Warmth pulled Harper up from sleep—thin at first, then steady, soaking through the blanket and into her cheek until it bled into her bones. She burrowed deeper, the fabric dense and heavy over her head, trapping her breath in the small, stale pocket she'd made. The air carried a clean mildness; the damp sting at the back of her throat had lifted. She blinked into the dim, and the shape of things shifted—a weighty comforter in place of the frayed scrap she'd clung to in the cell. A mattress cradled her instead of concrete, dipping gently with her weight. Light threaded the weave and drifted across her face in a slow, warm sweep, a muted band that still found skin.
For a moment she wondered if she'd died in her cell—if they had slit her throat—and this was whatever came after. Or maybe the ambush, the torture, watching her friends die had never happened at all, and she was waking in her own bed at the Viper Den. She could almost hear Lena's voice drifting down the hall, bright with laughter, the clink of mugs in the kitchen. And she could almost feel Dante beside her, the quiet heat of him under the blankets, the steady rhythm of his breathing just behind her shoulder.
She shifted, reaching to peel the covers back—and the illusion shattered. Pain lit her ribs in a hot, encircling band, cutting her breath to a shallow hitch. Her jaw ached where fists had landed, skin drawn tight over swelling, a faint copper taste gathering at the back of her mouth. Tape tugged at her throat as she moved, the gauze holding firm over the slice, edges prickling with disinfectant. The comforter slid down to her chest, and the sunlight stopped pretending to be morning at the Den—it was only illumination pouring through a window chosen by someone else, in a room borrowed at best; still, it was a room with air and daylight, a world away from the cell.
She pushed herself upright, a low sound slipping out before she could catch it. Every muscle protested; her ribs ground under the strain, but she kept going until she was propped against the headboard, the comforter pooling in her lap. The room swam once, then steadied—plain walls, a narrow desk, the bed beneath her made with a care she hadn't given it. Memory bled in, hard and uninvited: Brock catching her arm when she tried to launch past him out of the cell, lifting her bloodied body from the flow. The elevator ride. The slide of steel under fabric, seams giving, clothes falling away in pieces and cool air closing over skin. Water drumming from the showerhead. His voice, low: hold still, while he rinsed the blood from her body, worked soap through her hair, set gauze to her throat and taped it down, and then left her in this room to sleep.
Several minutes passed before she gathered the comforter in one hand and swung her legs over the side of the bed. The motion alone pulled at her ribs and folded her over her knees; she stayed there, palms braced on the sheet, letting the sway run its course. Tape tugged at her throat with each breath, the gauze sealed firm and itching along the edges. Getting her feet under her took more effort than it should have. She stood on the second try, unsteady, balance wavering until she caught herself on the mattress edge. The sweatpants hung loose on her hip bones, threatening to slip with each small shift, and the shirt sat crooked, one sleeve sliding low enough to bare her shoulder. Reckless would buy her nothing. She listened instead—the hush of the vent, the building's small creaks, a suggestion of movement beyond the door—measuring whether she could stay upright for a step or let herself sink back and take stock.
She made a slow circuit, fingertips grazing paint that had been rolled over in a hurry, the faint grit of old brushstrokes under her skin. The door came first. The handle turned until it met a hard catch and stayed; the resistance lived on the far side. She pressed her thumb to the latch, tugged once, felt the refusal travel through the frame—locked from the outside. She let it settle and crossed to the desk: a pale laminate top nicked along the edge, a pencil-eraser divot near the corner, metal legs polished bright where shoes had nudged them. Empty surface, chair tucked square—temporary, like a room waiting for instructions. The window drew her next. Glass cool against her palm, dust haloed around old rain spots, a faint tremor running through the pane as the building breathed. From this height the view wasn't sweeping, but a sliver of East Halworth showed itself—brick stacks leaning close, smoke curling from rusted vents, streets stitched with narrow alleys. Inside the walls, a small park spread below: a loop of running track, clusters of green trees, benches spaced with calculated neatness. A bird skimmed the grass, gave one hard wing stroke, and lifted over the wall. She tracked it until it vanished into open air, the sight cutting deep. She'd carried her freedom like it was endless, careless with it—until it was gone.
The lock turned with the heavy scrape of a deadbolt. Harper flinched, every muscle locking in place. Instinct shoved her toward the bed—safer to look as though she hadn't moved—but the sudden pivot wrenched her ribs and dragged her sideways. She caught the back of the desk chair before she went down, knuckles white on the wood, and froze there half turned, breath sawing shallow.
The door opened. Brock stepped in with a tray balanced in one hand, his shoulders drawn tight to keep from crowding the frame. Steam rose from a mug, and beside it a bowl of oatmeal sent up a faint curl of warmth. A plate held a single slice of toast cut across the middle, and an apple rolled softly against the rim of the bowl. He closed the door behind him, careful with the hinge, and for a moment his eyes went straight to the bed as though expecting to find her waiting there. Empty.
He scanned the room until he found her halfway between desk and window, one hand clamped on the chair back for balance. Her body was drawn tight, as if she'd been interrupted mid-movement, caught in the act of edging toward the bed. The posture carried the tension of someone waiting for retaliation.
Brock's jaw shifted, once. He let the tray steady in his grip, widened his stance a fraction, and stayed where he was. The silence pressed in, heavy, while his eyes held on her—wide, braced, already flinching for the strike. Something in him eased; the set of his mouth softened just enough to blunt the edge. He drew a breath through his nose, glanced to the chair under her hand, then back to her face.
"I'm not here to hurt you," he said, voice low, the command leeched down to something steadier. "Just to feed you." He tilted his chin toward the bed, a gesture pared back to the simplest invitation. "Sit. Easier there."
She didn't move at first. Her grip on the chair stayed white-knuckled, chest rising shallow, gaze pinned on him like a tether. The room held still with her, both of them measuring how long the silence could stretch.
Then, inch by inch, she shifted. Fingers left the chair, hand trailing against the desk for balance as she eased a step back toward the bed. Every motion was deliberate, as though quickness might spark a blow. The sweatpants slipped again at her hips; she caught the fabric with one hand, wincing as the twist pulled at her ribs.
When she reached the mattress, she sank carefully, lowering herself in stages until the springs took her weight. A soft sound broke from her throat before she swallowed it down. She drew her legs up, folding crosswise on the comforter, and pressed her hands flat to her knees.
He waited until she was fully down, legs drawn crosswise and her breath smoothed enough to pass for steady. Only then did he move. The tray shifted in his hands with a muted clink of ceramic, each step paced and plain so she could track it. He set it on the mattress in front of her—close enough to reach, far enough to leave her space—and eased his fingers back slow, palms open for a beat before he straightened.
The scrape of wood followed as he drew the desk chair across the floor. He swung it once, set it facing her, and lowered himself into it with a weight that carried more patience than threat. His elbows braced on his knees, hands loose, the kind of posture that said he wasn't planning to move fast. Steam curled faintly from the mug, warmth lifting from the bowl beside it; toast cut in halves, an apple waiting untouched. Simple things, but arranged like an offering.
Harper kept still, eyes flicking once to the food and back to him. The tray sat between them, the faint sweetness of oats brushing the air. She didn't reach right away—her stomach knotted too tight for hunger to feel simple—but the warmth rising from the bowl tugged at her all the same. Seconds slid past, slow and heavy, before she let her hand creep forward. Fingers trembling, they closed around the spoon's handle. Metal tapped faintly against ceramic as she lifted it, the bowl shivering in her grip. The first spoonful wavered, nearly spilling, before she brought it close and forced it between her lips. Heat spread across her tongue, bland and steady, grounding in its ordinariness. She swallowed, throat tight, and set the spoon back down with care.
Her gaze shifted from the bowl to the mug. Steam curled from the rim, carrying the familiar edge of coffee—different this time, softened by cream's pale swirl and a sweetness she could smell before she tasted it. Her fingers hovered, uncertain, before she reached for it.
Brock caught the look. One corner of his mouth pulled, not quite a smile, but near enough to register the attempt. "Figured black didn't sit right with you," he said, tone lighter than the rest of him. "Put sugar in it. Even cream. Might actually taste like coffee now."
The words landed awkwardly, his voice carrying the shape of a joke without the confidence behind it.
Her eyes lifted to him at the comment, quick and almost disbelieving, as if the idea that he'd noticed something so small didn't fit with the man she knew. The look lingered a beat before she dropped it again, reaching for the mug with both hands. The ceramic radiated steady heat into her palms, grounding and unsteadying all at once.
She lifted it carefully, testing the steam with a shallow breath before taking a sip. Sweetness touched her tongue first, cream dulling the edge, the warmth sliding down with less resistance than she expected. It settled in her chest, almost welcome, though that unsettled her more than the taste itself.
She kept the mug cupped in both hands, fingers curled tight around the ceramic as if its heat was the only thing steadying her. The steam softened against her face, drifting in slow curls, but she didn't drink again right away.
Brock stayed quiet while she sat with it, elbows resting on his knees, gaze steady but held low enough that it didn't pin her. When the silence stretched past comfort, he finally spoke. "Eat what you can," he said. His tone was flat, matter-of-fact, but it carried a weight closer to permission than order.
A beat passed before he added, quieter, "How bad's the pain?"
The words weren't pressed on her; he left them there, hanging with the steam between them, as if she could answer or let them drift away and he wouldn't push either way.
She let the mug go, setting it carefully back on the tray, and reached for the spoon instead. Her hand shook against the metal, a faint clink as it touched the bowl. She lifted another spoonful and ate before answering, chewing slow, eyes fixed on the oatmeal as though it deserved all her attention.
"Could be worse," she muttered finally, voice low, almost buried under the scrape of the spoon against ceramic. Another bite followed, quick, like she could use it to seal off anything else he might expect her to say.
Brock's eyes narrowed a fraction, the kind of look that marked the words for what they were: a downplay, trimmed lean to hide how much they left out. He didn't press, but the silence that followed carried the weight of his notice all the same.
She kept the spoon moving a little longer, each bite smaller than the last, as if breaking the meal into fragments made it easier to swallow. The warmth sat heavy in her stomach, anchoring her body but refusing to kindle anything like hunger. After the third or fourth mouthful she paused, spoon hovering above the bowl, then lowered it back down with a soft clink.
Her shoulders sagged against the headboard, breath drawing shallower again as though the effort of eating had cost more than it gave. The steam from the mug still brushed at her face, but she let it sit untouched this time, hands folding in her lap.
His jaw flexed once, and he gave the smallest nod. "You're here. That's what matters."
Then he looked away, giving her space, as if the acknowledgment was all she was going to get—and all she needed.
Her words lingered between them, heavier than she'd meant. Brock's jaw flexed once, and he gave the smallest nod. "You're here. That's what matters." Then he looked away, eyes shifting to the far wall as if to put the conversation down.
Harper watched him, fingers tightening around her knees. The images pressed in, unwelcome but vivid—the iron weight of his arm across her back, holding her tight against his chest while her body shook itself empty. Her fists had struck at him, wild and weak, and he'd absorbed every blow without giving one back. His voice had been there instead, low and steady in her ear, cutting through the storm: I've got you. Breathe. Stay with me.
She could still feel the rasp of his shirt against her cheek, tacky with her own blood, his hold firm when she sagged. He'd forced her upright when she would have sprawled, braced her chin so he could see the cut at her throat, words grounding her when the world spun away. It's me. Look at me.
That didn't fit the man she knew—the man who could snap bone without flinching, the man everyone else obeyed or feared. And yet the memory sat there, stubborn, refusing to be anything other than what it was.
The silence stretched, heavy but not pressing. Harper stayed against the headboard, eyes still on him, that clash of memory and reality gnawing at her in quiet places she couldn't voice.
Brock gave it a few more moments before he moved. The tray lifted from the mattress with a muted clink of ceramic, steady in his grip as he rose from the chair. He didn't crowd her, didn't lean close, just straightened and turned toward the door with his weight measured in every step.
"You should get more rest," he said, voice even, carrying nothing but plain instruction as he crossed the room. "You need it." The door shut behind him with the same care he'd shown bringing it open, the deadbolt sliding home softly.
He carried the tray down the short hall, boots thudding softly against the floorboards, and pushed into the kitchen. The counter took the weight with a dull knock of ceramic against laminate just as the front door clicked open.
Knuckles stepped in like he owned the place, shoulders loose, a paper tray hooked in his grip with two coffees riding steady. Steam curled from their lids, the logo of a shop down on Easton flashing when it caught the overhead light. The smell carried ahead of him, rich roast and burnt sugar, and Brock caught it before Knuckles had even closed the door.
"Brought the good stuff," Knuckles said, swinging the door shut with his heel as he crossed the room. He dropped the tray onto the counter beside Brock's, cardboard thumping dully. His eyes cut to the dishes. "That all she ate?"
Brock picked up the half-empty bowl, its rim still damp with steam. He scraped the leftover oatmeal into the garbage, the spoon clattering against ceramic before he set it in the sink with the rest of the dishes. The apple stayed on the tray, untouched, skin shining faint under the overhead.
Knuckles leaned his hip against the counter, watching. "Figured she wouldn't have much appetite." His voice carried no judgment, just a simple read of the situation. He pried the lid off his own coffee, steam fogging briefly against his face before he took a long swallow. "Still, better than nothing."
Brock didn't answer right away, just lifted the cup and drank, the heat burning steady down his throat. He set it back on the counter with a muted tap. "She ate what she could," he said finally.
Knuckles watched him over the rim of his own coffee, eyes narrowing a fraction, weighing the truth against the silence Brock usually preferred. "How's she doing?"
Brock's jaw shifted once. He didn't flinch from the question, didn't try to sidestep it. "Hurting," he said, voice flat. "Ribs, throat, the rest. She's on her feet, but it costs her." A pause, then quieter, almost grudging: "Could've been worse."
Knuckles gave a short nod, neither pressing nor letting it drop, his gaze still steady on Brock as if waiting for more that wasn't coming.
Knuckles tipped his cup, the coffee dark against his teeth when he spoke. "Could be worse," he echoed. "She could be dead. Or recovering in a tiny cement box, which might be the same thing. Bet that room feels like a palace after weeks of concrete."
The line was half a joke, dry and barbed, but when Brock didn't so much as twitch at it, Knuckles's grin faded. He studied him for a moment, eyes narrowing. "How about you?" he asked, quieter now. "You look like you didn't get much sleep either."
Brock's hand tightened around the cup, the cardboard creasing faintly under his grip. He didn't look up right away, just let the silence hang until the words forced themselves out. "Didn't," he said. His voice was rougher than before, stripped down. "Couldn't get last night out of my head. Walking in on them—on her—like that."
He set the cup down hard enough to thud against the counter, jaw grinding as he stared past it. "Blood down her face, knife at her throat, her pants half off. And the look—" his voice caught low, almost a growl, "—eyes wide, like I was about to take my turn the second they were done. I've broken her myself, Knucks. Put her under, dragged her back up. That's business. That's control. But this? This was filth. Just men using steel and fear to strip her down and take what they wanted."
His jaw flexed again, harder this time. "And when I ripped them off her—she didn't see the difference. She hit the wall, looked at me like I was about to finish it. Tried to bolt through blood on the floor, like the door was the only chance she had. And when I grabbed her—" his voice dropped, harsh, "—Christ, the way she fought. Wild, shaking, begging like I was the same as them. Absolutely fucking terrified of me, even after I stopped it."
He finally glanced at Knuckles, eyes dark, as if the admission itself sat like a weight he couldn't put down.
Knuckles didn't answer right away. He watched Brock instead, the silence stretching long enough for the hum of the fridge to cut through. A muscle feathered in his jaw. He set his cup down slow, braced his hands on the counter, and leaned in just enough to close the air between them.
"She's the enemy, sure. A prisoner. But what you walked in on?" His voice was flat, hard. "That's not work. That's weakness hiding behind a blade. We put people in the ground, we make them talk when they don't want to, but that—" his jaw ticked again "—nobody deserves that. Not her. Not anyone."
He held Brock's stare, unblinking. "As for the rest—the way she looked at you? You can't carry that like it's yours. She couldn't tell the difference in that moment, wouldn't have mattered if you'd walked in with blood on your hands or a fucking halo. Terror like that doesn't see faces. All she knew was men in that room, bigger, stronger. You weren't them, Brock. You never will be. Don't let her fear make you forget that."
─•────
Harper had drifted into sleep at last, more surrender than rest, her body sunk heavy into the mattress while her thoughts stayed coiled and waiting. The ache in her ribs followed her down, spreading through her frame until it blurred into everything, a dull throb threaded through the quiet. Even unconscious, her throat tugged and pulled, the bandage stiff against skin that hadn't stopped burning.
The lock snapped open.
Her whole body flinched. Breath tore short through her teeth, ribs seizing against the sudden spike of panic. Her eyes flew open, wild, searching the dim before the room had even taken shape. The sound still reverberated in her skull—metal sliding, bolt thrown—and for a split second she was back in the cell, pressed to concrete, a knife at her throat.
She forced herself upright on the mattress, one hand gripping the comforter like it might anchor her. Every muscle screamed protest, but her pulse drove harder, drowning the ache under raw alarm. The door moved, hinges sighing, and she stared at it with her chest tight, waiting for the figure that would come through.
Brock's frame filled the gap first, shoulders blotting the light, but he wasn't alone. A second shape slipped in behind him—Graves, blonde hair bound severe, a black bag swinging from her hand. The faint sting of antiseptic drifted in with her, threading through the room's stale air.
Harper's body tensed, but not with the same jolt of panic that came with Brock. Graves had steadied her once before, hands clinical but not cruel, voice even when everything else had been collapsing. The memory scraped up with unease, but also a faint thread of something closer to safety.
Graves didn't hesitate. She moved closer, voice even, professional. "I heard what happened the other night. Let me check your injuries—your body's been through more than enough."
Harper's eyes flicked once to Brock, shadowed in the doorway, then back to Graves as she crossed the room. The doctor set her bag on the desk, drew the chair closer, and sat—not crowding, not looming, just steady. The scrape of wood against the floor felt louder than it should have.
She snapped a pair of gloves on, her tone clipped but not cold. "Brock tells me you took blows to the head. Even if you're not feeling it now, I need to check for concussion signs—light response, pressure points, the basics."
"Eyes first," she said, a penlight clicking on with a faint buzz.
Harper stiffened when Graves leaned in, breath catching in her throat, but the doctor gave her no sudden moves—just a steady hand bracing under her chin. The light traced across one pupil, then the other. Her lids fluttered once, but the response held.
"Mild concussion at most," Graves murmured. "Your pupils track well enough. Watch for dizziness, confusion, nausea. If those worsen, you let someone know immediately."
She set the light aside and shifted her hands lower, fingertips brushing carefully along Harper's temple, her cheek, then the line of her jaw. Harper tensed at the first contact, shoulders jerking tight, but Graves's touch stayed precise and brief. By the time she reached the bruised swell along the side of her head, Harper had stopped pulling back, jaw still but eyes wary.
"Swelling's bad," Graves noted, "but nothing deeper. You'll ache, and you may feel foggy, but you're not in danger from this."
Her gloves moved down, tugging gently at the edge of Harper's shirt until she could reach the ribs. Harper drew a quick breath, shrinking against the headboard, but Graves gave her a moment before pressing.
"Slow breath in," she said.
Harper obeyed, the motion hitching mid-way as pain lanced through her side. Graves's fingers pressed steady along the bruised arc.
"Crack," Graves said, more to herself than anyone. "Painful, but not life-threatening." She sat back enough for Harper to ease her shoulders down. "Here's what matters: if you can't catch a full breath, if the pain spikes suddenly, or if you start coughing blood—those are signs of internal bleeding. You tell someone, right away. Understand?"
Harper gave a small nod, breath thin but steadier.
Graves stripped a fresh swab from her kit, voice still calm. "Your throat next. Hold still for me."
Harper stiffened instantly, fingers twisting in the comforter, chest tightening as though the words alone pressed steel back against her skin. Her eyes darted once to Brock—broad in the doorway, silent, heavy—and then back to Graves as she leaned closer.
The doctor moved with steady care, her gloved hand resting lightly at Harper's chin. "Easy," she murmured. "I won't press."
Tape tugged free in slow strips as Graves peeled the gauze back. The line bared itself, red and raw but holding, edges drawn tight against pale skin. Harper's pulse fluttered under it, every swallow dragging against the fresh stretch.
Antiseptic stung the air as Graves dabbed along the cut. Harper hissed, throat jerking once, but Graves's touch was precise and brief. The swab came away streaked, nothing more.
"It's clean," she said after a moment. "The line's holding—no seep, no spread. Leave it open to air for now."
Her eyes flicked to Brock then, voice shifting just slightly. "Watch for swelling, redness, or discharge. If you see it, bring her to me immediately."
Only then did Harper's shoulders ease, just a fraction, her throat working as she tested a swallow that held.
Graves reached for her bag. A syringe clicked softly as she drew liquid into it, holding it steady to tap the barrel. The plunger eased, pushing a bead of clear fluid to the tip before she set it aside on a sterile tray.
While her hands worked, her eyes swept Harper over with that practiced precision. The change was obvious. The fullness she remembered weeks ago had melted down to lines of bone and hollow. Muscle wasted from shoulders and arms, cheeks drawn thinner, even her collarbone standing sharper against skin gone pale.
"You've lost weight," Graves said flatly, though not without a thread of disapproval. "Severe loss. Poor food, stress, injuries stacked one on top of another—it strips you down fast. You'll need proper nutrition if you expect your body to heal at all." Her gaze flicked toward Brock for just a second, the reminder aimed at him as much as Harper.
She picked up the syringe again, rolling it between her fingers. "Pain medication," she said simply, her voice smoothing back into clinical calm. "It'll ease your ribs and let you sleep. You may feel lightheaded—empty stomach will do that—but it's safer than letting pain keep your body locked tight."
The needle slid into Harper's upper arm with practiced ease, a faint sting giving way to warmth spreading under the skin.
Graves disposed of it, stripping her gloves off with a snap, and turned toward Brock. "Get food into her soon. Something solid. It'll help settle the medication and give her body something to work with." Her tone carried no suggestion—it was instruction.
Graves gathered her kit, tucking vials and gauze back into their slots, the rustle of supplies the only sound between them. When she finished, she didn't rise right away. Instead she looked at Harper—really looked. The bruises, the hollows, the way she held herself taut even now.
Something softened in her face. Not pity, not even sympathy—just recognition. A corner of her mouth tugged in the faintest smile. "You're tougher than you look," she said quietly. "You'll be all right."
Harper blinked at her, caught off guard by the words, but Graves didn't linger. She stood, slinging the strap of her bag over her shoulder, and moved toward the door.
Brock stepped back to let her pass. His voice came low, a single word edged in gratitude he didn't often give. "Thanks."
Graves gave a short nod, then slipped out, the door shutting soft behind her.
Silence held for a moment after, thick in the dim. Harper's eyes stayed on the door, her breathing shallow, the warmth of the injection just starting to dull the ache in her ribs.
Brock lingered where he was, gaze cutting once to her before shifting away. "I'll bring food," he said, voice low but firm, like a promise more than an offer.
Then he turned, boots heavy against the floorboards, and stepped out after Graves. The lock slid back into place behind him, the sound leaving Harper alone with her own breath and the slow creep of exhaustion.
─•────
The lock clacked.
Her chest seized. The door edged open slow, hinges dragging. Brock filled the gap, shoulders blotting the light. No one behind him—just him.
"Down."
The word cracked through the room and hands were on her, huge, unyielding. He dragged her off the bed like she weighed nothing. The floor slammed into her cheek, stone tearing her skin. Blood pooled in her mouth, hot, metallic, spilling when she gasped.
A knee crushed her ribs until something cracked. She tried to scream, but his hand fisted in her hair and wrenched her head back, throat stretched bare. The knife slid cold under her jaw.
"Keep thrashing, see what happens."
The blade bit deeper, parting skin until heat poured down her chest. His other hand clawed at her hip, ripping fabric wide. The waistband tore, threads slicing her raw, leaving her exposed to the cold.
"Time to find out if you're worth fucking after all."
The words were his. Brock's. Low, rough, spoken in the same voice that had steadied her, that had said he wasn't going to hurt her.
Water surged next, flooding her mouth, her nose, choking her. His weight pinned her, arm braced across her chest, holding her down while her lungs convulsed. She bucked, thrashing, ribs screaming—but the knife pressed harder, deeper, sawing as she drowned.
Her eyes caught his above her, close now, so close. Flat. Empty. The face of the man who'd dragged her under before, the man who'd held her thrashing until her body broke.
She begged, but the sound was only water and blood.
"Harper."
His voice cut through again, low, rough, steady—except it wasn't a tether this time. It was a verdict.
She ripped awake with a cry, body snapping upright. The room blurred in shadow, her throat still burning, chest convulsing with phantom water. A man's frame loomed close, broad shoulders blotting the light.
Her fist lashed wild, knuckles crashing against him with every ounce of terror left in her blood.
Her fist connected, knuckles cracking hard against his jaw. The impact jolted Brock's head sideways, teeth gritting with the sting of it. He hadn't been ready—he'd been crouched low, one hand braced on the mattress, the other reaching for her shoulder to shake her awake.
Harper's breath tore ragged from her throat, chest heaving, eyes wide and wild. The nightmare still clung, blood and water and knives, and all she saw was a man leaning over her, bigger, stronger, close enough to pin her down.
Her hand dropped back, trembling, as the room finally bled into focus—blanket twisted at her legs, the desk against the wall, Brock crouched bare-chested in the dim, hair disheveled, sweatpants hanging low on his hips. Not attackers. Not a knife. Just him.
"I—I'm sorry," she gasped, words tumbling over themselves. Her voice cracked, thin and frantic. "I didn't—I wasn't—I'm sorry—"
She pressed back into the headboard, apology spilling softer, desperate. "Please. I didn't mean—"
Brock shifted back just enough to give her space, both hands open, steady. His voice cut through, low but even, every word deliberate.
"You were dreaming." A pause, firm. "That's all it was. A nightmare."
Her eyes darted, wild, her breath tearing quick and shallow.
"I'm fine," he said, jaw tight but steady. "You didn't hurt me. You're fine. You're awake now. Breathe."
Her chest seized, ribs locking against the effort to pull air in. Her body shook with it, nerves sparking wild, until her eyes brimmed and the tears broke free—hot, sudden, spilling down her face before she could fight them back. A sound slipped out, small and raw, half-caught between a sob and a gasp for air.
Brock didn't move in, didn't touch her, just stayed crouched steady, his voice dropping to something low and even, pared to the bone. "In. Out. Slow. That's it."
Her hands snapped up to her face, jerky, violent in their shaking. She scrubbed hard at the wet streaks with her palms, as though force could erase them faster. Her fingers trembled so fiercely they dragged clumsy across her skin, smearing tears instead of wiping them clean.
The harder she tried, the worse the shaking got—shoulders quaking, breath stuttering, hands jerking against her cheeks like she was scrubbing away something filthy. The comforter bunched under her grip when she let them drop again, fists balled tight against the violent tremor that wouldn't leave her arms.
Her sobs thinned, caught between shallow breaths, but the tears kept streaking hot down her face, refusing to stop no matter how she fought them.
Brock didn't move, his eyes steady on hers. "Do you have them often?"
She blinked, confusion cutting through the panic. "What?"
"The nightmares."
Her gaze faltered, dropping to the comforter bunched around her legs. Her voice came low, almost ashamed. "Almost every night since I got here."
His jaw shifted, a muscle tight In his face. "That can't keep going." A pause, weight behind it. "If it happens again, come get me."
Her hand came up, swiping at the wetness on her cheeks with trembling fingers, trying to erase the evidence before it could sink deeper. "I'm sorry," she murmured.
Something flickered across his expression—gone before she could read it. "Don't apologize for something you can't control."
He rose to his feet, his shadow stretching across the dim room. At the door, he hesitated only long enough to leave it cracked, the hallway's faint light spilling through, before walking away.
Harper stared at the narrow sliver of space, her body still trembling though the silence pressed in around her. Her hands shook until she forced them down against the mattress, her breathing evening by slow degrees.
When the tension in her chest eased, she slid lower, pulling the blanket over her head until she was sealed inside its weight. She lay like that a long while, eyes open in the dark, before exhaustion finally dragged her under.