Page 11 of Brick’s Anchor

When I finally step out, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

I look like a stranger.

The bruise on my jaw has faded to yellow-green but it's still visible. My cheeks look hollower than they should, a week of barely eating will do that. My eyes are red-rimmed and exhausted. My hair hangs in wet dark strands past my shoulders, the bangs plastered to my forehead.

I look like someone who survived something terrible.

I look like someone who's still surviving it.

I dry off with one of the towels Nora mentioned. It's soft. Smells like laundry detergent. Normal things that feel extraordinary after a week of nothing normal.

There's a knock on the door. I freeze.

"I left clothes outside," Nora's voice calls through. "Whenever you're ready. No rush."

I wait until I hear her footsteps retreat again. Then I crack the door and grab the pile she left. Close and lock it again immediately.

The clothes are comfortable. Sweatpants that are slightly too big. A t-shirt that's soft and worn. Underwear still in the package—new, never worn. Socks. A sports bra.

Everything fits well enough.

I put on everything except Brick's cut, that I pick up and stare at for a long moment. I should return it. Should stop using it as a security blanket.

I put it on anyway.

The leather settles around my shoulders like armor. Like protection. Like something that says this person matters to someone, even if that someone is just a giant tattooed biker who caught my cup instead of letting it hit his face.

I unlock the door and step into the hallway.

The house is quieter now. I can hear voices from downstairs. Male voices, low and serious. Planning things. Discussing things. The kind of conversations men have when they're deciding what happens next.

I should go down there. Should rejoin the other women. Should figure out what comes next for me. Do I call my family, do I go home, do I press charges, do I run?

Instead, I slide down the wall and sit on the floor outside the bathroom. Just sit there in clean clothes, damp hair and leather that doesn't belong to me.

I'm so fucking tired.

Tired of being scared. Tired of being angry. Tired of feeling dirty even after the longest shower of my life. Tired of not knowing who I am anymore or if the person I was before still exists under all this trauma.

I hear footsteps on the stairs. Heavy ones, and I tense. Brick appears at the top of the landing. He stops when he sees me sitting there. Those dark eyes take in the situation—me on the floor, wearing his cut, clearly not okay even though I'm safe and no longer in immediate danger.

"You good?" he asks.

"No," I say honestly. "Not even a little bit."

He nods like that's exactly the answer he expected. Then he walks over and slides down the wall next to me. Not touching. Just present. This massive man folding himself down to sit on the floor of his own clubhouse with a stranger who can't get her shit together.

"The first night is the hardest," he says after a moment.

"How do you know?"

"Military. Came back from deployment and couldn't sleep in my own bed for weeks. Felt wrong. Too soft. Too safe. My body didn't know how to exist without being on high alert." He looks at me. "That what's happening?"

"I don't know what's happening," I admit. "I showered for forty-five minutes and I still feel dirty. I'm wearing clean clothes and I can still feel their hands on me. I'm safe and I'm still terrified."

"That's normal."

"It doesn't feel normal. It feels insane."