The cafeteria pressed in around Brock as he crossed it, tray balanced in his hands, voices rolling over the clatter of trays and utensils and the dull thump of chairs scraping on tile. It felt later than it was. His eyes burned, the kind of slow, throbbing ache that settled in after a night where sleep never really landed.
He'd come down here last night after Graves left and thrown together something that passed for dinner for Harper, a scoop of protein, bread, fruit, all of it set on the bed in front of her while she stared through the wall, eyes gone flat, like the bed and the food and he weren't even there. She'd picked at it, more out of obligation than hunger, and when she'd crawled under the blankets he'd gone back out again, bare feet on his own carpet, down the elevator to the med bay for pain meds he hoped would pull her under for the night.
Nolan had shown up after with a bag that smelled like fried food and spice, kicked his feet up on the table, and put the baseball game on, trying to drag the room toward normal. Brock had watched the screen without really seeing it, jaw tight, answering in short pieces when Nolan talked, his mind still locked on the aftermath of everything that had happened in the holding cell.
He'd stayed awake long after Nolan left, after the game ended, after the building settled, lying in the dark of his own room and staring at the ceiling, asking himself the same question on repeat—what the fuck he was doing, and when exactly this had stopped being a job and turned into something that felt like a mistake he couldn't walk away from.
Brock's gaze moved over the rows without really stopping at any one face until the far corner pulled into focus, the table near the back wall where Nolan sat with Onyx and Kier. Nolan had a cup in his hand, talking with his shoulders loose, one arm hooked over the back of his chair. Onyx leaned forward over his tray, forearms braced on the table, head tilted as if he was listening and measuring in the same breath.
Kier noticed him first. The younger man glanced up, caught Brock's eye, and lifted his fingers in a small motion that managed to be both casual and direct. Brock answered with a short nod and shifted his path, angling between tables until the scrape of their chairs and the churn of their conversation pressed closer. When he reached them he set the tray down and lowered himself onto the bench beside Onyx, a sigh escaping his lips.
"Morning, sunshine." Nolan lifted his cup in a small salute, coffee sloshing close to the rim. "You look like you slept in a dryer."
Onyx glanced over, eyes tracking from Brock's face to the overloaded tray, then back up again, his expression tightening by a degree. "Brock." His voice carried a quiet question under the single word.
Kier straightened a little. "Morning," he offered, a touch more formal. "Rough night?"
"Something like that." Brock drew the tray closer and let it rest against the edge of the table, shoulders easing a fraction as he settled with his back to the wall. He let his attention move over each of them in turn, taking in Nolan's easy sprawl, Onyx's steady focus, Kier's restless energy, waiting to see how much they were going to make him talk before he could get out of here and back upstairs.
Brock picked up the fork and started working methodically through the food, one bite after another, the movement automatic. The headache sat behind his eyes, heavy and insistent, but he pushed it to the side the same way he pushed everything else he didn't have room for right now.
"So." Nolan set his cup down, watching him over the rim. "Voss get the day off training?"
Brock lifted his gaze. "Yeah. The week, probably." He nudged one of the extra plates closer to the center of the tray, more out of habit than need. "She's in no shape to be on the mats. I might move her onto firearms later, once she can handle standing around without every breath hurting. Something simple. Minimal twisting."
Onyx and Kier both looked at him then, attention landing on his face in a way that wasn't casual anymore. He caught it and let out a slow breath.
"Long story," he muttered. "I'll walk you through it later. All of you."
They already knew Harper was his project, knew he'd been running her through drills and hauling her around the building like a half-broken stray. What they didn't know was what had gone down in the basement cell, or that while the building woke up around them, she was upstairs in his spare room, lights out, door locked, a handful of pills hopefully keeping the worst of it off her ribs and her throat for a few more hours.
As if his thoughts had drifted the wrong way, movement near the far end of the room pulled his attention. Roth and Dane stepped clear of the line with trays in their hands, talking low as they started across the cafeteria. Like him and Nolan, they wore the rank that came with a team and a budget and the right to make bodies disappear. Their crew ran about fifteen deep, enforcers who answered to them the way his answered to him, Dace and Miller and Hark among them. The difference sat in how they chose to use it. He and Nolan kept their men on the mats, on the range, on jobs that required coordination and at least a thin line of rules. Dane and Roth's people were known for other things: cruelty that didn't bother to hide itself, tempers that ran hot, a kind of moral fog that let anything slide if it got results. Roth had a way of smoothing things over in the aftermath, talk and easy smiles, where Dane leaned into the role that didn't need smoothing at all.
Nolan followed his line of sight and found the same target, his mouth flattening a little. He nudged Brock's ankle under the table, a small kick against his boot. "You talk to them yet?"
"Not yet." Brock set the fork down, wiped his hand on a napkin, and pushed the tray a few inches away. "Now's as good a time as any."
He stood, the joints in his knees reminding him how little sleep he'd managed, and stepped out from the bench. The room unfolded in front of him as he crossed it, the usual noise brushing past his ears while he tracked Roth and Dane to a table along the side wall. When he reached them, he slid onto the bench next to Roth, close enough that the other man's shoulder brushed his for a moment before they each shifted to make space.
Roth looked over, taking him in with a small nod that barely disturbed the line of his shoulders. Across from him, Dane lounged back with his tray pushed out of the way, that familiar grin sliding into place, all teeth and amusement that didn't reach his eyes.
"Morning, Lawson." His gaze flicked past Brock toward the table where Nolan, Onyx, and Kier sat, then came back, interest settling in. "Where's your little pet today? Saw her turning heads in here the other day." He tilted his head, studying Brock's face like he was waiting for a tell. "You not letting her out of the cage this morning?"
Roth's mouth tugged up at the edge, a small curve Brock caught from the corner of his eye. He let out a breath that felt too close to a growl. "Yeah. About that." He shifted on the bench, turning just enough that both of them had his full attention. "You spoken to your three boys who showed up in med bay looking like roadkill?"
Roth blinked once, gaze cutting toward him. "About what?"
"About why they look like that."
Dane tipped his head, watching Brock with open interest. "Miller mentioned they went out a few nights back," he drawled. "Hit a bar, ran into some local trash. Story I heard, they got jumped."
Brock laughed, the sound rough and sudden, loud enough that a few heads at nearby tables turned. He brought it down fast, voice dropping low. "Look, what you let your men do out on jobs is on you. I don't police that." His eyes stayed on Dane's. "Your boys went down to holding the other night, walked into Voss's cell, and tried to force themselves on her. One of them opened her throat. I'm not letting that slide. They look wrecked because I put them there."
Roth eased back in his chair, arms folding over his chest as he studied Brock. For a moment the usual easy note dropped out of his expression. "I'll talk to them," he replied, tone flatter than before. "I'm not signing off on anyone thinking they get to take advantage of someone locked in a cell downstairs."
Dane let out a low chuckle, shoulders rolling as if this were entertainment. "Can you blame them, though?" he asked, eyes bright. "Little thing like that sitting alone in a box in the basement, might've just wanted to keep her company. I thought you were training her, not warehousing her. Maybe they figured she could use a little… attention before Vex puts a round through her skull a few months from now."
Brock stood so fast the bench shifted under him, Roth's tray rattling against the table edge. "This is your only warning," he told Dane, voice flat. "If any of your men try something like that again, they won't make it to med bay."
Dane lifted both hands, palms out in a loose, mocking surrender. "Whatever you say, Lawson. I'll keep my boys on a leash." His grin came back, lazy and pleased with itself. "You just keep your little bitch out of their way."
A muscle in Brock's jaw jumped as he stared at Dane. For a second he pictured himself hauling Dane across the table, driving his face into the plastic until that grin broke apart. The image sat there, bright and tempting, and he forced it back where it belonged. Without another word he turned on his heel and walked away, boots heavy on the tile, the noise of the cafeteria rushing in around him again. By the time he reached his table his shoulders were tight enough to ache. He dropped back onto the bench beside Onyx with more force than he needed, the metal frame giving a dull complaint under his weight.
Nolan's eyebrows climbed as he glanced between Brock and the other table. "Good talk?"
Brock shot him a look, then reached for his fork and pulled the tray closer. "Good talk."
** ** **
The lock clacked.
It was a small sound, still enough to slam Harper out of whatever thin sleep she'd managed. Her chest seized on the inhale that never finished. The door edged open, hinges dragging, and Brock filled the gap, his shoulders blotting the strip of light from the hallway. No one behind him. Just him.
"Down."
The word cracked through the room and hands were on her before she could move, huge and unforgiving. He hauled her off the bed like she weighed nothing, fingers hooked in fabric and skin. The floor met her face hard, concrete scraping her cheek open, the impact ringing through her teeth. Heat flooded her mouth, metallic and thick, sliding over her tongue until every breath tasted like blood.
A knee dropped into her ribs and stayed there, grinding until something in her side gave. Air punched out of her. She tried to pull another one in and got almost nothing. Her throat worked around a sound that didn't make it out, cut off as his hand fisted in her hair and wrenched her head back. Pain streaked down her scalp. Her neck stretched, bare and helpless, and the knife slid in under her jaw, the flat of it cold enough to sting.
"Keep thrashing, see what happens."
The edge pressed harder, tracing the line of her throat. Skin parted. Blood spilled down over her collarbone, warm and wet, soaking the front of her shirt. His other hand dropped to her hip, fingers digging in, dragging the waistband of her pants down in a rough, fumbling shove that burned every place it caught. Cloth tore. Elastic snapped against her skin and then there was open air where there shouldn't be.
"Time to find out if you're worth fucking after all."
His voice. Brock's. The same rough tone that had threaded through orders on the mats, the same low patience that had sat by her bed and told her he wasn't going to hurt her. The words crawled over that memory and peeled it apart.
Water hit the back of her throat before she saw it coming.
It flooded her mouth in a rush, cold and relentless, spilling past her lips and up her nose. She choked, coughed, couldn't turn her head with his hand locked in her hair and his weight pinning her chest. Liquid slammed into her sinuses, burned its way down. She tried to twist free, ribs sending a hot streak of pain through her side, but his arm braced across her sternum and held her flat. The knife at her neck shifted with every useless buck of her body, biting deeper, carving a line that sent more warmth sliding under the water.
She couldn't breathe. Her lungs spasmed, dragged at emptiness, then dragged at water. Every instinct screamed to inhale and every inhale drowned her. Her hands clawed at whatever they could reach—his wrist, his arm, the slick surface under her palms. There was no give. Only pressure and weight and the rush of water filling every space she had left.
Her vision tunneled, dark edging in from the corners. Above her, close enough that she could count the lines around his mouth, Brock's face hovered. His eyes looked straight through her. No recognition, no hesitation. Just the flat, distant stare of someone doing a job they'd done before and would do again.
Her own voice tried to form the word stop, please, anything, but what came out was a wet gurgle she felt more in her throat than she heard. Bubbles and blood.
"Harper."
Her name cut through the drowning. The sound burrowed under the roar in her ears, the same rough inflection it always carried, steady and low. It didn't land like help this time. It landed like a sentence.
"Harper."
She tore awake with a ragged sound that scraped her sore throat raw, her body jerking upright before her mind caught up. The room lurched into view in streaks of dark and softer shadow, walls too close, ceiling unfamiliar. Her chest heaved, every breath dragging over the phantom burn of water. Her neck throbbed where the bandage sat, each pulse making the edges of the world swim.
A shape filled the space beside the bed, close and tall, shoulders blocking the thin band of light from the doorway.
Her fist came up before she registered the voice attached to it, arm snapping forward on panic alone. Knuckles crashed into solid muscle, every ounce of leftover terror driving the blow. Pain shot up her hand, a hot sting across her knuckles, and Brock's head snapped to the side with the impact. He rocked back on his heels, one hand dropping to the mattress to steady himself where he'd been crouched, the other flying to his face.
Her breath tore out of her in broken pulls, chest seizing like she still had water in her lungs. The nightmare clung to her skin—cold concrete, a knife at her throat, fingers on her hips. All she saw for a moment was a man leaning over her, bigger, stronger, close enough to pin her without trying.
The room dragged itself into focus in pieces. The blanket twisted around her legs. The desk against the wall. Brock in front of her, bare chest rising and falling, hair shoved back like he'd been running a hand through it, sweatpants hanging low on his hips. No knife. No other men. Just him, one palm pressed to his jaw, eyes locked on her.
Her hand dropped, shaking so hard her fingers wouldn't stay together. Heat flooded her face, crawling down her neck, shame and terror tangling until she couldn't tell which was worse.
"I—I'm sorry," she blurted. The words jammed in her throat, tumbling out anyway. "I didn't—I wasn't— I'm sorry."
She pushed herself back until her spine hit the headboard, shoulders curled in, palms open like she needed to prove she wasn't going to swing again. The apology kept coming, softer, thin and frayed. "Please. I didn't mean to. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
Brock moved, fingers easing away from his jaw. "Harper." Her name came out low, steady in a way she didn't trust. "Hey. Look at me."
She tried and failed. Her gaze slid off his face, dropped to his hand, to the floor, to the door standing open that narrow crack. For half a second the thought flared—move, run, just get past him—but her ribs pulled tight when she shifted and her throat tugged under the bandage, turning the idea to ash. Her lungs kept dragging at air like they were still full of water.
"You were having a nightmare," he said. He kept his voice soft, the edges rounded off, like he was talking to a skittish animal instead of someone who'd just swung at him. He stayed where he was, crouched a little farther back from the bed now, hands visible, empty. "You were screaming."
"I'm sorry," she whispered again. The words came out on a hitching breath. "I didn't think—I didn't know it was you. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm—"
"Hey." He cut in before she could choke on it. "Harper. Look at me."
Some stubborn part of her listened. Her eyes dragged up, inch by inch, until they found his. He held her there, not with force, just with focus.
"I'm okay," he said. "You didn't hurt me." His mouth tugged, the closest thing to a smile she'd seen. "You hit like someone who just woke up with busted ribs and a sliced neck. I'll live."
Her hands curled tight against the blanket. "I shouldn't have—"
"You were dreaming," he went on, not giving her room to spin herself out. "That's all this was." His gaze flicked to her throat, then back. "You're not in trouble."
The last words landed strange, like they belonged in someone else's mouth. He didn't look away when he said them.
Her hands flew to her face before she even decided to move, fingers knocking into her cheekbone on the way up. They shook so hard she could barely get them to land where she wanted. She dragged her palms over her skin anyway, scrubbing at the wet there like pressure alone could erase it. Her fingers skated clumsy across her cheeks, smearing the tears instead of chasing them away.
The more she tried to get rid of them, the worse the tremor in her arms became. Her shoulders started to shake with it, breath catching in little broken pulls as her hands worked over the same tracks again and again, like she could rub off something dirty that had soaked in too deep. At last her strength gave out and her hands dropped, catching the comforter and bunching it under her fists. She clenched there, knuckles white against the fabric, trying to hold the tremor in place.
The sounds coming out of her thinned to little gasps, drops of air that barely counted as breaths, but the tears kept sliding hot down the sides of her nose and along her jaw, fat and relentless. Every time she thought they were finished, another one slipped free.
Brock hadn't moved closer. He stayed where he was near the edge of the bed, his weight settled back on his heels, hands open and easy at his sides. His gaze stayed on her face. "Do you have them often?"
She blinked, the question cutting through the panic like a wrong note. "What?"
"The nightmares."
Her eyes dropped to the comforter twisted around her legs, to her own fingers still buried in it. When she answered, the words came out small and raw. "Almost every night since I got here."
His jaw worked once, tension drawing the muscles along the side of his face. "That can't keep going." He let the words sit, then added, "If it turns into a pattern, I'll have Graves give you something stronger. Last thing I need is you waking half the floor every night."
Her hand came up automatically, swiping at the wet on her cheeks with the back of her wrist, as if that could take some of the weight out of what he'd just said. "I'm sorry," she murmured, the apology slipping out before she could catch it.
Something moved in his expression at that, too quick for her to pin down. "Don't apologize for something you can't control."
Her throat worked around a small nod. "Okay," she whispered. The word felt thin, but it was all she had.
Brock studied her for a moment longer, then pushed to his feet. His knees creaked faintly in the quiet. "Try to get some more sleep,"
He stepped back from the bed and crossed to the door. She tracked him with her eyes until the frame cut him off. The handle turned, light from the hallway spilling in a bit brighter, then the door closed and the lock slid home with a clean, final sound that settled in her chest like weight.
Harper let out a shuddering breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. Her fingers unclenched from the comforter one at a time. She eased herself down until her shoulders met the mattress again, every small shift tugging at her ribs and the bandaged line at her throat, then dragged the blankets up over her head. The fabric muffled the room, pressed close around her ears. She curled on her side, knees drawn in, and focused on the rough weave under her fingertips, forcing her thoughts to narrow to that and the slow rise and fall of her own breathing while she tried to push the rest of the world away.