Chapter 13 #2
I wiped my eyes, took a breath, and pushed myself to sit up. The tears stopped, replaced by determination. Excitement, even. My girls were safe, and I was going to see them. To hear their voices, to hold them, and to tell them it was over.
Wade watched me stand, his expression proud.
I felt strong with him, capable. I knew, absolutely knew, that I was the luckiest person alive to have crashed into Wade Easton that night. What I owed him now, what I had to pay him back somehow, it was worth it. Completely worth it.
Because my girls were free, and I'd done that. With his help, with his resources, with his protection, but I'd done it.
"Thank you.” I meant it with everything I had. "For believing me. For helping them. For everything."
"Always." He stood, his hand finding mine. "Now let's get you ready. Your girls are waiting."
Sylvia had been gentle with the bandages, her experienced hands unwrapping and rewrapping them. I'd refused Wade's offer to help—I couldn't make him do that on top of everything else he'd just done for me.
He'd saved the women while I slept. The least I could do was handle my wounds without adding to his responsibilities.
Now I stood in front of the full-length mirror in the guest room, studying someone who looked almost like me but not quite.
The soft, cream-colored button-up shirt was beautiful, likely silk or something. It fit me perfectly, skimming my curves without being tight, the color warm against my skin. The matching pants were the same, tailored and elegant, but so not my style.
I was a dress and skirt kind of girl. Or I had been, five years ago. Now I wasn't sure what kind of girl I was.
Where did Wade keep getting all these clothes? The white pajamas, now this cream outfit. This one was perfectly sized and waiting for me, like he wanted to dress me up as a very expensive statue.
The shoes were the worst part, though. They were simple cream flats that matched the outfit, soft leather that should have been comfortable, but they sometimes pressed against the bandages on my feet, against the cuts and healing skin.
Some steps sent small sparks of pain up my legs, making me want to kick them off and just go barefoot like I had through the jungle.
But I worked past it and breathed through it. I’d learned how to compartmentalize and function even when my body was screaming. This was nothing compared to what I'd endured. This was manageable.
Behind my reflection, the ocean stretched endlessly. The view was perfect from here too, glass walls providing a never-ending view. This was home.
My mind wasn't on the ocean, though. It was on the girls.
Were they okay? Really okay? The photo had shown them safe and fed, but what about everything else? Had they been punished for my escape? Had the guards hurt them when they realized I was gone, taken out their anger on the women who were left behind? The thought made nausea roll through my stomach.
Did they have what they needed? Birth control to keep their hormones stable, to prevent the complications that came with their work? Feminine hygiene products? The Sanctuary seldom stocked them for us, but would the medical facility know to provide them? Would anyone think to ask?
I couldn't even remember the last time I'd gotten my own period. Sometime in year two, maybe? Year three? It had kind of just... stopped. The stress, the malnutrition, my body deciding that reproduction wasn't viable, had shut down that system entirely.
Some of the other girls had experienced the same thing—cycles disappearing, hormones going haywire, bodies adapting to captivity.
Would it come back now that I was free? Now that I was eating properly, sleeping in soft beds, and not carrying the weight of survival? I wasn't sure if I wanted it to or not. I wasn't sure what it would mean if my body decided it was safe enough to function normally again.
"You look beautiful."
I turned to find Wade in the doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed. He wore a blue suit today, making him look every inch the powerful man he was. His platinum hair was styled, his blue eyes warm as they tracked over me from head to toe.
"The clothes fit well," I observed, deflecting the compliment while picking distastefully at the silk sleeve. "Where do you keep getting them? This is exactly my size."
"I have people who handle such things." He pushed off the doorframe, crossing to me with that elegant grace that made him look like he was gliding. "When I bring someone into my home, I make sure they have what they need."
"You do this often?" The question came out light, but my eyebrow quirked up with a hint of sass. "Bring women home and dress them?"
His smile was fond, not offended. "Not the way you're implying. But I do take care of the people under my protection, and you, darling, are very much under my protection."
He stopped behind me, his hands finding my waist, large and warm through the silk. His reflection in the mirror was tall, handsome, and completely focused on me. He pressed a kiss to my hair, gentle and possessive, then met my eyes in the glass.
"Ready to see your girls?"
"Yes." The word came out fast, so desperate. "I need to."
"Then let's go." His hands squeezed my waist gently before releasing. "Thomas is waiting with the car."
He guided me out of the room, his hand never leaving the small of my back. I tried not to limp, to hide the way certain steps made my feet sting, but Wade noticed. His pace slowed slightly, adjusted to accommodate my discomfort without making it obvious.
"The shoes hurt," he observed quietly. It wasn't a question.
"I'm fine." Automatic response. I lifted my chin, trying to walk faster just to prove a point.
"Marie." He stopped walking and turned me to face him. His eyes were knowing, patient. "You're allowed to admit when something hurts. You don't have to be a soldier right now."
"I'm not a soldier," I huffed, meeting his gaze and lifting my chin slightly in a silent challenge. "I've worked through worse. This is nothing."
His expression shifted, approval mixed with concern, pride mixed with something that looked like sadness. "I know you have, but you don't have to anymore."
I didn't know how to respond to that, how to accept that I could stop pushing through pain, stop managing everything. So I just nodded, and he seemed satisfied enough with that to continue walking.
His estate was enormous, I’d known that, but walking through it made the scale real. Glass walls and marble floors, art and furniture that looked like it belonged in museums.
The garage was just as impressive, filled with cars, all of them luxury and gleaming under the lighting. The Rolls-Royce sat in the center, silver and elegant, somehow both understated and ostentatious at the same time.
Thomas stood beside it, impeccably dressed as always. He nodded respectfully when he saw us. “Mr. Easton, Ms. Rivers. Ready when you are."
Wade opened the back door and helped me in with a hand that lingered on my back. Then he slid in beside me, the door closing with that heavy, expensive sound.
The seats were butter-soft leather, in a pale beige that I probably stained the day he’d brought me here. Wade's arm came around my shoulders, pulling me against his side.
Thomas pulled out smoothly, and I watched the estate disappear behind us through the tinted windows. My knee bounced nervously.
"How long until we get there?" I asked, trying to keep the anxiety out of my voice.
"Twenty minutes." Wade's thumb stroked my shoulder in slow circles. "The facility is in a secure location. Private, quiet. No one will bother them there."
"Do they know I'm coming?"
"They know." His voice was warm, with a hint of amusement. "According to my staff, they've been asking for you since they woke up. You're all they want to talk about."
The words made my throat tight, and I felt that shadow linger over me again. "What if—" I stopped, couldn't finish the thought.
"What if what, darling?" His hand moved from my shoulder to my face, tilting it toward him.
"What if they're angry with me?" The fear came out quietly. "For leaving them. For taking so long to come back. For not being there when they were freed."
"They won't be." The certainty in his voice was absolute. "Marie, you saved their lives. They know that. Trust me, they know."
"But I made the schedules. I chose who went to which room, which client. I—"
"You survived." His thumb pressed gently against my lips, silencing me. "And you used your position to protect them as much as possible. You think they don't know that? You think they didn't see what you did for them every single day?"
I wanted to trust that the girls would understand, would forgive, would see my choices the way he apparently saw them. But years of guilt were a hard habit to break.
"Tell me about them.” His hand moved to play with my hair, the gesture becoming familiar, soothing. "I know their names from your evidence, but I want to know more. Who they are, what they're like."
The question surprised me, but I latched onto it. Talking about the girls was easier than thinking they hated me.
"Lena is the oldest," I started, watching the island pass by outside the window. “She’s thirty-five and has been there the longest. She took care of the younger girls, taught them how to survive, how to disappear into their heads during appointments."
Wade's expression darkened, but he didn't interrupt.
"Sophia is terrified of men with beards. One of her regular clients had one, and he was... really cruel. She has nightmares most nights." I swallowed hard. "Katya speaks five languages and used to be a translator before she was taken. She's quiet, but she notices everything.”
"You care for them." It wasn't a question.
"I do.” My voice cracked slightly. "I gave them my vitamins when they got sick, redistributed pain medication when someone needed it more than I did.”
Wade's arm tightened around me. "You were twenty-seven when you were taken. Just a few years older than some of them."
"I was their tour guide," I said bitterly. "Supposed to help them straight through hell."
"That's not—" Wade started, but I shook my head.
"I know it's not my fault. Logically, I know that, but it doesn't change what happened. Doesn't change that I coordinated their nightmares.”
We drove in silence for a moment, the car gliding smoothly over the roads. Then Wade spoke, his voice quiet but firm.
"When we get there, I want you to listen to them. Hear what they have to say about you, about what you meant to them. Can you do that?"
"I'll try."
"Good." His hand found mine, threading our fingers together. "Whatever happens in there, whatever they say or don't say—I'm right there with you. You're not doing this alone."
The words settled inside me, making the anxiety manageable instead of overwhelming. I squeezed his hand, grateful beyond words that I'd crashed into him that night. That he'd chosen to help instead of walk away. That he was here, now, solid and steady beside me.
"We're almost there," Thomas said from the front, and my heart kicked into overdrive.
Almost there. Almost to my girls. Almost to the moment I'd been dreaming about—seeing them free, seeing them safe, seeing them whole.