Page 1 of Heart Cradle (The Melrathen Saga #1)

In an office that smelled of stress and stale coffee cups, Maeve sat stiffly in the worn leather chair opposite Chief Inspector Rhodes. Her hands were clenched in her lap. Her breath was tight in her chest and he wasn’t looking at her.

“Maeve…” He paused, eyes still fixed on her file. “You’ve done everything we’ve asked of you. More than we could ever have expected.”

“Don’t do this, please,” she said, quietly pleading. “I’m fine.”

He finally met her eyes. “You’re not.”

A beat of silence stretched between them.

“You were tortured, Maeve,” he said gently, as if she needed reminding. “In your own home. You survived, yes…but you’re not fine.”

Maeve blinked, twice. “I’ve passed every review.”

Rhodes sighed. “You passed them by sheer willpower alone, Maeve. We can’t ignore the signs. Your team is worried, I’m worried. You’re not ready. You need to rest and heal, just take some time for yourself.”

She pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth to still the tremble in her jaw, she didn’t trust herself to speak.

“This is not a punishment.” His voice softened further. “We’re placing you on six months paid leave. Consider it time to recover, then come back ready to work.”

Her stomach dropped.

Without her job, who was she?

Maeve stood in a daze, shook Rhodes’ hand, and thanked him.

She walked through the corridors of New Scotland Yard like a spectre, numb and cold inside, barely registering the sympathetic glances of those she passed.

She didn’t even remember getting home. She only knew she was suddenly there, standing in the middle of her flat, breath ragged, keys clutched so tightly her knuckles had gone white.

She checked every window. She made sure the front door was locked three times and then she staggered into the bathroom and collapsed onto the cold tile floor, and wept until her throat burned.

She didn’t know how long she lay there, shrieking and howling at the injustice of it.

Her attackers were free, and she was not.

She ran a hot bath and burned herself as she slid beneath the water, her knees curled to her chest. The ceiling blurred above and her thoughts circled in slow, heavy spirals.

What now?

No siblings, parents gone, no family left. Her friends were acquaintances, colleagues, really. Her life had been her job. She was a detective, she followed protocol, she caught thieves, she was always too busy, too driven.

Now she was on pause, forced to stay away.

Discarded.

The silence pressed in. The walls felt too close as her chest constricted, she couldn’t breathe. The air seemed thicker, wrong, nauseating.

What if this was it, what if she never got back?

What if she was broken forever?

Her breath caught. Her heart kicked against her ribs like it was trying to escape. Her fingers trembled, skin feeling too tight. Her throat began to close, thick and heavy, as if filling with cement. She tried to sit up, but her limbs wouldn’t listen.

Panic crashed in, wild and electric and her thoughts blurred, flew and screamed.

It’s over.

They’ve taken everything.

You’ll never be okay.

You’re just fucking weak.

You’re nothing without your job.

Her eyes stung, her chest ached. The weight of the world settled on her bones as she sank lower, letting the water rise to her chin, over her nose and she closed her eyes. Then, beneath the chaos, a different thought, quieter and entirely terrifying.

Just stop fighting, it will be easier.

You could stay under .

Let it all go, let the water win.

The stillness was soothing, tempting.

She lay there, head spinning, giving in to the desolation but words came sharp and sudden, commanding and unyielding.

Enough, Maeve. You must take control.

She gritted her teeth and forced herself upright, water sloshing around her.

Her lungs still strained and her limbs shook, but she was gasping, trying to breath, she was moving and present again.

The panic hadn’t won, not this time. She dragged in a long, shaking breath, then another.

Her mind locked onto the one thing she could still control, she had to make a plan.

She was broken, yes. She needed to rebuild, yes. She was lost, yes. But she could find her way back, she would not let them win, not ever.

By the time the water had gone cold, she had a plan, she climbed out of the bath on trembling legs, water dripping from her skin in slow, cold rivulets.

She moved barefoot and silent to the mirror above the sink and she caught her reflection as she leaned forwards, bracing herself against the cold porcelain edge.

Her bare skin gleamed under the flickering bathroom light.

Wet brown hair clung to her face, neck, and back in heavy, dripping strands.

Her hazel eyes stared back, they were bloodshot and tired.

Haunted.

Her gaze travelled down, over the rounded curve of her hips, her stomach.

The swell of her breasts, rising and falling with each ragged breath she was trying to steady.

Faint, pale-pink scars crossed her ribs, her shoulder, her thighs, echoes of the night they broke her.

They burnt her, beat her, cut her and then left her for dead.

She stared at them for a long time, not flinching or hiding, just observing her body.

Look what they’ve done and they’re still out there.

You are not dead, now you must find them.

Her fingers curled around the edge of the sink and she met her own eyes again.

You must end this, kill them, make the bastards pay.