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Sloane didn’t remember closing her eyes, but she didn’t want to open them again when Callum shook her awake what felt like seconds later.

Opening her eyes meant returning to the nightmare.

Opening her eyes meant she might find herself tied to a chair with Nikola touching her again.

Opening her eyes meant people were chasing her.

“I know you’re tired, angel, but we can’t stay here. We have to keep moving.”

Angel .

She forced her eyes open to find Callum crouched in front of her. She just wanted to keep staring at his face with its rugged charm—a strong, chiseled jawline dusted with salt-and-pepper stubble that hinted at a life hard-lived. Warm brown eyes, shadowed by thick brows. A faint scar grazed his temple, adding character to his sun-bronzed skin.

“My mom always called me angel,” she whispered.

“I can see why.” His smile changed the appearance of his whole face. “We need to get going. You ready?”

No.

“Yes.” Her voice sounded rusty and broken. She couldn’t even imagine what she looked like.

“Good girl. You’re doing amazing.”

She didn’t feel like she was doing amazing. She felt like she was one breath away from a complete breakdown she might never recover from. But she got up, ate a few more bites of the meal bar he put in her hands and washed it down with rainwater he’d somehow collected in a giant leaf.

A few hours and many miles later, she wasn’t feeling any better. Her feet moved mechanically, one in front of the other, as if she was on autopilot. The world around her seemed hazy and distant, like she was watching her own body from a distance.

“We’re in Moldova.” Callum’s steady voice pierced through the fog in her mind. “It’s a small country between Romania and Ukraine.”

She blinked, trying to focus. “Moldova?” she repeated, her voice hoarse from disuse. “I don’t think I could find it on a map.”

A ghost of a smile touched Callum’s lips. “Not many people could. It’s not exactly a tourist hot spot.”

Their feet crunched along a dirt road flanked by dense forests, the oppressive quiet broken only by the occasional rustle of wind through the trees. Callum had been talking to her periodically through the miles. Pulling her back from the emptiness her mind kept trying to sweep her toward.

Callum had told her how he and his team had gotten here due to a call from an old law enforcement colleague—someone who worked for William Getty—asking for assistance.

Callum told her what he knew about Jakob and Nikola Kozak. Evidently, they were two brothers who specialized in watching social media feeds and kidnapping and ransoming trust-fund babies. Marissa had been their perfect victim. Sloane had just been an unfortunate bystander.

Sloane had listened to all the info about her own kidnapping with a detached interest. Almost like she was reading about it in a newspaper rather than having survived it herself.

She was much more interested in what Callum had told her about his personal life. Those details were what really kept her in the present.

That he wasn’t married and was a sheriff in a town called Oak River or something in Wyoming. She liked his stories about his friends at a place called Linear Tactical—a company made up of two generations of heroes. How everyone in the area took care of one another.

It sounded magical to Sloane.

They passed multiple towns, but Callum hadn’t wanted to stop in case any of the Kozak brothers’ men were looking for them there. It was almost dusk when the small town Callum decided they would stop at came into view.

Sloane picked up speed. All she wanted to do was get somewhere she could shower. She prayed that was part of the plan but didn’t want to seem like she was complaining by asking.

But Callum had stopped and was staring at a farmhouse far on the outskirts of the village.

“Are we not going into town?”

He looked at her then down at his own clothes. “We need to change. Like this, we’re a walking target.”

Sloane glanced down at herself. Her dress had been bad enough at the club a few nights ago. Now, it was dried stiff with blood and dirt. A wave of discomfort rippled through her. He was right.

He pointed to the backyard of the house they were walking by, where a clothesline sagged under the weight of freshly washed garments swaying in the evening breeze. “That’s our ticket right there. We’re going to grab them.”

“We’re going to steal clothes?”

“Yep.”

He was already moving, crouching low and weaving through the shadows cast by the setting sun. Sloane hesitated only a moment before following, the need to find something different to wear stronger than any moral compunction about taking the clothes.

Maybe she could ask him what town they were in and find a way to send money to these people once she made it home.

She reached the clothesline and grabbed a simple cotton dress, the soft fabric almost surreal against her grime-covered fingers. Nearby, Callum pulled on a pair of faded trousers and a loose shirt, his movements quick and efficient.

“Hang on,” he whispered, rushing over to the house. What was he doing?

He came back a moment later, a pair of sandals in hand. “I think these will be much better than your current footwear.”

“I—” She felt bad about taking them from a home that obviously didn’t have very much. “I think I’ll be fine with my current shoes.”

He offered her a gentle smile. “I left some cash on the porch. More than enough to cover what we’ve taken.”

Relief flooded her, and she managed a smile. “Good. I’d hate for a sheriff to actually shoplift.”

The town’s streets welcomed them with eerie quiet. The storm from the night before had left puddles scattered across the cobblestones, mirroring the streaks of orange and pink in the sky. The scene might have been serene under other circumstances, but right now, Sloane just wanted to get off her feet.

“Do you think we’re safe here?” she whispered, walking close enough to Callum that her shoulder brushed his arm.

He didn’t answer immediately, his sharp eyes scanning the windows and doorways around them. “Safer than we were.”

Callum’s steady presence grounded her, his movements deliberate and calm despite the precariousness of their situation. She envied his composure.

“How do you stay so calm?” she blurted, unable to keep the question inside any longer. Her voice sounded too loud in the stillness.

Callum glanced at her, a hint of amusement softening his otherwise stoic expression. “Practice,” he replied, his voice low. “And knowing that losing your head never saved anyone.”

They turned a corner, and the aroma of fresh bread hit her like a physical blow. Sloane’s stomach growled loudly. She spotted a market stall just ahead, its wares an array of fresh loaves, fruit, and cured meat. Her steps faltered, and her longing gaze lingered on the food.

“Wait here.” He handed her the clothes he’d taken from the clothesline. “Just stay against the wall and keep your gaze down.”

Sloane did what he asked but watched him under her lashes as he casually approached the stall. With movements so fluid they were almost imperceptible, he pocketed several different types of food. But just before turning away, he discreetly slipped some bills beneath a crate. She hid her smile. She’d be able to eat the food and wear these clothes with no problem, knowing nobody was suffering because of it.

He came back and led her to a side street, the cobblestones slick beneath their feet. Around the bend, a weathered inn came into view. Its faded yellow facade and creaking wooden sign made it look almost abandoned, but to Sloane, it was the most inviting sight she’d seen in days.

“Here,” Callum murmured. “This will do.”

Sloane hesitated as Callum stepped forward to push open the heavy door. Inside, a grizzled man behind a counter barely gave them a glance.

“We need a room,” Callum said, his tone steady and polite. He placed a small wad of cash on the counter, a subtle but clear message.

The innkeeper didn’t ask questions. Taking the money, he slid a tarnished key across the counter. “Room three,” he grunted, jerking his chin toward the staircase.

Callum led her to the room and opened the door. It was small and plain: a double bed with a threadbare quilt, a wooden chair, and a chipped bedside table. A door to the left revealed a tiny bathroom.

“It’s not much,” Callum said, his voice low. “But it’s enough.”

Sloane stepped inside and leaned against the wall, her exhaustion catching up to her in a rush. “It’s perfect,” she murmured.

Her eyes darted to the bathroom in longing. She wanted a shower much more than she wanted food. “Do you mind if I…?”

“Go ahead,” Callum said, easing into the chair. “I’ll be right out here.”

The bathroom door creaked shut behind Sloane, the sound grating against her raw nerves. She leaned her weight against the flimsy wood, closing her eyes. The tiny space reeked of mildew and despair, the cracked mirror above the stained sink reflecting a fractured version of her reality.

She stripped off the mud-caked dress, wincing as it peeled away from her skin. Every movement sent pain through her body, the bruises and scrapes mapping the violence she’d endured. Her reflection was barely recognizable; the hollow-eyed woman staring back couldn’t possibly be her.

Her eyes fell to her breasts, covered with bruises from where Nikola had groped her. Her knees buckled slightly, and she gripped the sink for balance. The thought of his hand between her legs caused bile to rise in her throat.

“Pull it together,” she whispered hoarsely, her breath fogging the mirror. “He can’t hurt you anymore.”

The words felt fragile, paper-thin against the weight of her fear. She turned on the shower, the water sputtering before a lukewarm spray began. It was better than nothing. Sloane stepped in, flinching as the water struck her battered skin. She scrubbed furiously, her hands shaking as she tried to erase more than just the grime.

Tears blurred her vision as she worked soap over her bruised thighs, the mottled skin a cruel reminder of what she so desperately wanted to forget. No amount of scrubbing was going to take away the memories.

The tiles beneath her feet felt cold, unyielding. Sloane pressed her palms against the shower wall, letting the water cascade over her. The tears came in waves, unstoppable, her sobs echoing in the confined space.

He’s gone. You’re safe now.

She repeated the thought like a mantra, willing herself to believe it. But the ghost of Nikola’s breath on her neck wouldn’t fade. She sank to the floor, the water mixing with her tears as she hugged her knees. The vulnerability was suffocating, threatening to drag her under.

A soft knock at the door broke through the haze. She froze, her sobs catching in her throat.

“Sloane?” Callum’s voice was low, steady, yet tinged with concern. “Are you okay in there?”

She swallowed hard, shame heating her cheeks that he’d heard her.

“I’m fine,” she called back, her voice weak. She cleared her throat, forcing strength into her tone. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

“All right,” he replied, but his hesitation lingered. “Let me know if I can do anything.”

Sloane didn’t trust her voice to answer, so she focused on dragging herself to her feet.

She needed to focus on the task at hand—that was her mind-set at home and needed to be her mind-set here. Focusing on the past was just going to cause her to fall apart.

There was no shampoo, so she washed her hair with the soap. The water was starting to cool as she finished rinsing, so she quickly got out. The threadbare towel hanging nearby felt rough against her tender skin, but she used it to dry off, grateful for even the smallest semblance of normalcy.

She pulled her shoplifted farm dress over her head. The reflection staring back at her in the cracked mirror was raw and grim. But she was alive. That had to count for something.

With a deep breath, she opened the door.

Callum stood near the bed, his arms crossed. “You okay?”

She nodded, avoiding his eyes. “Yes. Thanks.”

He gestured to the rickety table where the food he’d swiped sat—a loaf of bread, a block of cheese, and a couple of bruised apples. Her stomach growled audibly and she flushed, but Callum only chuckled.

“Dig in,” he said, breaking the bread and handing her a piece.

“You waited for me?”

He nodded.

The tiny act of kindness had tears pricking her eyes again. “Thank you.”

The simple meal felt like a feast after days of hunger. She savored each bite, letting the food ground her. The tension in her shoulders eased slightly as they ate in silence, the dim glow of the bedside lamp casting soft shadows on the walls.

Callum took a shower once they were done, his much quicker than hers.

“Do you think they’re still looking for us?” she asked hesitantly, breaking the quiet as he came out dressed in his new clothes. The pants were the slightest bit too short, but hardly noticeable.

Callum’s expression darkened. “I hope not. Their leverage is gone now that you’re free, and Marissa is out of reach. They’ll probably move on to other targets.”

Relief washed over her, but it was fleeting. “Marissa… She’s safe? She went with your friends?”

“I have no doubt Theo and Bear got her to the drop point. She’ll be fine.” He pulled a damaged phone from his pocket, his frustration evident. “This thing got killed sometime yesterday during everything that happened. I need to contact my team, let them know we’re alive. But using a public line here is too risky.”

Sloane bit her lip. “I’m sorry. If it weren’t for me?—”

“Stop.” Callum’s voice was firm, cutting through her self-recrimination. He reached for her hand, his touch grounding. “None of this is your fault. We’ll figure it out. One step at a time.”

She nodded, but his reassurance couldn’t banish the bitterness swirling in her chest. “You didn’t know I was there, did you? My father sent you in to rescue Marissa, but not me.”

He shrugged. “Technically, we weren’t supposed to rescue anyone. We were supposed to drop money off in exchange for Marissa. When we found out where she was being held, we decided to veer off the original plans of the mission.”

“But my father hadn’t made any plans to pay a ransom for me.”

Callum hesitated, his jaw tightening. “Honestly, I’m not sure of all the factors surrounding the situation, but no, your part in the abduction wasn’t mentioned to us at all.”

The confirmation hit harder than she’d expected. She laughed bitterly, shaking her head. “Of course not. I don’t know why I would expect anything else. The name’s Sloane Miller, not Sloane Getty.”

“It is?”

“My father made me change my name to my mother’s last name when I came to live with him when I was seventeen.”

“Why?”

She definitely didn’t have the emotional fortitude to get into that whole situation tonight. “Let’s just say my father hated my mother, and that seemed to transfer to me. My stepmother—Marissa’s mother—detests me even more. I don’t think either of them would pay a penny in ransom to get me out of a bad situation.”

“Sloane—”

“It’s fine,” she interrupted, plastering on a brittle smile. “I’m used to it.”

Callum’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t push, which she appreciated. She didn’t want to go into how she was barely more than a criminal to her family.

He reached for her arm, guiding her gently toward the bed. “You need rest. I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“No, there’s no need for that.” And she couldn’t stand the thought of being alone in the bed anyway. “Please. I…I don’t want to be there by myself.”

He gave her a gentle smile. “I understand.”

He turned off the bedside lamp, and they settled onto the narrow bed, Callum keeping a respectful distance.

She wanted more than anything to ask him to hold her, but she couldn’t force the words out. Even breathing seemed hard.

“Hey. Try to sleep,” he murmured, his voice a soothing balm. “You’re safe now.”

He reached over and grabbed her hand, intertwining their fingers between them on the bed. Sloane focused all her energy on that connection.

With the feel of his thumb stroking the skin of the back of her hand, she let sleep overtake her.