Warmth pulled Harper up from sleep—thin at first, then steady, soaking through the blanket and into her cheek until it seemed to sink all the way to bone. 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. 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. The memory hovered close enough to touch, soft around the edges, as if she only had to roll over for the rest of it to settle into place.
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. Something tugged across the front of her throat when she moved, a stiff pull against skin gone puffy and sore. The comforter slid down to her chest, and the sunlight stopped pretending to be morning at the Den; it came in at the wrong angle, the wrong color. It was only light 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 moan slipping out before she could catch it. Every muscle protested, her ribs grinding under the strain, but she kept going until she was propped against the headboard, the comforter pooled in her lap. The room swam once, then steadied: plain walls, a narrow desk, a door set at an angle she didn't know. The bed beneath her had been made with a care that wasn't hers.
Memory came in fragments. The cell door filling her vision. Brock's arm across her ribs when she tried to launch past him into the hall. The floor tilting as he lifted her. A smear of corridor lights, the close press of the elevator, a different door opening on tile and steam. Cold water striking her skin.
Past that, nothing held. Her thoughts slid over the rest and left a blank stretch where more should've been, a smear of motion and sound that refused to resolve. Whatever came after the blast of water stayed buried. Her mind reached for it and slipped off, landing back here. She glanced down. A soft, worn T-shirt clung to her shoulders, unfamiliar against clean skin. He had worked her into sweats, tied the drawstring at her waist, settled the comforter over her and smoothed it in around her hips. Her fingers rose, finding the rigid line at her throat, the pad of gauze held tight over the cut, tape biting into tender skin. All of it had happened with her body present and her memory gone. Her own last clear moment was bare skin and running water. Everything between lay in that gap, blank and waiting, as if a handful of hours had been lifted straight out of her life.
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, and 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've.
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, the whole thing waiting for orders just like the room.
The window drew her next. Glass cooled her palm, dust haloed around old rain spots, a faint tremor running through the pane as the building breathed. She tried the latch. It rattled and stopped, stuck or locked or painted shut. 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 followed its arc past the perimeter, out into the haze above the buildings, until it dwindled into open air and disappeared. The sight left a hollow under her breastbone, sudden and deep. Once, walking out under the sky had been as easy as choosing a door and taking it. Somewhere along the way, without her noticing, that had run out.
She never heard anyone in the hall. The first warning was the deadbolt grinding in the door. 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, 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, shoulders drawn tight to keep from crowding the frame. Steam drifted up from it, faint in the cooler air of the room. He closed the door behind him, careful with the hinge, and for a moment his eyes went straight to the bed, as if he expected to find her waiting there. Empty.
His gaze swept the room until it caught on her, stranded halfway between desk and window with one hand clamped on the chair back for balance. Her body stayed coiled in the shape of the turn she hadn't finished, the posture of someone already bracing for consequences.
Brock's jaw shifted once. He let the tray settle in his grip, widened his stance a fraction, and stayed where he was. The silence pressed in while his eyes held on her—wide, tight, already flinching from what she thought would come next. The lines at the corners of his mouth eased, 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.
"Didn't expect you up yet," he murmured. "Sure as hell didn't expect you standing." He watched the flinch that crossed her features, the way her gaze flicked past him toward the door and back again. "You're not in trouble for it," he added. "If you can stay on your feet, that's your choice." His chin tipped toward the bed. "But you'll eat easier sitting down, and you should be resting."
She didn't move at first. Her grip on the chair stayed white-knuckled, chest rising shallow, gaze fixed 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. Her fingers left the chair, hand trailing along the desk for balance as she eased a step back toward the bed. Every motion was deliberate, shaped by the assumption that quickness might draw a blow. The sweatpants slipped again at her hips; she caught the fabric with one hand, wincing when 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 groan slipped 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 settled, her shoulders easing a fraction 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 moment 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 warned he wasn't about to move fast. The tray rested on the mattress between them, close to her shins, steam unwinding from the mug, warmth gathering around the bowl. Simple, solid, nothing that looked like a trick.
Harper kept still, eyes flicking to the tray and back to him. The bowl sat full, oatmeal thick and pale with a few darker flecks where sugar had started to melt in. Toast waited in two neat halves on the plate, a thin gloss of butter catching the light, an apple tucked against the rim.
She didn't reach right away. Her stomach knotted too tight for hunger to feel straightforward, but the heat rising from the bowl tugged at her all the same. Seconds slid past, heavy, before she let her hand creep forward. Her fingers trembled as they closed around the spoon's handle. Metal tapped faintly against ceramic when she lifted it, the bowl shivering with the movement. The first spoonful wavered, nearly spilling, before she brought it close and forced it between her lips. Heat spread across her tongue, plain 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, lighter in color, the bite of it rounded off by a faint sweetness in the air. Her fingers hovered, uncertain, before she reached for it.
Brock caught the look. One corner of his mouth pulled, not quite a smile, just enough to show the effort. "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."
Harper's eyes lifted to him at that, quick and almost wary, as if checking whether he meant it, whether he really had bothered to notice something that small. The look held for a moment before she let it go and reached 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 met her tongue first, cream rounding off the bitterness until the taste turned almost indulgent. Heat slid down and pooled low, easing something in her shoulders she hadn't realized was clenched. For a few seconds she just held it there, letting the flavor sit, surprised by how good it was. Across from her, Brock's gaze flicked to the rim of the mug and back to her face, a small looseness touching his shoulders when she swallowed. The strangeness of sitting in his room, drinking something she actually liked from his hands, made the floor under her sense of things tilt.
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 the mug, elbows resting on his knees, gaze steady but held low enough that it didn't pin her. When the silence stretched long enough for the food to cool, he finally spoke.
"Eat what you can."
She let the mug go, setting it carefully back on the tray, and reached for the spoon again. She drew it through the oatmeal and brought up another mouthful, chewing slow, gaze fixed on the bowl as if that could steady her. The motion pulled across her ribs, a tight drag that showed in the small line at the corner of her mouth, there and gone before she swallowed. She took another spoonful anyway, smaller this time, shoulders inching higher around the hurt.
"How bad's the pain?" he asked. Quieter now.
The question wasn't pushed at her. He let it hang there with the steam, close enough to answer, distant enough she could pretend she hadn't heard.
"Could be worse," she muttered at last, voice low, almost buried under the scrape of the spoon against ceramic. Another bite followed, quick, like she could use it to cap the words and give them weight they didn't earn.
Brock's eyes narrowed a fraction, the kind of look that marked the answer for what it was: trimmed down to hide how much it left out. He didn't press, but the silence that followed held the fact that he'd noticed.
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, steady but doing nothing to wake real appetite. After the third or fourth mouthful she paused, spoon hovering above the bowl, then lowered it back down with a soft clink.
Her shoulders eased against the headboard in a tired slump, 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 left it alone this time, hands folding in her lap.
Brock's jaw moved once. His gaze tracked over her—bandage, bruises, the way she held herself—and he gave a short nod. "Alive and upright. That's enough for today."
There was no warmth in it, but no judgment either. Just a line drawn around what he expected from her body for the moment.
Harper looked down, fingers tightening around her knees until the knuckles blanched. The cell came back first when she let her mind move at all—the rush of bodies into the doorway, weight crushing her into the cement, the bite of a blade at her throat. The way the pressure vanished in a rush of motion she couldn't follow, Brock's hands tearing men away from her one by one.
After that, her memory still cut clean. She could feel the shape of missing hours, the way a bone ached around an old break, but every time she reached for them her mind slid straight back to this bed, this room, bandage at her throat and fabric she didn't remember pulling on.
The man in front of her fit the first half of that memory without effort. The rest sat alongside it, stubborn and out of place, refusing to fold into anything simpler.
Silence settled again, thick but not crushing. Harper stayed against the headboard, eyes tracing the line of his shoulders, that uneasy overlap of what he'd done to her and for her gnawing in places she didn't have words for.
Brock gave it another few breaths before he moved. The tray lifted from the mattress with a soft clink of ceramic, steady in his grip as he rose from the chair. He didn't step in close, just straightened where he was and let his gaze pass once over her face, the bandage at her throat, the way she sat braced against the pillows.
"If the pain jumps, stay put," he told her. "Don't try to walk it off." He adjusted his grip on the tray, eyes skimming over her one more time. "If you need the bathroom, knock on the door and call for me. Door stays locked from my side. I'll hear you and I'll come open it."
He turned toward the door, his weight measured in every step. At the threshold he glanced back, checking her one more time, then opened it just wide enough to slip through.
"You should try to sleep again," he added, voice even. "Let your body catch up."
The door shut with the same care he'd used bringing it open, latch catching without a slam, the deadbolt sliding home in a low, final slide.
He carried the tray down the short hall, boots landing soft against the floorboards, and pushed into the kitchen. Ceramic knocked dull against laminate as he set it on the counter, oatmeal smear cooling in the bowl, coffee ring already drying on the mug.
The door clicked open.
Nolan stepped in like he owned the place, shoulders loose, a cardboard holder hooked in his fingers with two coffees riding steady. Steam curled from the lids, the logo of some shop on Easton flashing when it caught the overhead light. The smell hit first—rich roast, a hint of burnt sugar—and Brock caught it before Nolan had even shut the door.
"Brought the good stuff," Nolan drawled, swinging the door closed with his heel as he crossed the room. He dropped the tray beside Brock's dishes, cardboard thumping against the counter. His eyes cut to the bowl and plate. "That all she managed?"
Brock didn't answer right away. He picked up the half-empty bowl, the rim still faintly warm. He scraped what was left into the trash, the spoon clicking against ceramic before he set it in the sink. The toast had gone soft, the apple untouched, its skin dull under the light.
Nolan leaned his hip against the counter, watching. "Figured she wouldn't have much appetite." No judgment in it, just a read. He popped the lid off his coffee, let the steam fog his face, and took a long swallow. "Still, it's something."
Brock lifted the other cup, drank, let the heat burn a path down his throat. When he set it back down, the cardboard rasped faintly on laminate.
"She ate what she could," he said finally.
Nolan watched him over the rim of his cup, eyes narrowing a little, weighing that against the silence Brock usually lived in. "How's she doing?"
Brock's jaw shifted once. He didn't try to sidestep it. "Hurting," he murmured. "Ribs, throat, everything else. She's on her feet, but it costs her." A pause, then quieter, more reluctant: "Could've been worse."
Nolan tipped his cup, coffee dark against his teeth. "Could've been worse," he echoed. "She could be dead. Or waking up in that concrete box again, which isn't far off. That room of yours has to feel like a palace by comparison."
The line came out half a joke, dry at the edges. Brock didn't twitch at it. His stare stayed on the sink, the set of his shoulders tight enough to pull at the seams of his shirt.
Nolan's grin slipped. He studied him in a silence long enough for the fridge hum to rise into it. "How about you?" he asked, voice dropping. "You look like hell. You sleep at all?"
Brock's hand tightened around his cup, the cardboard giving under his grip. He didn't look up, just let the quiet sit until the words forced their way out.
"Barely," he said. His voice came rougher now, scraped down. "Kept running it again. Walking in on them. On her."
He set the cup down harder than he meant to, the dull thud a small release. "Blood all over her face, knife at her throat, pants halfway off. And the look—" his mouth pulled, "—eyes wide like I was just next in line. I've broken her myself, Nolan. Put her under, dragged her back up. That's control. That's work. But this?" He shook his head once. "This was rot. Just men using steel and fear to take what they wanted."
His jaw locked and unlocked, knuckles whitening on the edge of the counter. "And when I pulled them off her, she didn't see any difference. Hit the wall, looked at me like I'd finish it. Tried to run through her own blood like the door was the only way out. When I grabbed her—" his voice dropped, harsh, "—you should've felt the way she fought. Wild, shaking, begging like I was still one of them. Absolutely terrified of me."
He finally looked over, eyes dark, the admission sitting between them like extra weight he couldn't shift.
Nolan didn't jump in. He watched Brock instead, his expression tightening, fingers curling around his own cup. After a long stretch he set it down and braced his hands on the counter, leaning in just enough to close some of the distance.
"She's the enemy," he said, calm but edged. "A prisoner. We both know that. But what you walked in on?" His gaze hardened. "That wasn't work. That was weakness that needed a victim. We put people in the ground, we drag answers out of them when we have to, but that?" His jaw ticked. "That was something else."
He held Brock's stare. "And the way she looked at you? You can't carry that like it belongs to you. In that moment, she wouldn't have seen a difference if you'd come in with your hands clean or covered in blood. Terror like that doesn't bother sorting men out. All she knew was bodies in that room, bigger than her, stronger than her." His voice thinned, steady. "You stopped it. That matters. Let that part count for more than the way she flinched when you reached for her."
Brock looked away first, stare dropping to the coffee in his hand. Nolan's words didn't scrub the images from his head, but they shifted something in the way they sat there, less like a verdict, more like a record of what had already been done.
Down the hall, behind the closed door, wood creaked as the apartment settled. He pictured her on the spare bed, hands on her knees, staring at the empty wall at the foot of it. Between them sat the lock he'd turned on his way out, steady and uncomplicated.
He took another drink, the coffee gone lukewarm, and let the heat he had left sink in anyway.