Chapter 3
North
She shuts the door like she’s afraid it might bite her.
And I just stand there.
Room’s quiet except for the faint hum of traffic outside. I hear the water running. Heavy. Relentless.
She’s in there, washing something off.
Him, maybe. The shame. Or whatever it is she thinks she still carries.
I rub both hands down my face, then I hear it, retching. Violent.
She’s puking.
I freeze.
Every instinct tells me to go in there, but I force myself to stay rooted. If I touch that door, if I even knock, I’ll cross a line.
So I move.
March out to the balcony. The air out here bites colder than I expect, like even the night’s pissed off.
I pull out my phone and call Cutter.
He picks up after the first ring. “You finally let someone bleed out?”
“Need a read on something,” I growl. “Got a girl. Been used, maybe drugged. Don’t know what the fuck they gave her.”
Cutter sighs, all sharp and dry. “I’m not psychic, North. If you don’t know what the bastard pumped into her, I sure as shit can’t guess.”
“You’ve got more tools than I do, Doc. Give me something.”
“She’s shaking? Throwing up? Paranoid?”
“Yeah, all.”
“Could be meth. Could be laced something. Could be fear.”
I grit my teeth. The urge to punch through the railing builds by the second. “Would charcoal help?”
“Yeah, activated charcoal won’t hurt. It’s not a miracle fix, but better than nothing. Get her tested when you bring her in.”
“We’ll be at the hood tomorrow. Be ready.”
I hang up before he can say more. My pulse is a steady, thrumming drumbeat of rage.
I shoot a message to my tech team. Need a full background check on Nyxa. Birth records. Last known address. Arrests. The works. I don’t care how deep they dig, I want to know who she is, who she was, and every bastard who’s touched her. I know she’s not underage, Bullet wouldn’t allow that shit.
She looks early twenties at least, but without an ID?
No wallet, no phone, no clothes, only a damn toothbrush.
No one lives like that unless they’re running or hiding something worse.
The thought makes my gut twist. I want to storm out, drive straight to Zane’s, and beat Myka into the asphalt until he’s unrecognizable.
Instead I march back inside. The water’s still running.
Through the frosted glass, I see her. Back turned.
Her frame looks even smaller under the stream.
Bruises line her skin like ghosts. I can barely breathe.
I set the shirt on the counter and turn to leave.
That’s when I hear a sob. It’s muffled by the water but sharp enough to cut through bone.
I stop just for a breath. The flutter in my chest punches me dead center.
But I move. I fucking move. Because if I stay, I’ll break something, and it won’t be the wall.
I sit on the edge of the bed, jaw clenched so hard it aches, and grab my phone and shoot a text to Rook:
Bring me activated charcoal. Toothbrush. Toothpaste. Hairbrush. T-shirt, leggings. Water. Crackers and Gatorade. First aid. Now.
He replies instantly:
On it, Prez.
I toss the phone down, my jaw tight. She doesn’t need another man with fists. She needs someone who listens, and god help me—I don’t know how to be that man.
She steps out. Damp. Pale. Barefoot in my shirt and stops when she sees me. “Sorry,” she whispers.
“For what?”
She fingers the hem of the shirt. “For using this.”
My jaw tightens. “I gave it to you. Didn’t want that fucker’s scent anywhere near me.”
She blinks like she doesn’t understand why I’d care.
I stand. Move past her. Right before I reach the door, I throw over my shoulder, “I need to hear your voice.” Then I step into the bathroom, shut the door, and finally let myself breathe. Try to clear my head. But it’s fucking useless.
The water keeps running; so do the thoughts.
Who the hell is she? What did Myka do to her? How long has this been going on? Why didn’t anyone stop him?
Why didn’t I stop him the first time I saw her?
My dick aches under my jeans. I’m still hard. Still wired from that moment, when she came on my fingers like she’d never felt it before. I can’t stop seeing her face.
I fist myself, hard and fast. Angry. Frustrated.
Trying to drain it out of me before it turns into something I can’t leash.
The tingling comes faster than I thought, and I come with a growl.
My heart’s pounding, my brain gets foggy and quiet for once.
Until reality crashes on me. What the fuck is wrong with me?
She’s in my room. Wearing my shirt. Hiding from a man who nearly broke her.
When I walk back into the room, she's not in bed. She’s in the goddamn chair, curled up like the world’s on fire and she’s waiting for it to eat her next. Knees to her chest, face turned toward the window, eyes vacant like she’s already halfway out of this place.
My jaw clenches so tight it aches.
I swallow the curse building in my throat and just watch her shoulders rise and fall, shaky, uneven. She could be in the bed. She should be in the fucking bed. But instead, she picked the hardest, coldest corner of the room like she didn’t deserve anything softer.
Rage flares behind my ribs, thick and hot. I clear my throat to keep it from spilling out. “Did you eat anything?”
She jolts like I just fired a gun beside her head. Jumps up so fast the chair shrieks across the floor.
The way she flinches from my voice makes my stomach twist. Because I’ve seen that exact reaction before. In dogs left too long in chains.
I pull out my phone, thumbs stabbing the screen.
Add food to that list. Now.
Few minutes later, there’s a knock. Rook stands there, smug as hell like he just watched a damn soap opera through the door.
I rip the bags from his hand and slam the door shut.
Inside, I drop a bag on the table and the other one on the chair, pull out two bottles of water, two Gatorades, and a bunch of wrapped food. But I don’t touch the food yet.
I grab the glass with the black sludge and set it in front of her.
“Drink it. Now.”
She looks at the glass like it’s death in a cup. Then up at me. Eyes wide. Red.
“It’ll flush that shit out before it settles in your blood,” I say, tone clipped.
She doesn’t argue or speak. Just nods once, jerky.
She takes the glass in both hands and tips it back. The moment it hits her tongue, her face twists. She chokes it down more than half.
Her breathing stutters. Then spikes. I can see she tries to resist.
One second she’s still, the next she bolts for the bathroom.
This time I follow. She hits the toilet just in time, retching charcoal and bile like her body’s trying to purge every bad choice she’s ever made.
I kneel behind her. Pull her hair back. My hand trembles, but I keep it steady.
She shakes. Fuck, she’s ice cold. I flush the toilet, press a palm gently to her spine. Her breath hitches.
“You’re okay,” I murmur. “Just breathe.”
She tries. Inhales too fast, then slower. I help her up but her knees wobble. The second she’s standing, she tenses all over like I’m going to hit her for being weak. I back away and give her space.
“Come on,” I say, quieter. “Let’s get you back to bed.”
She nods, hollow. We shuffle back into the room. I grab a bottle of water, twist the cap, and hand it to her.
She takes it with both hands like it might break. “Thank you,” she whispers. Her voice is fragile but it cuts deeper than any scream ever could. And I hate how fucking much it wrecks me.
I grab one of the wrapped sandwiches, turkey or chicken or some other shit I didn’t care enough to check, and rip it open.
I toss the other toward her side of the bed.
She flinches again. Like I just threw a damn brick at her.
I swallow the growl climbing my throat. Sit down in the chair across from her.
“Eat,” I order. “All of it.”
She hesitates, fingers trembling as they unwrap the sandwich. She glances up at me like she’s waiting for permission, or a slap. Maybe both. I force my voice to soften. Barely.
“You don’t get to starve. Not in my fucking care.”
She brings it to her mouth slowly, takes a bite. It’s small. Careful. Like she’s trying not to wake something feral inside herself. I watch her chew. Swallow. She closes her eyes like she’s trying not to cry.
I look away. Give her the privacy of silence for a moment but my hands curl into fists on my knees.
Because watching her eat like she’s scared I’ll punish her for it makes something in my chest coil tight.
I lean forward, elbows to thighs, and rake my fingers through my hair.
“No one should’ve ever made you scared to eat. ”
She doesn’t respond. Just keeps chewing slowly, eyes focused on the corner of the room.
I take a breath. Try to keep my rage where it belongs.