Chapter 15
Becca
Everything hurts.
That's the first thing I'm aware of when I wake up—again—for what feels like the hundredth time in however many days it's been.
Pain.
Sharp and dull at the same time, radiating from my ribs, my wrists, my shoulders. My head throbs with a low, persistent ache that won't quit. My throat feels raw, like I've been screaming, though I don't remember doing it.
Maybe I did.
Maybe I don't want to remember.
I shift slightly in the bed, and my body protests immediately. A sharp breath hisses through my teeth before I can stop it.
"Easy."
His voice.
Low. Steady. Right there.
I turn my head slowly, and there he is.
Silas.
Sitting in the chair beside the bed like he's been there for hours. Maybe he has. His elbows rest on his knees, hands loosely clasped, eyes locked on me with that same unreadable intensity he always has.
He looks tired.
Not exhausted—just… worn. Like he hasn't slept much. His jaw is shadowed with stubble, his hair slightly disheveled. He's still wearing the same black tactical pants and fitted shirt from before, though the sleeves are pushed up to his elbows now.
I can see the edge of my tattoo on his forearm.
The warrior woman.
The one I inked into his skin weeks ago.
It feels like a lifetime ago.
"You need to stop moving so much," he says quietly. "Your ribs are still healing."
I swallow, my throat dry and tight. "How long have you been sitting there?"
"Long enough."
That's not an answer.
I push myself up slightly, ignoring the way my ribs scream in protest. The IV tugs at my arm, and I glance down at it—clear fluid dripping steadily into my vein. Monitors beep softly in the background, tracking my heart rate, my oxygen levels, whatever the hell else they're monitoring.
The room smells clean. Sterile. Like antiseptic and fresh linens. Nothing like the warehouse.
Nothing like that place.
I close my eyes for a second, forcing the memory back down.
Not now.
Not yet.
"Where's my phone?" I ask, my voice rougher than I want it to be.
Silas doesn't move. "You don't have it."
"I know I don't fucking have it," I snap, sharper than I mean to. "I'm asking where it is."
"Gone," he says simply. "They took it when they took you."
My stomach twists.
Gone.
My phone. My contacts. My entire life.
"What about my shop?" I ask, panic rising in my chest. "People are going to notice I'm not there. My clients—my appointments—"
"Handled."
I stare at him. "What do you mean, handled?"
He leans back slightly, his expression calm, controlled. "I made sure people think you needed a break. You took a trip to Puerto Rico for a little while to unwind."
I blink.
"You… what?"
"Your social media has posts scheduled," he continues, like this is completely normal.
"Pictures from a resort. Updates about needing time away.
Your voicemail says you're out of town for personal reasons and you'll be back soon.
Your shop is closed temporarily with a sign on the door saying the same thing. "
My mouth goes dry.
"You did all that?"
"Yes."
"How?"
"Jace."
Of course.
The hacker.
I should feel relieved.
I should feel grateful that my entire life isn't falling apart while I'm stuck here.
But instead, I feel something else.
Something cold and unsettling crawling up my spine.
"You just… took over my life," I say slowly.
"I protected it," he corrects, his tone even. "You were gone. People would have asked questions. This way, no one's looking for you."
"No one's looking for me," I repeat, the words tasting bitter. "Because you made sure of it."
His jaw tightens slightly. "Would you rather I didn't?"
I don't answer.
Because he's right.
And I hate that he's right.
I shift again, wincing as my ribs protest. The pain grounds me, pulls me back into my body, into this moment.
"I need to know more about Lionetti," I say, my voice steadier now. "Who he is. What he does. Everything."
Silas watches me for a long moment, his eyes searching mine.
"Why?"
"Because I want to know who the fuck tried to sell me," I snap. "I want to know who these people are. What they want. How deep this goes."
He doesn't flinch. Doesn't look away.
"Manetto Lionetti," he says finally. "Runs one of the largest human trafficking operations on the East Coast. Disguises it as private auctions for high-value buyers. Judges, politicians, businessmen—people with money and power who like to own things they shouldn't."
My stomach turns.
"And Jenna?"
"His daughter," Silas says. "Only child. Spoiled. Dangerous. She's the one who wanted you there."
I already knew that.
But hearing it out loud makes it real in a way it wasn't before.
"She did this because of Izzy," I say, my voice shaking with rage now. "Because she's fucking obsessed with him and I was in the way."
Silas nods once. "Yes."
"And Izzy—" My hands curl into fists, nails digging into my palms. "That piece of shit was there. At the auction. He helped them take me."
"I know."
"You know?" I repeat, my voice rising. "You know and you're just sitting here like it's nothing?"
"It's not nothing," Silas says quietly, his tone dropping lower. "But you're not in any condition to do anything about it right now."
"Fuck that," I spit. "I want to get my hands on Jenna. I want to make her pay for what she did. I want to—"
"You will," he interrupts, his voice calm but firm. "But not yet."
I glare at him, my chest heaving, my breath coming too fast.
"You don't get to tell me when I'm ready."
"I'm not telling you when you're ready," he says evenly. "I'm telling you that if you go after her now, you'll get yourself killed. And I'm not letting that happen."
The certainty in his voice stops me cold.
Not letting that happen.
Like it's a fact.
Like he's already decided.
I swallow hard, my throat tight.
"What about Inez?" I ask, my voice quieter now. "And Christina?"
His expression shifts slightly. Just a flicker of something I can't read.
"We're looking for them," he says. "Jace is tracking every lead. We'll find them."
"You don't know that."
"I do."
"You can't promise that."
"I can," he says, leaning forward slightly, his eyes locking onto mine. "And I am."
The weight of his words settles over me, heavy and suffocating.
I want to believe him.
God, I want to believe him.
But I don't know him.
Not really.
I know he saved me.
I know he's been watching me for months.
I know he got my tattoo, showed up at the fundraiser, bought my shop without telling me.
But I don't know him.
And that terrifies me.
"Why are you always here?" I ask suddenly, the question slipping out before I can stop it.
He doesn't look surprised. "Where else would I be?"
"I don't know," I say, my voice shaking slightly. "Anywhere but sitting in a chair watching me sleep."
"I'm making sure you're safe."
"I'm in a safehouse," I point out. "With monitors and guards and whatever the hell else you have set up. You don't need to be here."
"Yes," he says quietly. "I do."
The way he says it makes my chest tighten.
Like it's not a choice.
Like he couldn't leave even if he wanted to.
I look away, my hands twisting in the blanket.
"You scare me," I admit, my voice barely above a whisper.
He doesn't respond right away.
When I finally glance back at him, his expression is unreadable.
"I know," he says simply.
"Then why do I feel safe with you?" I ask, my voice breaking slightly. "Why does part of me want to trust you when I know I shouldn't?"
His jaw tightens.
"Because you know I won't let anything happen to you," he says, his voice low and steady. "And you know I mean it."
I do.
That's the problem.
I do know it.
And it scares the hell out of me.
Because this isn't like the warehouse.
This isn't chains and auctions and men who see me as property.
This is different.
This is a man who's inserted himself into my life so completely, so thoroughly, that I don't know where he ends and I begin anymore.
He's handled my business.
My reputation.
My entire existence.
And he did it without asking.
Because he decided it needed to be done.
I should be furious.
I should be terrified.
But instead, I'm just… tired.
So, fucking tired.
"I want Jenna to pay," I say finally, my voice steadier now. "I want Izzy to suffer. I want everyone who did this to burn."
Silas's eyes darken slightly.
"They will," he says quietly. "I promise you that."
And I believe him.
God help me, I believe him.
Because there's something in his voice—something cold and certain and absolutely lethal—that tells me he's not just saying it.
He means it.
Every word.
I lean back against the pillows, exhaustion pulling at me again. My ribs ache. My head throbs. My entire body feels like it's been through hell.
But my mind is sharp.
Sharper than it's been in days.
And I know one thing for certain.
I'm not the same person I was before.
I can't be.
Not after this.
Not after everything.
Silas stands slowly, moving toward the door.
"Get some rest," he says quietly. "I'll be right outside."
"You're always right outside," I mutter.
He pauses, glancing back at me.
"Yes," he says simply. "I am."
And then he's gone.
The door clicks shut behind him, and I'm alone again.
But not really.
Because I can feel him.
Just beyond that door.
Watching.
Waiting.
Protecting.
And I don't know if that makes me feel safer or more trapped.
Maybe both.
I close my eyes, my breath evening out as exhaustion pulls me under again.
But before I drift off, one thought lingers.
I'm not leaving here the same person I was.
And neither is anyone who put me there.
When I wake again, the light has shifted completely.
Evening, maybe.
Or early morning.
I don't know anymore.
Time doesn't work right here.
But what I do know is that I can't stay in this bed another fucking second.