Ours.
His words settled along her skin like a hand feeling for a grip. The three of them moved deeper into the cell, shoulders rolling as they spread out. The wall came up behind her before she fully registered she'd backed into it, concrete cold between her shoulder blades.
Past them, the door hung open, a strip of yellow light stretching away, and beyond that she could see it in her mind as clean as if she stood there already: the narrow hall, the climb of the stairs, the metal door at the top with its reader waiting for a card she didn't have. She had no idea how many steps she'd get before somebody caught her. She only knew every step away from this room would be a step where their hands weren't on her. Her legs bunched, and she drove off the wall toward the gap between their shoulders and the light outside.
A hand caught her arm mid-lunge and ripped her sideways. Momentum snapped out from under her. The cell tilted, wall rushing at her, and her shoulder hit first. Pain jumped down her side as she bounced off the concrete, spun half around, and dropped chest-first onto the floor. Her forearms hit a blink before her ribs, jarring her hands open on the impact, and the air tore out of her in a choked sound that barely made it past her teeth.
Behind her, the second man slammed the door. Metal met metal with a solid clang, the lock rolling home and sealing the room again. Whatever space the open frame had offered vanished in that single motion.
The third dropped on her before she could get her knees under herself. His weight hit across her hips, then drove higher. A knee jammed into the soft spot under her ribs, crushing what breath she'd managed to claw back in, while his forearm pressed across her upper back and shoved her chest to the floor. Someone else's fingers twisted in her hair and bounced her forehead off the concrete. The impact rang through bone, her vision stuttering.
Brock's voice cut through the noise, clean as if he crouched beside her on the floor. You put your hands on my men again, you don't walk away from it.
The memory should've pinned her as firmly as the weight driving into her spine. Instead it slipped through the haze and found the same stubborn corner inside her that had thrown her skull into a nose in the showers.
If she lay still, they took what they wanted and called it a lesson. If she took a piece of them, maybe they cashed that promise in right here. Either way, this room ended in the same place.
She chose.
Her hand dragged in under her, scrabbling for purchase, then hooked back and up. She found the arm pressing her down and raked her nails along bare skin. She felt the resistance give, skin tearing, warm slick streaking under her fingers.
The man on her back swore and shifted higher, all that weight grinding along her spine. His knee slid up and dropped over her upper arm, pinning it tight along her side. When she jerked her free elbow back in a short, ugly drive toward his ribs, he caught that wrist out of the air and yanked it in. Her arm was wrenched up and back until her shoulder lit with hot, electric pain. The trapped arm couldn't move under his knee. Her chest stayed glued to the concrete under the press of his weight, the last of her leverage gone.
Boots crashed into her side and hip, each impact rolling through muscle until everything felt distant and bruised. Someone drove a heel into the back of her thigh, grinding down until her leg jerked and stayed locked. Her breaths came in torn scraps.
More weight settled across her spine. Fingers knotted tighter in her hair and wrenched her head up off the floor. A fist slammed into her cheek from the side, snapping her vision sideways, and another drove into the soft place along her flank, forcing a broken sound out of her chest. The cell pulsed around the narrow strip of floor in front of her as kicks found new targets—thighs, ribs, the base of her spine. The hand in her hair shoved her head back down until her cheek scraped along the concrete. She tried to twist her hips, to buck them off and drag an arm free, and that earned her a kick hammered into her ribs, heat flooding across her chest and a deep, throbbing ache that made her lungs flinch from their own effort.
Hands in her hair wrenched her head up again, jerking her face off the floor. Her neck screamed, muscles locked and shaking, grit sticking to the side of her mouth. Another body crowded in at her shoulder. An arm hooked in under her chin from the side, crook of an elbow grinding against her jaw as a forearm slid across the front of her throat. He hauled back, trying to cinch her in tight, her weight twisted partly onto her side.
Her teeth found skin.
She twisted into the angle he gave her and bit down hard on the thick muscle of his forearm. Flesh pushed against her tongue, then gave, hot and wet flooding her mouth. He shouted, the sound breaking high, his arm jerking as he tried to rip free. She locked her jaw and held on, grinding her teeth deeper, refusing to let go even when his other hand crashed into the side of her head and the boots came in harder, blows thudding into her back and ribs in a frantic, panicked rush.
Pressure on her arms changed first.
The man straddling her back shifted, weight rocking to one side as he tried to get a hand on the forearm trapped in her mouth. His knee slid off her upper arm for a fraction of a second, snagging at her ribs instead. The grip on her bitten wrist loosened as he reached.
Harper drove her hips up in a hard, ugly buck, twisting at the same time. Her teeth tore one last time at the flesh in her mouth before she let go, copper flooding over her tongue as she ripped her jaw open and rolled into the space his weight left. He slipped, dropping sideways across her, and she forced an arm under herself, then the other, scraping skin as she forced her knees under her.
For one staggering breath she was moving on her own. Grit slid under her palms. Her shoulders fought to come up, to pull her torso clear of the tangle of limbs.
The hand in her hair never let go.
It jerked tight as she rose, turning her whole body by the roots. The world swung sideways. She was yanked off her hands, feet scrambling for purchase that wasn't there, and then flung toward the wall like he was cracking a whip.
Her shoulder hit first, then the side of her face. Concrete crashed through her cheekbone and temple, stars bursting across her vision. Her nose took the next part of the impact with a wet crunch that sent heat spilling down over her lips. She bounced off and dropped, knees smacking the floor before she crumpled onto her side.
A hand hooked under her arm and wrenched her up off the floor. Her shoulder hit the wall behind her, concrete scraping along bone as they slammed her upright. Her feet barely caught before a fist buried in her stomach, folding her forward into the grip at her arm. She gagged, spit and bile splattering down the wall and onto the floor between her feet.
They yanked her straight again, using the wall to hold her up when her knees buckled. Another punch snapped her head sideways, cheek smacking brick before it rolled back. Blood from her broken nose flooded her mouth, hot and metallic, spilling over her lip before she could spit it clear. Fists found her face and ribs in a steady rhythm. Hands slid from her arms to her wrists and shoved them up along the wall, spreading her out, shoulders straining. Her chest stretched forward under the pull, and a punch across her mouth split her lip, bouncing her skull off the wall behind her.
The hold changed. Hands dropped from her wrists to her shoulders and shoved, spinning her. Her back peeled off the concrete, the room tipping as they turned her in a rough half-circle until she faced the wall instead. Another body stepped in close behind, chest pressed to her back, a palm flattening hard at the base of her neck. He drove her forward. Her forearms hit first, scraping along the wall, then her chest, their weight pinning her there and hauling her up every time her knees tried to give.
Then palms slid lower, rough fingers closing at her hips and dragging her back that last inch until his hips locked to hers. He shoved her torso into the wall, pelvis driving into the base of her spine as his thumb hooked under the waistband of her pants. Heat and weight crowded in from behind, breath ghosting along her ear, and her chest locked tight. Awareness cut clean through the fog, everything in her narrowing around that hand at her waistband and the press of him at her back. Her body snapped into motion before the thought finished forming. She twisted hard, tried to throw her weight sideways off his grip, to get even an inch, and the answer was another punch hammered into her ribs and a sudden wrenching drop as they let go all at once and flung her back toward the floor.
She hit the floor on her side and bounced, shoulder and hip taking the first shock. Concrete scraped along her cheek as she rolled onto her stomach. Instinct threw her forward. She clawed at the slab with her palms, feet slipping as she tried to haul herself across the cell, away from the cluster of legs and hands behind her.
She made it half a body length before fingers closed around her ankle and yanked. Her leg shot back, the rest of her sliding with it, shirt riding up, skin burning along the grit. Weight crashed down across her hips and lower back, driving her flat. Hands caught her wrists and wrenched them up toward the small of her back, twisting until her shoulders screamed.
Blood ran hot down her face, dripping from her nose and mouth onto the floor. The weight on her back should've pressed everything out of her. Instead something inside her snapped the other way. She twisted under him, trying to throw his balance off, teeth snapping toward the forearm braced near her head. Her foot jerked back and connected with a shin. A fist drove into her side in answer, pain flaring along her ribs, but she shoved against it and thrashed anyway, a rough sound ripping out of her as she fought the hold.
A palm slammed down between her shoulder blades, forcing her harder into the floor. Fingers dug into her hair at the roots and yanked, wrenching her head back until her throat strained. She choked on a cry, vision blazing—
Cold metal touched her skin.
Metal settled into the hollow beneath her jaw, a hard line pressed to soft skin. She felt the slight turn of the blade, the way the edge found its place. One careless breath, one twitch, and it would open her from neck to air. Every inhale bobbed her throat tighter against it, a tiny pull she couldn't control, each one laying out how easy it'd be for him to push.
Her body went rigid. Muscles that had been straining a second ago locked tight, fingers curling. The pressure at her neck blurred with another weight, another floor: her father sprawled on his stomach with an Enforcer's knee driven between his shoulders, his face dragged up by a fist in his hair. She saw his eyes again, wide and fixed on hers across the room as the knife slid in under his jaw, felt the moment the blade moved and the sound that followed, that wet hiss and the rasp of air through ruined flesh, the rush of warmth spreading across the warehouse floor while his back arched against the knee holding him down and then sagged.
This was the same angle. The same grip. The same quiet before the cut. She didn't have to imagine how it ended; she'd already watched it once. All that was left here was how long they made her wait before they finished it.
The knife on her own skin didn't move. The voice above her did, dropping straight through the ragged scrape of her lungs.
"Keep thrashing, see what happens."
Then a hand hooked into the back of her waistband and hauled her hips off the floor. Fabric bit into her skin, and the shift dragged her throat along the edge of the blade. She felt it take, a thin line parting under the steel, warmth sliding along the side of her neck and down into the collar of her shirt. The sting landed a second later, hot and immediate, and her whole body tried to jerk away before the grip in her hair snapped her still. Her scalp burned under the pull, keeping her head tipped back so her throat stayed offered no matter how she tried to shrink from it.
Hands tore at her pants, wrenching the waistband down hard over the bones of her hips. Fabric fought for a second, then gave, sliding rough across bruised skin. Another grip caught under her thigh and forced her knees in, levering her up until she knelt with her chest still flattened to the slab. In the scramble her pants and underwear were yanked down and bunched tight around her thighs, pinning her legs together, trapping her in an awkward half-crouch that she couldn't kick out of. Her arms were wrenched high behind her back, shoulders screaming, her head pulled so far off the floor that the knife dug harder into the small cut at her throat. Every tiny twitch made the edge bite. If she tried to pull away, she'd slice herself deeper. If she went slack, they had all the time they wanted to use the position they'd forced her into.
Cold air licked at the skin they'd exposed low on her back and along the backs of her thighs. A breath slid in close to her ear, hot and rotten against the side of her face.
"Time to find out if you're worth fucking after all."
Something inside her dropped. Panic tore through her system so hard her chest forgot what to do with the air she was dragging in. Her mind threw itself at every direction at once—forward into the knife, back into the hands on her hips, sideways into a space that didn't exist—then snagged on the simple truth that there was nowhere to go. Her lungs dragged at the air in shallow, broken pulls. Her muscles shook under the strain of holding still, every tiny tremor brushing skin against steel and reminding her how close the edge sat.
Fingers lifted off her hip. For a second she thought they'd changed their minds, right up until a rough knuckle brushed along the bare skin at the back of her thigh and the slow rasp of a zipper cut through the pant of her own breathing. Weight shifted behind her, knees bumping the backs of her legs as the man lined himself up, one hand bracing on her hip again, thumb digging into exposed flesh to hold her in place. The knife never eased.
The mag lock chirped.
Every body in the room jolted at once as the door clunked and swung wide.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing in my cell block?"
Brock's voice cracked through the room. The weight on her shifted before the echo died. The knife lifted a fraction from her throat, the grip in her hair loosening without letting go. Fingers fumbled at her waistband, jerking her pants up in a clumsy rush, hauling fabric over skin they'd just exposed as if that single act could erase what they'd done.
One of them swallowed hard. When he spoke, his voice stumbled out thin and high.
"It—it wasn't like that. Just… just teaching her a lesson, keeping her in line—"
The excuses tripped over each other, every syllable thrown toward the doorway, toward Brock, as if Harper weren't even there on her knees with blood slipping down her neck. The room held its breath, bodies locked in place, waiting on the man who'd just walked in.
Then Brock moved.
For a split second her whole body braced for the cut, muscles clenching, throat tightening against the edge that still hovered at her skin. Sudden motion meant steel.
Instead metal skimmed away. The last of the pressure vanished as the hand in her hair tore free and the weight crushing her spine jerked backward, ripped off her like it didn't belong there. The shift was so abrupt she barely registered the absence before her body bolted. 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 in a jolt that rattled through bone. She spun and pressed her back to the concrete, dragging herself upright until the slab sat solid between her and the center of the room. Her own blood streaked the floor where she'd hauled herself, a dark trail marking the gap.
Brock's fury filled the cell, sudden and violent. She heard it first: the thud of a body slammed into the wall, the crack of knuckles into bone, the grind of his voice spitting words she couldn't catch. Impacts blurred together—fists, knees, boots—each one landing with a sick, practiced certainty. A shape crumpled near the door. Another dropped under his grip. A third form was dragged past the frame and hurled into the hall, a dull crash and a choked shout swallowed by the corridor.
She couldn't track which man was which, couldn't tell where one body ended and the next began. The cell shook with the force of it, every heavy contact ricocheting through her ribs as if the blows were still landing on her instead.
Then silence fell, sudden and heavy. The sound of their retreat scattered down the corridor, boots fading one by one until only the buzz of the overheads and the rush in her own ears were left.
Harper pressed herself into the wall, shaking, lungs dragging at air that wouldn't settle. She knew—she knew—he wasn't the danger here. He'd torn them off her, wrecked them, driven them out of the cell. Her mind could line those facts up in a neat row and still her body refused to hear it. Every muscle screamed that he was just another man in this room, bigger, stronger, furious, close enough to reach her in two strides. Her thoughts split down the middle, logic whispering safe while instinct shrieked run. When Brock turned toward her, the sheer weight of him swung with it, and her pulse spiked until it drowned everything else out. She flinched, lips peeling back, like she was still braced for the knife against her throat.
Then he stepped forward.
Her body broke ranks. Her legs went out from under her, and she slid down the wall in a frantic scrape, trying to make herself smaller and failing. Her knees hit first, then her hip, then she was curled on the floor without remembering how she got there. Her arms snapped up to cover her head. A choked sound ripped loose, raw and ugly, and she couldn't haul it back in. Her whole frame knotted tight, trying to disappear into the concrete. Thought went thin and useless, blown out by the single conviction riding every nerve: another hit was coming.
Brock stopped dead.
The air between them thickened around her ragged breaths. He stood at the edge of the blood she'd smeared across the floor, fists still curled from the fight, shoulders lifted once with a hard inhale before he forced them still. The rage in him hadn't been meant for her; she understood that somewhere, in the distant part of her mind that still remembered the sound of him tearing the others away. The way she cowered against the wall anyway, shaking so hard her teeth clicked, made it plain her body didn't care about the distinction.
"Harper."
Just her name. Low, steady, leveled at her like he was tossing her a line. No stride, no barked order, only that single word. It didn't touch the panic clawing through her. Her arms stayed locked over her head, breath tearing quick and shallow through her teeth, as if any second he might step in and everything would start all over again—only with him.
Brock eased a little weight onto his front foot, the start of another step.
Harper's body reacted before the motion finished. She recoiled, arms shooting out between them as if she could hold him off with empty hands. Her feet slipped in the blood on the floor, slick warmth smearing under her soles. Her stance went with it. Her crouch buckled, knees skidding until she almost went down hard. She crashed back into the wall, shoulder slamming concrete, arms still outstretched, chest heaving like she'd just taken a punch.
Brock stopped where he was, hands open at his sides.
"I'm not going to hurt you," he said, voice low and rough, the edges scraped by everything that had just happened and forced steady anyway.
The words slipped under the noise in her head just enough that she looked up, a fraction. He came into focus piece by piece: fists uncurling, shoulders still tight, blood on his knuckles that wasn't his. His gaze tracked over her face, and she felt it catch on every mark—blood smeared across her mouth, streaking down her throat, seeping from the thin line at her neck. Her chest shuddered as her stare snapped past him to the open door behind his shoulder. Distance. Exit. The thought flickered clear on the surface of her mind: if he moved aside, she could run.
Brock shifted again, slower this time. He dropped into a crouch, lowering himself until his height no longer towered over her. His hands stayed where she could see them, empty, fingers loose. He set his weight back on his heels instead of into her space, as if he were bracing himself away from her rather than toward her.
Her body didn't buy it. The last time he'd dragged these same men off her, he'd walked toward her then too, calm as ever, and his fist had driven into her face hard enough to put her on the floor. Lesson delivered. Pain had done the rest. Every muscle she had remembered that before her brain could catch up.
Her arms stayed stretched out between them, shaking so hard the blood on her palms flicked tiny spots across the floor. When her voice finally scraped free, it came thin and raw, hardly more than air.
"Please, don't—"
It wasn't aimed like a request. It tore loose on reflex, survival stripped down to sound. Her eyes never left the doorway behind him. Every line of her body leaned in that direction, begging him without words not to block it.
Something in him altered. She saw it in the way his jaw set, in the way his shoulders dropped a fraction, the anger that had filled the cell settling into a tighter, quieter shape. He said her name again, rough but controlled.
"Harper." He leaned in just enough that the word carried, not enough to close the space. His gaze held hers. "You're bleeding," he murmured. "Let me help you."
Her arms didn't lower. They shook, smeared in red, still held out between them as if that trembling span of skin could keep him from crossing the distance. Her throat worked. Her eyes clung to the line of the open door. No other word came. No movement toward him. Her body stayed locked where panic had put it.
Brock's weight shifted where he crouched, something hard settling behind his eyes. He let the silence stretch for another breath, then exhaled slow through his nose. Decision settled into his shoulders.
"All right," he said, voice low but firm. "Then I'm coming to you."
He started to move, edging closer, careful, deliberate. The moment his weight tipped forward into her space, Harper's body snapped like a spring. She drove upward in a lurch, blood-slick palms shoving against the floor, legs scrambling for purchase. Pain screamed through her ribs as she forced her feet under her. She surged toward the gap behind him, bolting for the doorway.
She didn't make it a step.
Brock launched with her. His hand locked around her wrist mid-swing and yanked hard. The pull ripped her off balance, spine jerking, and a raw scream ripped out of her throat before she knew it was coming. She twisted against the grip, blood smearing slick between their skin, heels skidding on the floor, but his hand didn't slip. His other arm came across her back, hauling her in, and he dropped with her—knees hitting concrete in a jarring thud as he dragged her down into his chest and cut off her run.
Her body crashed into him, wild and thrashing, another scream tearing loose as her bare feet scraped uselessly at the slab. One arm cinched tight around her back; the hand holding her wrist pinned it against his ribs. She fought anyway, frantic and raw, every desperate jerk only dragging her tighter against him. Her strength poured out of her in ragged sounds, half-formed pleas breaking apart into sobs. His didn't give at all. The wall was gone, but the cage remained. Her mind howled that he was no different—bigger, stronger, the same weight crushing her down—even while some thin, distant part of her registered the difference: no fists. No anger. Just a solid grip holding her in place like stone in a storm.
"Harper." His voice came rough above her ear, steady against the shaking that ran through her. "Stop. I've got you."
Her trapped wrist strained uselessly against his hand, but her free arm came up striking wild. Her fist caught his shoulder, his chest, even glanced off his jaw once, each blow landing with a dull thud. He didn't loosen his hold. He took every hit, unflinching, arm still cinched around her back. Her blood smeared into his shirt, hot against his skin, marking every shudder that went through her.
"Harper." He repeated her name, voice lower, firmer, cutting through her ragged sobs. "It's me. Look at me."
She kept swinging, each weak blow dragging a hoarse cry with it, until there was nothing left behind her punches. Her breathing hitched against his chest, shallow and broken. One last strike clipped him without force before her arm dropped, trembling and spent. Her wrist went slack in his grip. Her body still shook, nerves fried and firing on nothing, but the fight was gone. All that remained was her weight sagging into him, blood soaking deeper into the fabric between them.
Brock rode the shift, arms locking just enough to keep her from slipping, her weight held solid against his chest. His voice dropped again, steady, the same rhythm he'd used on her name.
"That's it," he said quietly. "Breathe. I've got you."
He eased his grip by degrees, slow enough that she could've fought it if she'd had any strength left. Her trapped wrist slid out of his hand and fell useless at her side. He didn't let her fall with it. One arm stayed locked around her, holding her weight where it sagged into him, while his other hand remained planted on the floor beside them, palm braced against concrete, ready if she surged again. Blood seeped warm through his shirt, tacky now, clinging wherever their bodies pressed. He eased back onto his heels, staying on his knees and taking her weight with him, her body gathered against his chest while her sobs dragged ragged between them and his own breath sawed in and out under the strain.
After a moment he moved again, the scrape of his knees loud against the slab as he adjusted. The arm holding her didn't loosen; his other hand slid from the floor to her side, steadying her as he leaned back. He drew her with him, setting her down against his thigh and the wall so she ended up sitting instead of crumpled in a heap. Her body drooped with the shift, new streaks of red striping her neck and jaw. From there he finally had a clean line on her face—pale under the blood, eyes glassy and unfocused.
"Stay with me," he murmured, rough but controlled. His hand hovered near her chin, hesitating only a breath 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, solid as a brace, and his voice dropped low at her ear, rough but steady.
"I'm going to pick you up."
Her head jerked in a faint shake, a broken sound slipping out before she could stop it. Not a real fight, not even resistance—just protest, thin and raw. She didn't push or strike. She sagged heavier instead, body trembling in his hold.
He let out a slow breath through his nose, jaw tight, then moved.
His arm slid under her knees, the other tightening around her as he lifted. The motion ripped a high, ragged noise from her throat as her body jolted against his chest. Pain flared through her ribs, locking muscle for a heartbeat before everything gave. She sagged again, boneless, blood soaking warm through his shirt and streaking across his forearm where her head dropped heavy against him.
Med bay was the first place his body wanted to go. Years of habit pulled his weight in that direction before his brain caught up. But then he pictured the three bastards he'd just thrown out of her cell arriving there next. Stitched up in the next bay over. Breathing the same air as her.
He shut that path down hard.
Word would spread before anyone laid a hand on the wound at her throat. Eyes would strip her bare faster than gloved fingers ever could. They'd take in the blood, the bruises, the state he'd brought her in, and by the next shift she'd be a story traded up and down the floor.
His quarters were better. Contained. A door he controlled, space he controlled, people he could keep out. He could clean the cut, get her stable, figure out the rest after. Nobody else needed to see her like this. He wasn't giving them the chance.
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, the space still humming with the violence that lived in her breathing, and he needed her away from it. Now.
Harper's world tilted. Concrete dropped away, replaced by the steady rise and fall of Brock's chest under her. Her head sagged against him, ear pressed close enough to hear the slow thump of his pulse, calm and measured, nothing like the chaos still ripping through her veins. Each step jarred her ribs, pain sparking and then spreading into a heavy throb that soaked 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 the blur of her vision—walls, doors, the gleam of steel rails—shifting and swimming like they belonged to someone else's life. The air smelled of concrete and oil and him, sweat and blood ground deep into fabric. Somewhere behind it all, boots struck the slab in a steady pattern, Brock's stride unbroken, every step carrying her farther from the cell.
A chime. The hiss of metal. A small change in the air as elevator doors opened. She caught the shift in sound, the echo pulling in tighter around them as he stepped inside. Brock stayed steady under her while the doors slid shut with a final click that sealed them in.
Her lashes dragged heavy, breath hitching shallow against his chest. The drum of his heart was still there, solid under her ear, regular in a way she couldn't match. It kept going when she couldn't quite remember how.