The words made the air heavier, pressing in close. Harper's back hit the wall as they advanced in step, boots grinding against concrete, crowding what little space the cell allowed. Her pulse hammered at her ribs, eyes cutting past them to the strip of light spilling through the open door. One chance. One heartbeat. She drove for it.
A hand snapped around her arm mid-lunge and ripped her off her feet. The force spun her in the narrow space, hurling her sideways. She struck the wall with her shoulder before crashing down onto the concrete, pain jolting through her ribs as the breath tore out of her chest. Behind her, the second man slammed the door, the lock clanging into place—sealing the cell as cleanly as a lid on a box.
The third hit her before she could roll. His knee drove into her gut, crushing the air she'd just scraped back, while a forearm clamped hard across her collarbone. Her wrist was wrenched up and back until fire shot down her arm; another hand tangled in her hair and slammed her head against the floor. The concrete rang through her skull, stars bursting white across her vision.
Boots closed in. One caught her ribs, another her hip, the impacts thudding through bone. Pain spiked hot and blinding, but instinct clawed through anyway. She lashed out, elbow jerking wild, nails raking at the arm pinning her down. For a second she felt skin split under her fingers—then the weight doubled. A fist cracked across her face, another drove into her stomach, folding her in half. Her head was wrenched back by her hair, scalp burning, and knuckles smashed into her jaw until her teeth rattled.
The cell spun. Every breath she dragged only brought another blow. Kicks hammered her thighs, her side, the base of her spine. Concrete bit at her cheek as they drove her down again and again, laughter cutting through their grunts as if her pain was the punchline. She twisted once more, trying to claw free, but it only earned her another kick, hard and punishing, snapping across her ribs until something inside gave with a crack.
A hand hooked under her arm and wrenched her up. Her legs barely found the floor before another fist buried in her stomach, folding her forward into the grip that held her. She gagged, spit and bile hitting the concrete. They dragged her upright again, her boots skidding useless against the slab, and the next blow snapped her head sideways. Blood filled her tongue, hot and metallic, running over her lip before she could spit it free.
Her head rocked side to side under their fists, vision flashing white, black, then back again. Every time her knees buckled, they yanked her back up, forcing her to stand just to knock her down again. Hands clamped her arms behind her, shoving her chest forward, leaving her open for another strike that split her lip wider and rattled her skull against the wall.
The grip shifted. One shoved her forward, another pinned her from behind, a hand flattening hard against the back of her neck. She stumbled, ribs screaming, cheek grazing concrete before they hauled her upright again. Their silence was worse than laughter—every motion deliberate, coordinated, as if they were testing how much she could take before she broke.
Then rough palms slid lower, catching at her hips, shoving her torso into the wall. Heat and weight pressed in from behind, breath ghosting her ear, and her chest seized. Her mind snapped wide awake in panic, body thrashing despite the fists that still held her down. She twisted hard, teeth bared, but the only answer was another blow to her ribs and the sudden wrenching drop as they flung her to the floor.
She landed hard on her stomach, face scraping raw against the slab, arms wrenched up and pinned as knees dug into her spine. Blood ran hot down her cheek, dripping from her mouth onto the concrete. The weight on her back should have crushed the fight out of her—should have—but something in her snapped the other way. She twisted, bucked, teeth snapping at the hand on her wrist. Her foot jerked back, catching one of them in the shin. A fist hammered into her side in answer, but she didn't stop. She thrashed, snarling through the blood in her teeth, refusing to fold.
A hand slammed down between her shoulder blades, forcing her harder into the floor. Another seized her hair at the root and yanked, wrenching her head back until her throat strained. She choked on a cry, vision blazing—and froze when cold steel kissed her skin. The knife pressed flat beneath her jaw, edge tilted, the slightest pressure enough to open her from vein to air. Every breath dragged her throat tighter against it.
The blade lingered, steady, while the voice above her cut through the ragged scrape of her lungs.
"Keep thrashing, see what happens."
Then a hand fisted in her waistband and hauled her hips off the floor. The shift wrenched the knife harder against her neck; she felt it break skin, a thin line opening, warmth sliding down into the collar of her shirt. Her scalp burned under the grip in her hair, keeping her throat bared to the blade no matter how she tried to shrink from it.
Hands clawed at her pants, jerking them rough over her hips as another grip hauled her lower body higher, levering her forward onto her knees. Her chest stayed crushed to the slab, her head wrenched back by her hair until the knife ground tighter against her throat. Every twitch made the edge bite, her pulse hammering against steel. Move, and her neck would open. Stay still, and their hands kept dragging her bare. Cold air licked at the strip of skin they exposed as a voice slid close, hot and foul in her ear.
"Time to find out if you're worth fucking after all."
Her blood iced. Panic detonated, jagged and choking, her mind screaming no, no, no. She clenched her eyes shut, lungs locking, heart battering so hard it felt like the knife was carving its rhythm into her flesh. One wrong breath, one wrong twitch, and it would all be over—by steel, or by them.
And then—
"What the fuck are you doing."
Brock's words hadn't finished echoing before the weight on her shifted. The knife eased a fraction from her throat, the grip in her hair loosening without letting go. She felt rough fingers fumbling at her waistband, shoving her pants back up in a clumsy, hurried tug, as if that small correction could erase what had just happened.
One of them swallowed hard, voice cracking as it rushed into the silence.
"It—it wasn't like that. Just—just teaching her a lesson, keeping her in line—"
The excuses stumbled over each other, thin and desperate, every syllable aimed at Brock instead of her. No one else moved. No one dared.
Then Brock moved.
The knife vanished from her throat, the grip in her hair torn away as the weight crushing her spine was ripped off like it weighed nothing. The shift was so sudden she barely registered freedom before her body took over. She shoved hard against the floor, clawing forward, blood slick under her palms. Her knees slipped, ribs screaming, but she scrambled anyway—wild, graceless, blind. The far wall hit her shoulder with a jolt that rattled through bone. She spun, chest heaving, back pressed to cold concrete as if the slab itself might shield her. Her own blood streaked the floor where she'd dragged herself, a dark trail between them.
Brock's fury filled the cell, fast and vicious. She heard it first—the slam of a body into the wall, the crack of knuckles against bone, the low grind of his voice spitting words she couldn't catch. Impact blurred together: fists, knees, boots, the violence precise and punishing. One man crumpled near the door, another folded under his grip, the third dragged out by the collar and hurled into the hall like garbage. She couldn't follow who was who, couldn't tell if he was saving her or finishing what they'd started—only that the cell shook with it, and every blow felt like it might break her too.
Then silence. The sound of their retreat echoed down the corridor, boots scattering until only the buzz of the overheads remained.
Harper pressed herself into the wall, shaking, lungs clawing for air that wouldn't come. She knew—she knew—he wasn't danger. He'd torn them off her, broken them, driven them out. But her body didn't care. Her body screamed he was just another man in this cell, bigger, stronger, furious, too close. Her brain split down the middle: logic whispering safe while instinct shrieked run. When Brock turned toward her, the weight of him filled the space, and her pulse spiked until it drowned out everything else. She flinched, teeth bared, like she was still fighting to keep the knife off her throat.
Then he stepped forward.
Her body broke. She folded down the wall in a frantic slide, knees buckling, arms snapping up to cover her head. A choked sob ripped out of her before she could stop it, raw and humiliating, her whole frame curling small against the concrete. She couldn't think, couldn't reason—every nerve lit with one truth only: another blow was coming.
Brock stopped dead. The air between them thickened, heavy with her ragged breath. He stood over the trail of blood she'd smeared across the floor, fists still curled from the fight, chest heaving once before he forced it still. His fury hadn't been meant for her—but the way she shook, pressed into the wall like she'd sooner vanish into it than face him, made it clear her body didn't know the difference.
"Harper."
Just her name. Low, steady. No threat, no command. He spoke it like it might tether her back from wherever her mind had been dragged—but her body stayed locked, arms tight over her head, breath tearing quick and shallow through her teeth.
He stepped forward.
She recoiled instantly, arms snapping out as if to keep him back. Her palms smeared through the blood on the floor, slick against her skin, and her footing went with it—her crouch buckled, knees sliding until she nearly went down entirely. She caught herself against the wall, chest heaving, eyes wide and wild, as though the knife were still at her throat.
Brock halted again, hands loose at his sides. His voice came low, even, rough around the edges but steady enough to hold.
"I'm not going to hurt you."
The words cut through her panic enough that her head lifted, just barely. Brock saw her face in full for the first time—the blood smeared across her mouth, streaking down her throat, still seeping from the thin cut at her neck. Her chest heaved ragged, eyes wide and glassy, snapping past him to the open door. She looked like she might bolt—body coiled, trembling, the thought flickering sharp across her expression.
Brock shifted slow, deliberate. He dropped into a crouch, lowering himself until his height no longer loomed over her. His hands stayed loose at his sides, empty, his weight set back on his heels. No threat. No command. Just space, held steady between them.
Her hands stayed out between them, shaking so violently the blood on her palms flicked dark against the floor. When she finally found her voice it cracked, thin and wrecked, spilling out on a single word.
"Please."
It wasn't loud. It wasn't aimed. It was survival stripped to the bone. Her arms trembled, eyes locked past him on the door as though begging him not to stand in her way.
Something in him shifted. His jaw clenched, the fury that had filled the cell settling into something tighter, quieter. He said her name again, rough but steady.
"Harper."
He leaned in slightly, not forward, not closing—just enough to ground the words. His gaze held hers, unwavering.
"You're bleeding. Let me help you."
Her arms didn't lower. They shook, smeared in blood, still held out between them as if that trembling barrier could keep him back. Her eyes locked on the door, throat working hard, but no other word came. No move toward him. No move at all.
Brock's weight shifted where he crouched, his face hardening with something she couldn't name. He let the silence hang a beat longer, then exhaled slow through his nose. Decision made.
"All right," he said, low but firm. "Then I'm coming to you."
He edged closer, slow, deliberate. The moment his weight pressed into her space, Harper's body snapped like a trap. Her eyes tore to the open door, and in a single surge she drove upward, blood-slick palms shoving against the floor, legs scrambling for purchase. She lurched to her feet, ready to bolt.
She didn't make it a step. Brock launched with her, hand locking around her wrist, yanking hard. The pull ripped her off balance, a cry tearing loose as he hauled her back. She twisted against the grip, blood smearing between them, but his hold didn't break. His other arm hooked across her back, bracing her tight, and he dropped with her—knees slamming into concrete, dragging her down into him.
Her body collapsed hard against his chest, wild and thrashing, boots scraping uselessly at the slab. There was nowhere to go. One arm banded her tight, the other clamped her wrist against his side, locking her down. She fought, frantic and raw, every desperate motion only pressing her tighter into him. Her strength bled out in ragged cries, her voice cracking on half-formed pleas that dissolved into sobs. His strength swallowed hers whole. The wall was gone, but the cage remained. Her mind screamed he was no different—bigger, stronger, the same weight crushing her down—even as the truth sat right there: he wasn't hitting her. He wasn't mocking. He was just holding her steady, stone against a storm.
"Harper." His voice came rough above her ear, steady even as she shook. "Stop. I've got you."
Her trapped wrist strained uselessly against his grip, but her free hand came up striking wild. Her fist caught his shoulder, his chest, even his jaw once—but he didn't let go. He absorbed it all, unflinching, his arm still locked firm around her back. Her blood smeared into his shirt, hot against his skin, marking every shudder of her body.
"Harper," he said again, voice low but firmer now, cutting through her ragged sobs. "It's me. Look at me."
She kept swinging, punctuating each weak blow with a hoarse cry, until the strength bled out of them. Her breathing hitched, breaking against his chest. One last strike clipped him feebly before her arm dropped, trembling and spent. Her wrist went slack in his hold. Her body still shook, every nerve fried, but the fight itself was gone. All that remained was the hollow weight of her sagging into him, her blood soaking deeper into the fabric between them.
Brock shifted with the change, pulling her tighter, bracing her against his chest. His voice dropped again, steady, the same rhythm he'd used on her name.
"That's it. Breathe. I've got you."
He eased his grip, slow and deliberate, releasing her wrist. It slipped down useless at her side, no strength left to raise it again. He didn't let her go. One arm stayed firm across her back, steadying her weight where it sagged into him. His other hand pressed to the floor beside them, palm braced against concrete, keeping him grounded if she surged again. The blood seeped warm through his shirt, tacky now, clinging where their bodies pressed. He shifted back onto his heels, pulling her with him, and stayed there—knees on concrete, her weight braced against his chest. No orders. No threats. Just silence, broken only by her uneven sobs and the grind of his breath as he held her through it.
Brock shifted, the grind of his knees loud against the slab as he adjusted his weight. One arm stayed locked firm across her back while the other slid from the floor to her side, steadying her. He drew her with him as he leaned back, setting her down against his knee and the wall, forcing her into a sit instead of a sprawl. Her body sagged with the movement, blood streaking fresh across her neck and jaw. He finally had a clear look at her face—pale under the smear of red, her eyes glassy and unfocused.
"Stay with me," he muttered, rough but controlled. His hand hovered near her chin, hesitating only a beat before he angled her head so he could see the cut at her throat. The thin line still leaked, sliding down to soak into her collar. His jaw tightened.
Brock shifted, adjusting his weight beneath her. His arm stayed firm across her back, steady as stone, but his voice dropped low at her ear, rough and certain.
"I'm going to pick you up."
Her head jerked in a faint shake, a broken whine slipping out before she could stop it. Not a fight, not even resistance—just protest, thin and raw. She didn't push, didn't strike. She sagged heavier instead, body trembling in his grip.
He exhaled through his nose, jaw set. "It's not a choice," he muttered, more to himself than to her. He slid his arm under her knees and lifted. The motion ripped a sound from her throat, high and broken, as her body jolted against his chest. Pain flared sharp through her ribs, locking her muscles before they gave out. She sagged again, boneless, blood soaking warm through his shirt and streaking across his forearm where her head fell heavy against him.
Med bay wasn't an option. Not with the three bastards he'd left broken likely there already. Not with the whispers that would start the second she crossed the threshold, the eyes that would strip her bare before anyone laid a hand on the wound. His quarters were safer. Contained. No one else needed to see her like this. No one else would.
He adjusted his grip once, steadying her against his chest, and carried her out of the cell. The stink of blood and sweat clung to the walls, echoing with the violence still ringing in her breath, and he wanted her out of it—now.
The world tilted. Concrete dropped away, replaced by the steady rise and fall of Brock's chest. Her head sagged against him, ear pressed close enough to hear the grind of his heartbeat—slow, unshaken, nothing like the chaos still ripping through hers. Each step jarred her ribs, pain flaring bright and then dulling to a throb that spread through every inch of her. She tried to brace, to hold herself tighter, but her body wouldn't answer. She sagged heavier instead, dead weight in his arms.
The corridor stretched around them, lights buzzing overhead. Shapes slid past in her blurred vision—walls, doors, the gleam of steel rails—none of it steady, none of it real. The air smelled of concrete and oil and him, sweat and blood ground deep into fabric. Somewhere behind it all, boots struck rhythm against the slab, Brock's stride unbroken, every step carrying her farther from the cell.
A chime. The hiss of metal. The shift of air as the elevator doors opened. She caught the change in sound, the echo closing in around them. Brock moved inside, steady as stone, and the doors slid shut with a final click that sealed them in.
Her lashes dragged heavy, her breath hitching shallow against his chest. The drum of his heart was still there, solid under her ear, steady in a way she couldn't match. It kept going when she couldn't.
The elevator doors parted onto the residential hall. Brock adjusted her weight once, tightening his grip as he carried her past the silent doors, each one shut, the wing hushed. No eyes. No whispers. Just the steady drag of his boots against the floor until he reached his own door. A swipe of his card, the soft click of the lock, and he shouldered inside.
The space opened wide—clean lines, stripped bare—but he didn't pause. Blood pattered from his sleeve to the slab tile, dark against the matte floor, marking every step as he cut straight for the back hall. He bypassed the living room, ignored the bedroom entirely, and carried her into the washroom where the slate floor and running water waited.
He lowered with her, crouching until her body touched cold stone. For a beat he braced her against the wall, weighing his options. The counter was too high, the toilet too unstable. The floor would hold her best. He eased her onto her side, careful with her ribs, until she lay stretched across the tile, blood streaking her skin against the dark slate. His knees cracked as he straightened over her, mouth set hard, eyes scanning every line of red.
The slate stole her weight In a rush, cold leeching through her back. Instinct pulled her tight, knees twitching up, arms dragging in close to shield what still throbbed raw. A ragged sound slipped from her throat as she tried to fold against herself.
Brock's hand pressed firm to her shoulder, flattening her against the tile before the motion could lock. "No." The word landed rough, final. His grip shifted, bracing her arm down, forcing her body open again. "Don't curl. You won't breathe."
She whimpered once, weak protest spilling out, but he held her steady, weight anchoring her against the floor. The line of his jaw stayed rigid, eyes tracking the blood that streaked down her throat and pooled against the slate. Control first. Then he'd deal with the damage.
Her body twitched against the slate, breath ragged, eyes glassy. Brock kept one hand firm on her shoulder, holding her steady, while the other reached up. A quick snap of his wrist pulled a towel from the bar. He twisted it once in his grip, then pressed it to her neck, right where the blade had kissed and split skin. The cloth blotted red almost instantly, dark soaking fast into white. Not deep—he could see that much—but enough to bleed hard, enough to mark. Her throat flexed under his hand, a small, broken sound slipping out when he pressed firmer.
"Stay still," he muttered, low and steady. Not an order barked, not a threat—just fact, weighted with no room for argument. He held the pressure tight with one hand as the other yanked open the vanity drawer. A small kit slid forward, compact, battered at the edges, but organized. Gauze, tape, antiseptic—essentials, nothing wasted.
He hooked It out with a finger, snapped it open on the counter, and pulled free what he needed without looking away from her. Gauze packet torn. Antiseptic cap twisted. Everything laid out in reach. Then he shifted back, bracing her head with his knuckles as he pulled the soaked towel away. Blood welled fresh, tracing down the hollow at the base of her neck. The muscle in his cheek jumped as he set the towel aside and caught the gauze between his fingers. He braced her chin with his knuckles, holding her steady, and pressed the clean pad down firm.
Her body jolted at the sting, a thin cry slipping through her teeth. She tried to turn her head, to curl again, but his palm flattened her shoulder hard against the tile.
"Still." His voice left no space for refusal. His grip never wavered. The antiseptic came next, cold biting into the wound as he dabbed it in, the gauze soaking dark all over again. She hissed, breath catching, eyes squeezed shut, but he ignored it—hands moving steady, efficient, controlled.
Once the blood slowed, he layered on fresh gauze, taping it down against her skin with short, practiced strips. The line of red vanished under white, sealed flat. Brock gave the bandage one last press, testing the hold, before easing his hand back at last. The cut was covered. Contained.
Brock sat back on his heels, his gaze cutting down to where her arm curled instinctively across her side. The way she flinched when she breathed told him what he needed to know, but he had to be sure. He shifted closer, one hand bracing against the tile near her hip.
"Harper." His voice came low, measured. "I need to check your ribs."
Her head twitched weakly, a faint shake, breath catching. The protest never left her lips, but her body said it clear enough. She curled tighter, trying to shield her side.
His hand closed firm around her wrist, peeling her arm back from her ribs. "You fight me, it'll be worse. Hold still."
He flattened his palm against her side, fingers spreading slow across bruised flesh. The moment he pressed, she jerked under his touch, a muffled cry scraping out. Brock didn't let go. He held steady, moving inch by inch, testing each rib with slow, deliberate pressure.
"Breathe," he ordered when she froze. "Don't lock it up. In. Out."
Her chest rose sharp, fell ragged, each inhale dragging pain through her frame. His hand tracked lower, pressing firm, gauging the give. She whimpered again, voice breaking raw, but his grip on her wrist held her still.
When he reached the worst of it, she cried out, legs bucking against the tile. His teeth ground once, but his hand didn't lift. He rode through it, pressing until he was sure. Then he eased back, releasing her wrist last.
"Hurts like hell," he muttered, mostly to himself. "But not broken."
Her breathing stayed ragged, uneven but steady enough to tell him what he needed: no puncture, no collapse. Brock sat back a fraction, scanning the blood smeared across her shirt, the tacky way the fabric clung to her ribs, her throat, her arms. Leaving her in it wasn't an option.
He dragged a hand down his face, exhaled slow. "Harper." His voice came low, clipped. "The clothes have to come off. You're a mess. I can't clean you up while you're in them."
Her eyes widened, body jerking tight before she could stop it. A sharp inhale, ribs seizing, her hand twitching toward her collar as if to guard it. Brock caught the motion, stilled her with a firm press of his palm against her shoulder.
"Listen to me." His voice came harder now, iron under every word. "This isn't them. I'm not touching you for that." His jaw worked once, then he added, rough but certain: "I would never do that. You hear me? Never."
Her chest hitched, a thin sound breaking loose—half whimper, half plea. "Don't…" It rasped raw, more reflex than resistance, but her head gave a small shake all the same. Fear, not strength, driving it.
Brock didn't flinch. "Clothes only," he said, voice low but certain. His gaze held hers, steady, unblinking. "I know you don't trust me. You don't have to. But you need to let me do this."
He reached for the kit, drew out the shears, and held them where she could see. The metal caught the light, steady in his hand. Then he moved. No hesitation. The blades slid under the hem of her tank and ripped straight up, fabric splitting in one clean line from waist to collar. He peeled it back in two fast motions, the ruined cloth falling aside. Waistband, seams—gone in quick, decisive snips until nothing was left but skin and blood against slate. Clean. Fast. Over.
Brock stayed crouched, his gaze cutting a deliberate path over what the fabric had hidden. Her ribs bore rising welts, red and angry, some already swelling under the skin. Scrapes streaked raw along her side and hips, skin torn where fists and floor had ground her down. Blood tracked across the viper inked along her ribcage, crimson blending with the black coils until the tattoo looked wounded itself. The sight burned cold in his chest, but his face never changed.
He tracked lower, scanning thighs, knees, ankles for swelling, for cuts, for anything broken. Scratches scored her legs, skin mottled where boots had struck, but nothing bent wrong. No breaks. She was a mess, but she was whole. He exhaled through his nose, low and steady, and straightened on his heels.
He reached for the tape at her neck, fingers steady as he peeled it back from her skin. The gauze came away damp and streaked, useless now. The sight of the cut beneath—thin, angry, still seeping—made the muscle in his jaw twitch. He dropped the stained pad aside, his thumb bracing lightly under her jaw to keep her steady. She made a faint sound at the touch, a tremor of breath, but he didn't linger. The bandage would go back on after. For now, she needed clean.
Brock slipped his arms beneath her again, lifting her clean from the slate. She gave a faint sound, more exhale than protest, her weight slack in his grip. He carried her the few steps into the stall, boots striking quiet against the tile, and lowered until her bare skin met the wall. He adjusted her until she sat braced against it, shoulders propped, head tilted just enough to keep her upright. Her breath rasped shallow, but she held.
He pulled the shower head down from its hook, metal hose rattling, then twisted the knob. Water hissed out in a cold rush. He held the stream in his palm first, letting it warm before he angled it down. No shock, no cold. Just steady heat spilling in waves.
When the first touch of spray hit her chest, Harper flinched hard, breath seizing against her ribs. The water sheeted down, washing blood into thin red rivulets that tracked across her skin before vanishing at the drain. A low sound slipped from her, raw and unguarded, but Brock's hand anchored at her shoulder, holding her against the wall.
Brock pulled a cloth from the rack above the stall, ran it under the spray, and worked a bar of soap against it until the suds foamed. He crouched back down in front of her, one knee braced, and set to work. Every motion was clean, practiced—water, cloth, rinse. He started at her shoulders, wiping away the blood that streaked down from her throat, then moved across her chest, arms, ribs. Each pass stripped away more red until skin showed through, raw and battered but clear.
She twitched under the pressure at first, ribs jerking when the cloth dragged across a welt, lips parting in a hiss. He didn't slow. The hand not holding the cloth steadied her at her hip, keeping her upright. She let out another broken sound, breath catching, but he never faltered. Wipe. Rinse. Move on.
When he reached her legs, he worked in steady lines, from thigh to shin, clearing the dark streaks clinging to her skin. The drain swirled pink beneath them, the water pulling it all away. His mouth stayed hard, eyes fixed on the task, never lingering longer than needed.
He set the cloth aside, reached for the small bottle on the shelf, and worked a measure of shampoo into his palms. With the spray angled down, he slid his fingers through her soaked hair, massaging the suds in until the dark strands foamed white. Blood loosened and ran black-red into the water, spiraling toward the drain. His hands moved steady, firm but careful, combing through knots until they gave beneath his touch.
Harper shivered at the first drag, body tensing. But as his grip stayed even, controlled, the tension bled out by degrees. When his fingers pressed through the crown of her scalp, her head tilted, small and unguarded, leaning into the motion like her body had betrayed her resolve.
Brock angled the spray down one last time, sweeping it across her skin in slow passes until the soap bled away, until nothing clung but clean water. He ran it through her hair, over her shoulders, down her legs—methodical, unhurried—until the drain carried off the last of the pink swirl. Only then did he shut the water off, the hiss cutting to silence.
He stepped out of the stall long enough to drag a towel from the bar, then crouched back in with it. "I'm picking you up now," he said, voice low, a warning more than request. The towel went around her shoulders first, fabric heavy and warm, before his arms slid beneath her again. She sagged without protest as he lifted her out, setting her down on the closed lid of the toilet.
Her head lolled, eyes glassy. Brock kept her upright with one hand while the other worked quick and steady, blotting water from her face, her hair, her arms. He toweled enough away to keep the chill from seeping in, then reached for the kit on the counter. The cut at her throat bled faint again where the water had washed it clean, a thin line red against pale skin. He dabbed it once with antiseptic, then pressed fresh gauze into place, taping it down firm. Sealed. Contained.
Only then did he move her again. His arms slid under her knees and shoulders, lifting her light from the seat. She gave a faint sound at the shift, more breath than protest, but her body stayed slack against him. He carried her down the short hall and into the spare room, boots whispering over carpet.
The bed waited, plain and untouched. He lowered her onto it with care, adjusting her until her head hit the pillow. The towel slid loose, damp fabric darkening the sheets beneath her shoulder. She shivered once and tried to curl, but he steadied her with a hand at her arm.
"I'll be back." The words landed quiet, flat as fact. He left her long enough to cross to his own room, drawers opening and shutting, then returned with a folded bundle in hand—grey sweats and a black T-shirt, his, nothing else to offer. They'd swallow her, but they were clean.
He set them on the edge of the bed, then crouched to ease her upright again. No reassurance, no warning. Just motion—shirt over her arms, tugged down careful; sweats drawn over her hips and legs, the waistband bunching loose at her waist. He worked fast, efficient, leaving no room for her to shrink further into herself.
When it was done, he settled her back, blanket pulled up over her frame. The clothes hung big, sleeves sliding over her hands, collar gaping loose at her throat, but she was covered. Her breathing rasped soft against the pillow, body slack under the weight of exhaustion.
Brock stayed seated at the edge of the bed for a long moment, forearms braced to his knees, watching her chest rise and fall. Only when her breath steadied did he push to his feet, the mattress dipping back into place as his weight left it. Harper curled onto her side the second he moved away, knees dragging up, arms folding in tight across her ribs. The blanket slipped with her, cocooning what little heat she had. No fight. No bolt. Just the small, tight knot of her body on the edge of the bed.
He watched a beat longer, jaw hard, then turned. The door shut behind him with a quiet click.
The quarters stretched silent as he crossed them—kitchen bare, screen dark, rug muffling his boots. He keyed the lock, stepped into the residential hall, and let the door seal at his back.
The corridor ran long and hushed, lights humming overhead. He moved without pause, every stride measured, until he stopped a few doors down. Another keypad blinked low against the wall. He keyed it in with the same blunt precision, waited for the lock to release, and shoved the door open.
Knuckles' quarters waited dim on the other side, glow from the television spilling over the couch. Knuckles sat slouched deep, a bottle on the table, boots crossed at the ankle. He glanced up at the sound, grin already pulling wide.
"About time—" he started, pushing up from the cushions. Then he froze. The grin died as his eyes swept Brock over: hair damp, shirt plastered to his frame, blood soaked down to the hem and streaked along his arms. His shoulders bunched tight.
"Jesus Christ," he muttered, voice dropping low. "You hurt?"
"Not mine," Brock said, shaking his head.
Knuckles' brow lifted, tension easing a fraction. "What, then? Some job I didn't get the invite for?" His mouth twitched, humor edging back in, but it didn't last.
Brock didn't answer, didn't smirk, didn't even blink. His face stayed stone, carved and cold. The flicker of humor drained from Knuckles as fast as it had come, his posture straightening slow.
"…What the hell happened?" he asked, voice quieter now, the weight catching up.
Brock didn't answer right away. His shoulders squared, voice dropping low. "You remember the three I told you about. The ones she fought in the showers."
Knuckles frowned, the names coming quick. "Yeah. Dace, Miller, Hark. Bottom feeders. What about 'em?"
"They were in her cell."
The words landed like stone. Knuckles blinked once, slow, then his posture stiffened. "Why?"
Brock's stare didn't shift. "I was going down to kill the lights. Heard commotion. Noise. Went to check. Opened her door." His jaw tightened, voice cutting harder. "They had her down. Knife to her throat."
Knuckles' mouth parted, but nothing came out. He stared, waiting, as if hoping Brock would stop there.
Brock didn't. "Two pinning her. One with steel on her neck. They'd pulled her up—she was bleeding. Pants halfway down." His voice didn't rise, but it carried weight like iron dropped. "They looked like they were about to rape her, Knux."
For a beat, silence pressed between them. Then Knuckles swore, sharp and vicious, pacing a half-step like he couldn't contain the jolt. His fist flexed open and shut.
"Those motherfuckers—" He cut himself off, dragged a hand down his face, eyes snapping back to Brock. "What'd you do?"
Brock's mouth pressed flat, the first edge of heat cracking through his words. "What do you think I did? I tore them off her. Put one through the wall, dropped another on the floor, dragged the last into the hall and threw him out like trash." His fists clenched once, the sound of bone and impact still living in his voice. "They won't forget it."
Knuckles didn't move, eyes locked sharp on him. Then his voice came low. "And her? She okay?"
Brock exhaled through his nose, some of the fury pulling back into steadiness. "Banged up. Rattled bad. But… yeah. She's breathing. She'll hold." His jaw worked once. "I think."
Knuckles' brow furrowed. "She in med bay?"
"No." Brock's answer cut fast. "Those bastards'll be down there. Broken ribs, stitches—where else would they go? I'm not putting her in a bed two doors down from the men who had their hands on her." His voice hardened, final. "She's in my spare room. I cleaned her up. Got her settled."
Knuckles stiffened, his gaze flicking to the door behind Brock. "You left her in your quarters?" His voice carried disbelief. "She's a prisoner, Brock. You can't keep her up here like that. What happens if she bolts? Or decides to put a knife in you while you sleep?"
Brock's stare didn't waver. "She's not bolting. Not tonight. And she's in no shape to pick up steel, let alone use it. You didn't see her." His tone stayed even, iron underneath. "I had nowhere else to take her. Med bay's out. Holding's a fucking death sentence after this. My spare room's the one place no one else sets foot in."
Knuckles worked his jaw, hands flexing restless at his sides. "So you've just… moved her cage upstairs?"
"If that's what it takes," Brock said.
For a beat, Knuckles just stared. Then he exhaled, slow, and nodded once. "Fine. I'll rig a lock on the outside of the door. That way she stays put, and you don't end up with a blade in your throat at three in the morning." His grin came back, tight and humorless. "Just a different kind of cell, brother."