Page 29 of Cowboy (Fury Vipers MC: Dublin Chapter #4)

CAOIMHE

TWO WEEKS LATER

I 'm back in the shipping container. The air is thick and stale, pressing against my lungs like a physical weight. Around me, shadows move and whimper. Women. Children. All trapped like animals headed for slaughter.

"Caoimhe?" Saoirse's small voice calls out to me, but I can't see her in the darkness.

"I'm here, sweetheart," I call back, desperately pushing through the press of bodies. "I'm coming."

But the container seems to stretch endlessly, the space between us growing wider with each step I take. Her cries become more frantic, more terrified.

Then I see him. Dylan. Standing between us, that cold smile on his face that I'd come to dread.

"She's not yours to save," he says, his voice echoing unnaturally. "She's merchandise. Just like you."

I try to scream, to lunge at him, but my body won't obey. I'm frozen, helpless, as he turns and walks toward Saoirse, gun in hand.

"No!" I finally manage to cry out. "Dylan, please! She's just a child!"

He turns back to me, but it's not Dylan anymore. It's Kovac. Then Mr. Blackwood. Then every man who ever bought me, used me, treated me like a thing instead of a person. Their faces blur together, melting into a horrific amalgamation of all my tormentors.

"You'll never be free," they say with one voice. "You'll never be safe."

The gun raises. Saoirse screams. I launch myself forward?—

And jolt awake, gasping for breath, sheets tangled around my sweat-soaked body. For a moment, I don't know where I am. The darkness is too complete, too similar to the container. Panic claws at my throat.

Then I feel warm, strong arms around me, and a familiar voice in my ear.

"Caoimhe, it's okay. You're safe. You're home."

Ciarán. His voice is an anchor, pulling me back to reality. Slowly, the bedroom comes into focus—Ciarán's bedroom, in his house, where I've been staying since that day at the cabin. Since Dylan died.

"The nightmare again?" he asks softly, his hand making gentle circles on my back.

I nod, unable to speak yet, focusing on steadying my breathing. In for four, hold for four, out for four. Just like Dr. Mitchell taught me.

"Same one?" Ciarán presses, his voice gentle.

"Variation on a theme," I manage, my voice hoarse. "Shipping container. Dylan. Saoirse in danger." I don't tell him about the faces, about the way they melt together. Some horrors are too personal to share, even with him.

"Saoirse is safe," he reminds me. "She's right down the hall, sound asleep. Do you want to go check on her?"

It's our ritual now. After the nightmares, we check on Saoirse. Seeing her peaceful, untouched by my nightmares, helps chase away the last of the terror.

I nod, and Ciarán helps me up. My legs are still shaky as we pad down the hallway to the room that's become Saoirse's. The door is cracked open, just as we leave it every night so she can see the hallway light if she wakes.

Inside, Saoirse is curled up under her duvet, clutching the stuffed rabbit Ciarán bought for her. Her face is relaxed in sleep, so different from the terrified child in my dreams. Relief washes over me, cooling the fever of my fear.

"See? Safe and sound," Ciarán whispers, his arm around my waist steadying me.

We stand there for a moment, watching her sleep. In these quiet moments, I can almost believe in a future where this is normal. Where nightmares are rare, not nightly visitors. Where I don't flinch at unexpected sounds or scan every room for threats.

Back in the hallway, Ciarán gently closes Saoirse's door. "Tea?" he offers, knowing I won't go back to sleep immediately.

"Please," I say, following him downstairs to the kitchen.

Ciarán moves around the kitchen with easy familiarity, filling the kettle, taking down mugs.

I sit at the island, watching him. These past two weeks, he's been my rock.

When the nightmares come, when the panic attacks hit, when I can't bear to be touched or spoken to—he's been there through all of it, steady and patient.

"Dr. Mitchell says the nightmares should decrease over time," I say, more to fill the silence than anything else. We've had this conversation before.

"They will," Ciarán agrees, setting the kettle to boil. "You're already doing better than last week."

He's right. Last week, I was having nightmares every time I closed my eyes. Now, at least, I can get a few hours of uninterrupted sleep before they start.

"I just wish I could fast-forward through all this," I admit. "Skip to the part where I'm healed and whole."

Ciarán turns to face me, leaning against the counter. "You're already whole, Caoimhe. Wounded, yes. Healing, yes. But whole. You survived. That's not nothing."

I look up at him, taking in the sincerity in his eyes, the firmness of his belief. He really sees me that way—not as damaged goods, not as a victim, but as a survivor. As whole.

"How do you do that?" I ask softly.

"Do what?"

"Always know the right thing to say."

He gives me a small, crooked smile. "Years of practice saying the wrong thing first."

The kettle whistles, and he turns to make our tea.

I watch the strong line of his back, the careful movements of his hands.

He's so different from the boy I knew growing up—Dylan's scrappy friend always getting into trouble.

Now he's a man, solid and sure, with a dangerous edge that somehow makes me feel safer rather than threatened.

"Here you go," he says, setting a steaming mug in front of me. "Chamomile with honey, just how you like it."

Our fingers brush as I take the mug, and I don't flinch away. That's progress too. Two weeks ago, any unexpected touch sent me into a panic. Now, with Ciarán at least, touch is becoming a comfort rather than a threat.

We sit in companionable silence, sipping our tea. The kitchen is bathed in the soft glow from the range hood light, creating a small island of warmth in the darkness. Outside, rain patters gently against the windows—a soothing rhythm that grounds me in the present.

"I spoke with Travis today," Ciarán says after a while. "The Agency has finished processing the intel we gathered in Vienna. They've taken down three more trafficking operations that were connected to Kovac's network."

I nod, a small satisfaction blooming in my chest. Every trafficker caught means more women and children saved from the fate I endured. "Good."

"They've also processed the paperwork for Saoirse," Ciarán continues, watching me carefully. "The emergency guardianship has been approved. She's officially in your care now."

My heart swells. Since we returned from the cabin, I've been terrified that someone will try to take Saoirse away—place her in the system, or worse, return her to the mother who sold her in the first place. The guardianship isn't as permanent as adoption, but it's a start.

"That's... that's wonderful," I say, my voice thick with emotion. "Did they say anything about her mother?"

Ciarán's expression darkens slightly. "She's been arrested. Part of the network Kovac was running. She won't be getting out anytime soon."

Relief floods through me. Saoirse is safe. She's mine to protect now, legally as well as emotionally.

"Thank you," I whisper. "For everything you've done for us. I don't think I could have survived these past weeks without you."

Ciarán reaches across the island, taking my hand in his. "You're stronger than you know, Caoimhe. You would have found a way. But I'm glad I could be here for you."

I look down at our joined hands—his large and calloused, mine still too thin but no longer skeletal. We fit together, somehow. Two broken pieces that make something stronger when combined.

"The nightmares," I begin hesitantly, "they're not just about what happened to me. They're about what could have happened to Saoirse. What almost happened."

Ciarán squeezes my hand gently. "But it didn't happen. You protected her. You saved her."

I shake my head. "You saved us both. If you hadn't found us at the cabin?—"

"But I did," he interrupts firmly. "And I always will. Wherever you go, whatever happens, I will always find you, Caoimhe. Always."

The conviction in his voice steals my breath. I look up, meeting his gaze, and what I see there makes my heart race for entirely different reasons than fear.

"I know you will," I whisper.

Something shifts between us, the air suddenly charged with unspoken feelings. Ciarán's eyes drop to my lips for the briefest moment before returning to mine, a silent question in them.

Slowly, giving me every chance to pull away, he leans forward. I meet him halfway, our lips touching in a kiss so gentle it's barely there—a whisper, a promise, a beginning.

He pulls back slightly, searching my face for any sign of discomfort or regret. But for the first time in so long, I feel nothing but warmth, nothing but right.

I reach up, my hand cupping his cheek, and draw him back to me. This time, the kiss is deeper, more certain. His hand comes up to tangle in my hair, cradling my head as if I'm something precious, something to be cherished.

When we finally break apart, I'm breathless. I’m falling so hard for him. So hard.

"You make me feel safe," I confess. "I wasn’t sure if I was ready for more."

"And now?" he asks, vulnerability clear in his eyes.

I consider this, taking stock of my feelings.

The nightmares still haunt me. The trauma still lives in my body.

I'm not fully healed, and may never be. But in this moment, with Ciarán, I feel something I thought had been stolen from me forever—desire.

Not the twisted, corrupt version forced upon me in captivity, but something pure and freely given.

"Now," I say, a small smile forming, "I think I'm ready to try. To see where this goes. If you're willing to be patient with me."

Ciarán's answering smile is like sunrise breaking through clouds. "I've got all the time in the world," he says, bringing my hand to his lips and pressing a kiss to my knuckles. "We'll take it one day at a time. One step at a time."

One step at a time. It's how I've been surviving since my rescue.

One breath, one moment, one small victory after another.

But for the first time, the steps ahead don't seem quite so daunting.

Not with Ciarán beside me. Not with Saoirse safe upstairs.

Not with the ghosts of my past finally beginning to fade.

"I think I'm ready to try going back to sleep," I say, finishing the last of my tea.

Ciarán nods, understanding. "I'll be right there if you need me."

As we make our way back upstairs, his hand warm and steady in mine, I feel a sense of peace stealing over me. The nightmares may come again—probably will—but they no longer have the power to define me. I am more than what was done to me. I am a survivor. I am whole.

And for tonight at least, I am not afraid.