𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐂𝐔𝐄𝐃 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

You’d been under before, but never like this. Never in a place where the walls sweated mildew and the floor was nothing but raw concrete that leached the warmth from your bones. Two weeks of wearing the same tank top, the same shredded underwear, two weeks of ankle chains biting into your skin until the metal left bruised half-moons. You’d trained yourself to breathe through it, to keep your mind sharp, but the silence of no check-ins—no way to signal your team—began to feel like a death sentence.

You weren’t just another agent this time. You were a wife. And every hour you were dark, you knew Brian was somewhere pacing, fighting with the brass. He’d begged to be kept close, but command shut him out. Too personal, they said. Too dangerous. And yet, you knew him—knew he’d never stay sidelined while you were buried inside hell.

The traffickers suspected long before they caught you trying to send word. That mistake was your undoing. They dragged you from the cage, stripped away the mask of the victim you’d worn, and replaced it with pain. Fingers bent until they snapped, ribs breaking under the weight of boots, every breath searing like fire in your chest. You refused to give them what they wanted—names, proof, surrender—but each day chipped away at the thin line between strength and survival.

When the raid came, you barely hear it. The gunfire was muffled, distant, barely making it past the ringing in your ears and pounding of your head. You were on the floor of a back room, barely conscious, when heavy boots stopped beside you. A hand, warm and trembling, pressed against your blood-streaked face.

“Baby,” Brian’s voice broke, thick with panic and relief.

You tried to respond but nothing came. The world tilted, blurred, and then there was only black.

The next thing you knew, bright lights burned overhead and sterile air filled your lungs. The hospital. Voices moved around you, muffled and unintelligible in your state. The only thing holding you afloat was the single anchor of Brian’s presence, his hand never leaving yours until they doctors had to pry his hand from yours.

When you finally clawed your way back to consciousness, you felt the weight of a hand wrapped around yours. Brian sat slumped in the chair, stubble shadowing his jaw, face lighting up as he sees your eyes open.

“Hey,” he said first, the word soft, fragile, as though it might shatter between you. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, careful not to hurt you.