Page 19 of The Shape of my Scar (The Unbroken #1)

T he drive was long, and Trish said little. Malcolm had sprung this little holiday on him as soon as he walked into the compound.

She sat beside Thane with that same smug, infuriating calm she always wore, like she had a secret only she was privy to.

The silence stretched until they crossed into quieter roads as trees blurred past through the tinted glass.

Then, suddenly, she spoke, her tone too casual to be innocent.

She had slipped a hand between his thighs and was rubbing him through his pants.

She made his skin crawl but he couldn’t help react to her touch.

“You’re tense, baby,” she said, picking at a chipped nail. “Want me to take you out back once we get there and suck you off again? Might put you in a better mood.”

Thane’s jaw clenched slightly, but he didn’t respond.

From the front, Ricky barked a laugh. “Pass her over here when you’re done, mate. I wouldn’t mind a turn.”

“Fuck off, Ricky,” she said airily while her eyes stayed on Thane. There was a possessive light there—cold and hungry, like he was something she’d already marked.

Still, he let her fingers trail across his thigh.

“Whatever you want, darling,” he said, voice smooth, empty. This was a role he had played before, and he knew his lines well.

Half an hour later, she blindfolded him.

There were no questions or warning. She just slipped the cloth over his eyes and tightened it at the back of his head.

“We need to be cautious here,” she murmured. “You understand.”

He nodded once. They could put him in a body bag, and they still wouldn’t be able to outwit the tracker under his skin.

Still, he counted the turns. They’d left Liverpool behind, taken the motorway for maybe ten minutes, and now the road was uneven, winding.

The smell of damp earth and pine filtered into his nose.

When the blindfold came off, thick blackout shades had replaced the view.

He sat silently until the vehicle came to a halt. Trish opened the door and stepped out first, heels crunching over gravel.

They were in a woodland, somewhere far from eyes, ears, or help. A lone birdcall sounded from the woods, and cows grazed lazily in the field beyond.

An old brick farmhouse with a slanted roof stood to the side. It looked quaint from the outside, like a postcard. Next to it stood a warehouse with a long, low, corrugated metal roof. There was the smell of diesel in the air and the hum of a generator running.

As he stepped out of the vehicle, a tall man in fatigues approached. Rough efficient hands patted him down. Another man with a full beard checked his waistband, under his collar, even scanned his shoes. His phone, as arranged, had been surrendered at the base in Liverpool.

Three men, rough and scarred, greeted Trish. One had the silhouette of a handgun pressed into the front of his trousers, making no attempt to conceal it. Another chewed something slowly and spat on the dirty path while eyeing Thane suspiciously.

“Let him come,” Trish said over her shoulder.

Inside, the air smelled of bleach, sweat, and old wood. A long room stretched ahead, lined with bunk beds—at least twenty of them. Thin mattresses lined them and there were blankets folded on every bed. But there wasn’t a single child.

“This,” Trish said without turning to him, “is our holding house, where we keep the merchandise that’s too fresh to go on display.”

A woman stepped out from the back room. She was thin, pale, wrapped in a worn jumper two sizes too big. Her blonde hair was pulled back messily. And her eyes—sharp, frightened and deep blue—locked onto Thane like she was trying to place him before looking away.

But something in her presence tugged at him, like a thread he couldn’t quite place, tightening with each passing second. Against his better judgment, he moved closer, drawn into her orbit.

“You alright?” he asked quietly, voice pitched low enough not to carry.

She gave a stiff nod, cautious, guarded. “As alright as anyone is in a place like this.”

Her voice was soft like the fragile flutter of a butterfly’s wing caught in a spider’s web.

“What’s your name?” he pressed, curious, steady.

“Theodora.” Her gaze dipped, lashes shadowing her face. Her fingers worried at the frayed edge of her jumper, tugging loose threads as though they were safer than looking at him. Then, after a beat, there was a fragile tilt to her full mouth, “They don’t usually let the men talk to us.”

“I’m not one of them,” he said, quieter still.

That made her look up. Her eyes flicked to his, quick and sharp, as though searching his face for something familiar. The moment stretched.

“Then who are you?” she asked. The wariness was still there, but curiosity bled through, widening her pale blue eyes. Her tone hinted that maybe-just maybe-she thought she might have seen him before.

Thane offered a small, crooked smile. “That’s a good question.”

A flicker passed over her face. Amusement? Recognition? Or just clever mimicry? She gave the smallest breath of laughter, barely audible, like she’d let herself slip for an instant. Then, almost as quickly, she ducked her head, voice lowering to a low hush.

“I don’t ask too many questions,” she murmured, letting the edge of a secret coil between them. “That’s how I stay useful.”

Her words lingered, bait hanging just out of reach, and Thane found himself leaning in—like she’d meant him to all along. A steadying hand reached out when she seemed to sway. Her flesh was cool beneath his palm.

“To them?”

She paused before stuttering. “T-t-to the children. I help clean. I change and darn clothes. Sometimes I feed them.”

“Do they let you speak to them?” he asked.

“I am not supposed to,” she said, but from the sound of her, she obviously did speak to them.

She tilted her chin up slightly, brows pulled together as if in pain. “I try to make it…less terrifying for them. But I can’t do much.”

Thane tried to keep his expression relaxed but his voice held tension. “You do what you can. That’s more than most.”

Their eyes held for a moment—hers full of sorrow, his with concern.

She was good.

Too good.

She looked fragile. But survivors were more than how they looked.

“Can I ask…why are you here?” she asked. Her eyes met his again, searching and increasingly familiar.

Then an arm slid into his like a lover. Trish’s fingers dug in just enough to warn and he dropped his hand as if burned.

“Fuck off,” she said to Theodora with a too-sweet smile.

There was venom in her voice as Theodora seemed to shrivel before his eyes.

The woman flinched and backed away without a word.

Thane had to bite the inside of his cheek not to push Trish’s arm off.

“Why did you have to do that?” he asked, voice low and even.

“Because while you’re fucking me, princess, you don’t look at other women,” she said coolly.

Then she smirked. “You like her, don’t you? All that blonde hair. Blue eyes. Reminds you of an ex?”

She leaned in, her voice sliding into a whisper meant to wound. “Don’t look too closely, love. She might not be here next time you visit. She’s got a job to look after the merchandise, but if she fucks up…” She shrugged. “Well. Let’s just say the men get a turn.”

Thane said nothing.

They turned to walk away, her possessive grip still on his arm.

But his mind was still back there, with the wide, frightened eyes of Theodora.