The morning light spilled through the clubhouse kitchen windows, soft and warm against the cool tile floors.
Avery stood by the counter, her hands wrapped around a coffee mug like it was the only thing holding her together.
Physically, she was healing — the cuts stitched, the bruises yellowing, the soreness manageable.
But her hands were still shaking.
She hadn’t slept much. Not deeply.
Every time she closed her eyes, she heard the chains. The sound of boots. The echo of Colt’s voice just seconds too late.
She was breathing. She was alive.
But inside, it still felt like she was trapped in that damn room.
“You good?” a voice asked, not unkind.
She startled, coffee sloshing onto her fingers.
Reyes was leaning against the doorway, watching her with sharp, quiet eyes. He wasn’t smili
