CHAPTER NINETEEN
What Was Taken
Pain came before consciousness.
Not sharp at first—just a deep, suffocating ache that wrapped around Kiera's body like a weight she couldn't push off. Her mind surfaced slowly, reluctantly, as if waking itself was dangerous.
Her throat burned.
Her limbs felt heavy. Wrong.
When she opened her eyes, the ceiling above her looked unfamiliar—cracked concrete, stained with age. The dim light flickered, humming faintly, mocking her awareness.
Something was wrong.
The realization hit her all at once, brutal and overwhelming.
Her clothes were torn.
Her body hurt in a way she had never known before—an all-consuming pain that wasn't just physical. It lived deeper than skin. Deeper than bone.
She tried to move.
Agony flared.
A sound escaped her throat—a broken, strangled sob.
No. No, no, no.
Memory crashed into her in violent fragments.
The man's breath.
The way the room felt smaller.
Her voice—pleading, then silent when pleading didn't work.
She squeezed her eyes shut, her body curling inward instinctively, as if she could disappear into herself.
It wasn't my fault.
She repeated it silently, desperately, clinging to the words like a lifeline.
It wasn't my fault.
But shame crept in anyway, poisonous and cruel.
Her wrists were no longer bound.
That realization scared her more than the ropes ever had.
Someone had decided she no longer needed restraint.
The door opened.
She flinched so hard pain shot through her spine.
A man stood there—not the one from before. Younger. Indifferent. Carrying a bottle of water, which he placed on the floor just out of reach.
"You'll live," he said flatly. "That's all that matters."
She stared at him, her vision blurring. "Why?" she whispered.
He didn't answer.
He closed the door.
The sound echoed like a gunshot.
Across the city, Kade Nightwell broke.
When the security feed froze—when the phone went unanswered—when the informant's voice faltered on the line—something primal tore through him.
"They hurt her," he said hoarsely.
No one contradicted him.
His chest felt too tight to breathe. His hands shook—not with fear, but rage so violent it scared the men in the room.
"I want them found," he said. "Every single one."
A trace finally came through—an error made by the kidnappers. A signal ping. A location.
An abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the city.
Kade didn't wait.
Back in the darkness, Kiera lay on the cold floor, curled in on herself.
Time lost meaning.
She focused on breathing. In. Out. In. Out.
Every sensation felt too much—her skin, the air, the sound of her own heartbeat.
She felt broken.
Not damaged.
Broken.
Her mind drifted to Leo.
To his smile. His trust. The way he believed she was safe.
Tears slid silently down her temples.
"I'm sorry," she whispered—to him, to herself, to the woman she used to be.
Footsteps thundered outside.
Shouting.
A crash.
Her body stiffened, terror surging again—but this time, it was different. Louder. Closer.
Gunshots.
Voices shouting her name.
"Kiera!"
Her heart lurched.
"Kiera, it's Kade!"
The door exploded inward.
Light flooded the room.
She squeezed her eyes shut, sobbing as boots rushed toward her.
Kade was there.
On his knees. In front of her. His face—ashen, furious, shattered.
"Oh God," he whispered, his voice breaking completely.
He didn't touch her at first.
He waited.
"Kiera," he said softly. "It's me. You're safe. I'm here."
She opened her eyes and saw him.
And that was when she broke.
She collapsed into his arms, sobbing uncontrollably, her body shaking with everything she'd been holding in.
"I didn't want it," she cried. "I said no. I tried—I tried—"
"I know," he said fiercely, clutching her carefully, like she was made of glass. "I know. This is not your fault. None of it."
His tears fell into her hair.
"I'm so sorry," he whispered. "I should have protected you."
She shook her head weakly. "You came."
"I will always come," he said. "Always."
He wrapped his coat around her, shielding her from the world, from the light, from the memory of that place.
As they carried her out, she hid her face against his chest, breathing in the familiar scent of him—grounding herself in the present.
She was alive.
But something precious had been taken.
And she didn't know yet how to grieve it.
Later, in a hospital room bathed in soft light, Kiera stared at the ceiling, numb.
Doctors spoke gently. Nurses moved quietly.
Kade never left her side.
He held her hand—not tight, not possessive—just present.
"I'm here," he said again and again, like a promise he would carve into the air if he had to.
She turned her head toward him slowly.
"Will I ever feel like myself again?" she asked, her voice small.
His eyes filled—but he didn't look away.
"Yes," he said. "Not the same way. But whole. Strong. And still you."
She swallowed hard. "I feel empty."
"That's okay," he said. "We'll fill it slowly. Together."
She closed her eyes.
For the first time since waking, sleep found her—not peaceful, but real.
Outside the room, justice was already moving.
Inside it, something far more fragile was happening.
Kiera Frost was still alive.
Still breathing.
Still worthy.
And though the night had taken something from her, it had not taken her.