“Where?”

  “Danny’s old boatyard.”

  “What? Winstable?” My God. “He sold it to developers,” I say, watching Fury carrying Brad into the house, Doc following. “They were building a facility for underprivileged kids.” Danny will be seething. He’d only relinquished it for a noble cause. To know he was deceived? As if my husband needs any more excuses to go on a rampage. This will tip him over the edge.

  Beau takes my hand and leads my stunned form back toward the house. “The men went in and got the women out.”

  My body is instantly cold. “How many?” I ask quietly, trying not to allow any flashbacks to take hold.

  “Ten,” she says, leading me up the stairs behind Fury, who’s carrying Brad like he’s a small child. Effortlessly. “They were all drugged.”

  I swallow, walking on numb legs, my hand naturally falling on my belly, thinking how different my life could have been if I was never taken. No. I wouldn’t have Daniel. Danny wouldn’t have found me. I have to believe that every bit of hell I endured was worth the distress, heartache, and pain.

  Focus on Brad.

  I nod and disconnect my hand from Beau’s, picking up my pace and entering the bedroom Fury’s taken Brad into. “Can I help?” I ask Doc, who gets straight to work, hooking the half-empty bag of fluids onto the headboard.

  “I need my IV stand,” Doc says. “In my room. In the fridge you’ll find various bags of blood. I need the one marked O positive.”

  “What?” I blurt. He keeps blood? I look at Beau, who looks equally surprised by this. “You know all of our blood types, don’t you?” I recall now, Doc requesting Daniel’s a few weeks ago in St. Lucia, and I thought it a bit random. I didn’t have the foggiest idea what blood type my son is and thought no more of it. I make a mental note to make that a priority.

  “Indeed, I do,” Doc replies, injecting something into Brad’s line. “Nice and quick, please.”

  “I’ll go,” Fury says, leaving the room to fetch Doc’s requests.

  “Will he be okay?” I ask, crouching beside Brad, looking over his pasty skin, his hollow cheeks.

  “Just as soon as we’ve topped up his veins.”

  I nod and look back when Beau touches my shoulder. “We should prepare for the arrivals.”

  I’m blank. Then— “They’re bringing the women here?” I stand, stunned, and Beau nods, just as I hear more wheels across the gravel. “Oh God,” I whisper, feeling wholly unstable. Thinking about ten women drugged and mistreated is one thing. Seeing them is another.

  “You've got this,” Beau says, leading me out of the room. And there she is, doing what we both do best. Reassuring each other, talking sense, but struggling to do that for ourselves.

  We approach Fury, who’s holding a bag of blood at arm’s length while dragging along a metal stand. “Coming through,” he says, as we move to the side of the corridor, letting him pass. My eyes follow him all the way to the door and through it.

  “Where are James and Danny?” I ask Beau without looking at her.

  “Come on,” she says gently, not answering me, coaxing me away. “What can I smell?”

  “You won’t want to eat it.”

  “Smells good.”

  “Well, it looks atrocious. Have you heard from Ollie yet?” I ask, diverting from my own trauma, if only briefly.

  “Nothing. I’ve reached out a few times, but he’s not answering. And it’s not like I’m being given any space to visit him, is it?”

  We both know Beau could break away if she wanted to, which tells me she’s nervous to do that, and not because of her safety. It’s because she’s scared of what she’ll find out. “And the detective?”

  She shakes her head. “I already dislike her, and I hate myself for it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she’s doing what I would do in her situation.” She turns a small smile my way. “Funny how my instincts have changed, huh?”

  “No.” I laugh a little. The cop’s still in there. It’s just mixed up with a bit of crime these days, making it a weirdly immoral moral cocktail. “But you’re okay, aren’t you?” And here’s me ready to hold her up when I’m collapsing over my own traumas.

  “They’ve asked if I want to see him.”

  I’m confused, and I can’t hide it.

  “My father,” she goes on. “They’ve asked me if I want to see him before I lay him to rest.”

  I’m the worst friend. “Will you?”

  “I think . . .” She nibbles her lip, unsure. “Something tells me I should. I couldn’t with Mom because, well . . .”

  Because there was nothing left that Beau would want to see. I slip an arm around her shoulder. “Do you want me to come? If you decide to go, of course.”

  “I think James will want to do that.” She gives me a sardonic look. “He needs me to need him at the moment. I’ll think about it. I don’t even know if I want to. The funeral will be hard enough and”—she looks unsure for a moment—“I have absolutely nothing to wear. What should I wear?”

  I won’t ask her what she wore for her mother’s funeral. Something tells me she wouldn’t remember. “Then we’ll go shopping.” We keep saying it, and it never happens. I need to make it happen.

  “Shopping? To buy something for me to wear to my father’s funeral? Great. I hate shopping at the best of times.”

  Of course. Absolute worst friend. “Or . . .”

  Beau smiles softly. “Actually, no, we should. I need to keep up my momentum when it comes to busy spaces.”

  There it is. She so desperately doesn’t want to go back, and I’ll do my best not to let her. I take her hand and hold it up, flashing her ring. “So when can we start planning the wedding? I need some joy in my life.”

  She looks at my belly, and I cringe. As a friend, I’m on fire today.

  “Stop it,” Beau snaps firmly. “Stop watching every little thing you say about babies or pregnancies or bumps or joy or death. Everything happens for a reason.”

  Is that what she’s telling herself these days? I smile lamely as we take the stairs, and when the front door swings open and Goldie steams in with a woman across her arms—a woman with long dark hair—I freeze, losing my breath, seeing . . . me. Not being rescued, but unconscious. Helpless. “Oh God,” I whisper, taking hold of the gold handrail as Goldie stares up at me. Why? Why is she looking at me?

  “Where?” she asks shortly, and I blink, shaking my head, as more women come through the door, all disheveled, all with ripped clothes, all looking lost, bewildered, and terrified.

  “Rose, where?” Goldie asks, firm but also gently.

  “The TV room,” I blurt, looking around me, as if seeking approval from someone that it was the right answer to give. “I . . . we . . . they . . . I need to check the bedrooms.” I finally convince my legs to take me down the rest of the stairs, thanking everything that Esther will be back in Miami imminently. My mother-in-law is a pro at taking care of houses and people. She’ll know what to do.

  Goldie leads the line of women into the room, and I follow her there, clearing the enormous couches of scatter cushions to make room. “Doc’s busy with Brad.”

  “How is he?” Otto asks, the last to enter after all the women and Ringo.

  “Still unconscious. Blood loss.”

  He nods, and when one of the young women looks at him, he tries his hardest to give her a friendly smile. If the whole situation wasn’t so tragic, it would be hilarious. He looks so awkward, as does Ringo, and Goldie doesn’t look all too comfortable either.

  “There’s a pasta bake in the oven,” I say, ushering them out, looking at Beau, telling her she’s staying. “Tell Doc to come straight here when he’s done. Order some pizzas or something. And get some water.”

  Otto stops at the door and looks back at me. “Esther here yet?” he asks.

  “Very soon.” I force my brows not to raise and shut the door, facing the women. They still look utterly terrified, and in a moment of lucidity, I wonder if they think we’ve kidnapped them.

  “Oh shit,” Beau says, joining my side. “They think we’ve kidnapped them.”

  “English?” I ask, casting an eye across them all. “Anyone speak English?”

  A few hands raise—I count three—and someone speaks up. A redhead. “I’m English,” she says, tucking her vibrant bobbed hair behind her ear. “From London.”

  London? Beau and I look at each other in shock. Not many are taken from countries like England or the States, but then again . . . me.

  “My name’s Pearl,” she goes on, looking around the group of women. But as I too look again, I think girls is more apt. So young. “Melitza and Jana are from Serbia. Zala is Slovenian. Maria and Inessa are from Russia. I don’t know the other’s names. Their English is non-existent.” She points to the unconscious girl. “And Anya is from Romania.”

  I nod and go to Anya, feeling her pulse, if only because . . . isn’t that what you’re supposed to do? It’s strong. Her chest is moving up and down.

  Goldie knocks and pokes her head around the door. “Water.” She enters with a tray resting on one hand and places it on the coffee table in the middle of the sofas before silently leaving. I start pouring, and Beau starts giving out glasses to accepting but wary hands.

  “How old are you, Pearl?” I ask, perching on the coffee table before her.

  She sips, looking over her glass at me with suspicion that I just can’t stand. I need her to know she’s safe now—I need everyone here to know they’re safe.

  “I’m Rose,” I say quickly before motioning to Beau behind me. “This is Beau. She used to be a police officer.”

  “Rose,” Beau breathes in disbelief, and I look back at her, as if to ask her what the hell she thinks I should tell them. That our respective others are criminals? My husband, The Brit, a renowned mafia crime lord and her fiancé, The Enigma, the silent, deadly assassin extraordinaire? I show the ceiling my palms, and Beau shakes her head, joining me on the table, nudging into me so I scoot along.

  Pearl looks between us, like we’re a pair of crazy people. Worryingly, she might be right. “I did used to be a police officer, but now I’m not.”

  “Why?” she asks, lowering her glass.

  “I chose love over duty.” Beau smiles mildly, and I’m compelled to reach for her hand and squeeze, because when she says love, she means her mother. But I have no doubt she’d choose James over duty if it came to it. In fact, she already has. Although Pearl doesn’t know this so, of course, her next question makes sense.

  “You’re married?” she asks, looking at Beau’s finger, prompting Beau to reach for her ring and spin it.

  “Engaged to be.”

  “I’m married,” I blurt. “This is my husband’s house. My house. Our house.” And was once my prison. Good lord.

  Pearl gazes around. “What does he do?”

  Fuck. “Umm, he . . . yes . . . umm.” This is harder than I thought it would be.

  Pearl’s shoulders drop a little, displaying exasperation. “Forgive me,” she says, tucking her short hair behind her ear again. “I don’t know which one was your husband, but they were all carrying guns.” She makes a point of having a good look around the plush, substantial TV room that has a screen big enough to play ping-pong on. “They stormed the place we were being kept. It was all a bit of a blur, but they looked like they knew what they were doing when they fired those guns.”

  Beau and I both shrink.

  “You don’t have to tell me anything,” she goes on. “In fact, I don’t want to know. But . . .” Looking between us, she chews her lip, and I notice a little hole in the right corner. An old piercing? “Are you good people or are we”—she motions to the other girls—“about to leave one level of hell and drop to another?”

  “God, no,” I say, desperate to reassure her. “We’re good people.” I can feel Beau’s skeptical eyes on me. I ignore her. I know to many we’re not, but to these girls we’re definitely good, and I’m taking comfort in that. “My husband saved me from a life of sex slavery.”

  “He did?”

  Beau squeezes my hand. “He did.”

  “Who is he?”

  Fuck it all. “His name’s Danny.”

  She nods, looking at Beau in question, and I discreetly exhale my relief that she hasn’t pressed for more. She wants to know Beau’s situation. “Mine’s called James,” is all Beau says.

  Pearl nods, accepting, and then smiles. “Danny Black and James Kelly.”

  Beau and I jerk like we’ve been hit by a bullet. “What?” Beau says, dropping my hand, moving forward. “You know them?”

  “I heard some of the men saying their names.” She frowns. “It was the only English I heard, along with The Brit and The Enigma.” Pearl looks at me. “Your husband is The Brit.” She looks at Beau. “Yours is The Enigma.”

  “I’m not married,” Beau breathes quietly, moving back, looking at me. I don’t know why. I have nothing to say.

  “How old are you?” Beau asks.

  “I’m twenty-one,” Pearl replies quietly. Then she frowns. “I think.”

  “You think?”

  “I don’t know what month it is.”

  “It’s May,” Beau says, glancing at me, wondering, no doubt, how long Pearl has been away from home.

  “Then I’m twenty-one,” she says, almost sadly. “In April. The fifth.”

  Twenty-one. Such an important birthday. I remember mine. I was on a yacht in the Adriatic Sea. Sounds luxurious. Lavish. Dreamy. It wasn’t. I was fucked and beaten black and blue every day for weeks by a corrupt diplomat until I’d gotten Nox the information he needed. And then I was beaten black and blue again because it took me longer than he’d liked.

  I lose my breath for a moment and fight to get it back, looking around the TV room if only to remind me of where I am. “Clothes,” I choke out, getting up to check on the unconscious girl, her pulse, her chest, before hurrying toward the door, just as Doc pushes his way through.

  “Next,” he says with a hint of humor, scanning the crowd of potential patients.

  “How’s Brad?” I ask.

  “He’ll be fine.” He’s quite dismissive, but I can’t blame him. He’s run off his feet today.

  “You should start with the unconscious one,” I say like an idiot, making Beau roll her eyes.

  “They all need checkups.” Beau takes over, looking back at Pearl. “This is Doc.” She smiles as she comes over and rubs the old man on the shoulder. “He’s the best.” Then she moves into Doc’s ear. “They’re nervous.”

  “Understandable,” he says, looking solemnly at the girls. “I’ll start with the unconscious one”—he looks over his spectacles to me, and I feel myself turning a fetching shade of embarrassed—“before I check the others over. I think perhaps I should like you girls to assist. As Beau said, they’ll be nervous and, well, I’m a man, if a little decrepit.”

  “I’ll send Goldie in,” Beau assures him. “We need to raid Rose’s closet.” Linking arms with me, she walks us on. “The unconscious one?” she whispers in disbelief.

  I can only shake my head at myself.

  “Oh, Beau,” Doc calls.

  “Will you get Goldie?” She unhooks her arm and goes to Doc, not giving me a chance to answer.

  I frown my way to the kitchen and tell rather than ask Goldie to go to the TV room, and she does without question. By the time I’m back at the stairs, Beau’s back on my arm. “Okay?” I ask.

  “Yeah, fine, I was taking Brad’s pulse in the car. Doc needed the numbers.”

  “Oh,” I murmur. Something else she’s useful for.

  “Did you notice the small hole in the corner of Pearl’s lip?” she asks.

  “Old piercing,” I say. “They would have removed it.” I flinch. “To make her—” Fuck, I can’t believe I’m saying this. “More universal.” No piercings, no tattoos, no deformities.

  “Are you okay with this?” Beau asks, pushing her way into our room.

  I nod, taking a deep breath, having a stern word with myself. Those girls have been rescued before they’ve endured the same unimaginable level of hell that I did. Rescued before they were sold. That’s a blessing, although none of them could possibly think that in this moment. And suddenly, I feel energized. Full of purpose. They can have a life.

  “I want everything you haven’t worn in six months,” Beau declares.

  “Can’t we say everything I won’t wear for the next six months, because that’ll be easier?”

  She laughs and swings open the doors of my closet. And exhales her exasperation.

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, Beau has arms full of clothes that don’t fit me, and I can’t even be miserable about it. “We should bring them up to change,” she says, kicking material away at her feet, removing the tripping hazard as she walks to the bed and dumps the clothes there. “Maybe shower.”

  I nod.

  “Which rooms?”

  “Umm . . .” This is a twenty-bedroom mansion, and I can’t be sure there are any spare rooms.

  “Rose?”

  “Wait,” I say, tapping the side of my head, mentally figuring out who’s in what room and which room is free, if at all there is one. “There’s one down the hall, but Brad’s in there. Danny’s father’s room,” I say quietly. “It’s the only other one I know is definitely vacant.” And it’s totally out of the question. Damn it, if Esther was here, she’d know immediately.

  Beau sighs. “You check on Brad. There must be another somewhere. I’ll go investigate.” We leave together and while Beau starts working her way up and down the corridor, I go to Brad, knocking before entering. The bag of blood is what I see first, half empty, and then Fury sitting guard by the bed.

  “I’m awake,” Brad grunts, opening one eye. “Where’s Danny and James?”

  “They’re not back yet.”

  He shifts on the bed, hissing, before he settles exactly where he was. “Why?”

  “I don’t know.” And suddenly I’m worried. I look at Fury, who shrugs, looking at Brad, as if he might answer his own question. “Why aren’t they back yet?” I ask.