Chapter 20
Sabine
I woke to sunlight slicing through the drapes, drenching me in warm golden stripes. My body felt heavy, memories of last night weighing on me more than any physical pain. I swung my legs over the edge of the mattress, wincing as my injured ankle protested the movement.
The bruising had faded from angry purple to a watercolor of yellows and greens. The scrape running from my foot up along my ankle looked less angry too, scabbing over properly now. Progress, I supposed.
I reached for my suitcase, still unpacked on the bench at the foot of the bed.
Black cotton panties, matching bra. The simple ritual of dressing myself felt like reclaiming something.
The soft fabric of my favorite worn jeans slid over my legs.
I pulled a long-sleeved gray t-shirt over my head, inhaling its clean laundry scent.
The real challenge came with the socks. I held the first one stretched between my fingers, then carefully guided it over my toes, easing it past the healing wound. My breath caught when the fabric brushed against the tender skin.
Sitting there, sock in hand, I couldn't help but replay last night in my mind.
Kara's unexpected gentleness after Alex had walked out had surprised me.
The badass blonde team lead had shown a vulnerability that had cracked me open in ways I hadn't anticipated.
I wondered if anything would ever feel normal again.
I closed my eyes, remembering how it felt when Alex had left without a word after we'd finished.
When we used to see each other—before the article, when she was just my source—I liked to imagine that she was as attached to me as I was to her.
The silence of her departure, last night and before, cut deeper than any knife. But Kara had stayed.
"You're trembling," she'd said, her voice softer than I'd ever heard it.
I had been. My body shook with aftershocks of pleasure mixed with the horror of my own words. Had I really asked if they were going to kill me? While we were...
"You're safe," Kara whispered against my hair. Her arms encircled me, strong and steady while I fell apart. She held me together as I cried, her lips pressing gentle kisses to my temple, my cheek, catching my tears.
When I could breathe again, she helped me stand. My legs felt like water as she guided me to the en-suite bathroom.
"Let me take care of you," she said, and I nodded, unable to form words.
The water came hot and plentiful. Steam rose around us, filling the bathroom until the edges of the room blurred into white nothing.
Kara positioned herself behind me, one arm wrapped around my waist to keep me steady, the other reaching for the citrus body wash on the shelf.
That small green bottle—my preferred brand, the expensive one I only bought when it was on sale—had been waiting here when I arrived.
They'd known. They'd studied me, catalogued my preferences, stocked this bathroom before I'd ever set foot in this house.
Her hands moved with unexpected tenderness, lathering the soap across my shoulders, down my arms. Each stroke was deliberate, careful, as if she were washing away more than just the evidence of what had happened in my bedroom.
The familiar scent cut through the steam—bergamot and verbena—grounding me when I felt like I might float away entirely.
"Breathe," Kara murmured against my ear when she felt my body tense. "Just breathe."
I hadn't realized I'd been holding my breath. I let it out in a shuddering exhale, and her arm tightened fractionally around my waist. Not restraining. Anchoring.
She washed my hair next, fingers massaging my scalp with a gentleness that surprised me.
I'd watched those hands fieldstrip a rifle in under a minute, seen them check magazines with the same efficiency most people used to scroll their phones.
But now they moved through my hair with patient care, working the shampoo into lather, her fingertips pressing against my scalp in slow circles that made fresh tears spring to my eyes.
"I've got you," she murmured when I swayed against her, my good leg trembling with the effort of keeping me upright. The water sluiced away soap and tears alike, leaving me clean but raw, exposed in ways that had nothing to do with my nakedness.
When she turned off the water and wrapped me in a towel that smelled of lavender fabric softener, I wanted to thank her.
Wanted to acknowledge that she had given me this moment of gentleness in a situation built entirely on control.
But the words stuck in my throat, too big and too fragile at the same time.
Instead, I leaned back against her chest for just a second, feeling her heartbeat steady and sure against my spine. I felt something beneath Kara's controlled exterior—something soft and protective and utterly undeniable.
I didn't know what to do with that information. Didn't know if I could trust it. But standing there in the steam with her arms around me, I felt something shift. Not safety, exactly. Not yet.
But maybe the possibility of it.
I eased my weight onto my injured ankle, testing how much pressure it could take.
Not great, but better than yesterday. I was pretty sure I could manage without the crutches.
The carpet cushioned my steps as I limped across the room and down the hallway toward the staircase, gripping the wall for support.
My gaze caught on the library door halfway down the corridor.
Through that door were Isabella Bellante's books, each spine embossed with that distinctive swirling silver B monogram I'd seen yesterday.
The same symbol I'd spent months investigating, the one that appeared on shell companies and property deeds across three states.
The same symbol that had killed countless people.
A chill ran through me despite the morning warmth. How had I ended up here, of all places? On Bellante property, surrounded by Bellante possessions, breathing Bellante air. Being fucked by a Bellante princess.
The irony wasn't lost on me. I'd spent a year trying to infiltrate their world, and now here I was, living in it. Were these four women really my protectors, or was this an elaborate setup before they disposed of me?
I reached the top of the stairs and stared down the wooden steps as though facing a mountain descent.
My palms grew damp against the banister as I contemplated the journey.
One step at a time, I told myself. I lowered my good foot to the first step, then carefully brought my injured ankle down to join it.
Pain shot up my leg, but I bit my lip and continued.
By the third step, sweat had beaded along my hairline. By the fifth, my breathing had grown labored. Each step required concentration, a careful transfer of weight, a moment to steady myself before continuing. The staircase had never seemed so long.
When I was about halfway down, I heard a door open.
Ellie emerged from what they called the command room, tablet in hand.
She looked up, mouth opening as if to offer help, but something in my expression must have stopped her.
She pressed her lips together, nodded once, and simply watched as I navigated the remaining steps on my own.
I appreciated that she didn't rush to assist me. In the past few days, I'd lost control of nearly every aspect of my life. This small act of independence—making it down these stairs on my own terms, at my own pace—felt necessary, even if my ankle throbbed in protest with each step.
I reached the bottom of the stairs, my ankle screaming in protest. The black and white marble tiles of the foyer felt cold through my socks. I paused to catch my breath, leaning against the carved banister.
Ellie glanced up from her tablet. "Cam has something for you in the living room."
I raised an eyebrow. "Something for me?"
She gestured toward the doorway with a tilt of her head.
I limped across the foyer, curiosity momentarily overriding my pain. When I stepped into the living room, I stopped dead in my tracks.
Cam sat on the floor surrounded by what looked like a small army of kittens.
Two of them tumbled over each other in a cardboard box lined with a soft blue blanket, while an orange tabby with white paws batted at Cam's bootlaces.
A thin calico mother cat watched from the safety of the couch, her tail twitching occasionally.
"Oh my god," I whispered.
Cam looked up, her usually stoic face softening at the edges. She didn't smile exactly, but something in her eyes lightened.
"Found them outside," she said, her voice low and gravelly from disuse. "Mother was half-starved."
I couldn't stop the smile spreading across my face. The tension I'd been carrying since waking up this morning melted away as I watched the kittens tumble and play. I'd always loved cats, their independence and quiet affection speaking to something in me.
"They're beautiful," I said, limping toward the nearest wingback chair.
Cam watched me struggle but didn't offer help. She understood something about pride that the others sometimes missed. Once I lowered myself into the chair, she reached into the box and lifted out the smallest kitten, a gray ball of fluff with oversized ears.
"This one's the runt," she said, rising to her feet in one fluid motion. She crossed to me and held out the kitten. "Thought you might like to hold her."
The kitten fit perfectly in my palms, a warm vibrating bundle that immediately started purring. I brought her close to my chest, feeling her tiny heart racing against my fingertips. She looked up at me with blue-gray eyes that hadn't yet decided what color they would become.
"I always wanted one," I admitted, stroking between her ears with my index finger. "Never could justify it with my schedule."