“She isn't giving a statement right now.”
The officer frowned. “We need basic information.”
“You'll get it when her doctor clears her and she agrees.”
“This is an active crime scene.”
“And she's a victim, not evidence.”
Irish never raised his voice, but there was enough quiet authority beneath it that he didn't need to.
The officer hesitated before looking toward the physician, apparently hoping for support, only for the doctor to reinforce Irish's position immediately.
“She is not medically fit for an interview.” Faced with both of them refusing to allow Isla to be pushed before she was ready, the officer finally relented and stepped aside.
As we continued toward the exit, I noticed Isla watching Irish with a thoughtful expression, as though she was beginning to understand why I had trusted him enough to bring him near her.
“You do that often?”
“Argue with police?”
“Stand between people and anyone trying to tell them what happens next.”
Irish glanced toward me.
“More lately.”
I didn't know why that answer affected me as much as it did.