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Sophia took a second before she reached for the first aid kit. I watched as she grabbed it from the table and set it down next to us. The metal of the kit made a small clink when it touched the wood, and for a second, it felt louder than it should have in the quiet room. Her fingers shook just a little as she opened it, revealing the neatly arranged supplies inside—gauze, antiseptic wipes, bandages, and scissors, all packed up like they were waiting for their turn.
She took an antiseptic wipe from the kit and gently pressed it to the cut on my foot. The smell of alcohol filled the air as she cleaned the wound, and I couldn’t help but flinch at the sting. My muscles tensed, but I stayed still, not wanting to make things harder for her. Sophia was steady, though I could see she was being careful, like she didn’t want to hurt me any more than I already had been.
She worked slowly, wiping around the cuts, cleaning the blood and dirt from my skin. I kept my eyes on her face, watching her as she focused, brow furrowed in concentration. I could feel the alcohol burning against the cuts, but I stayed quiet, trying to breathe through it. She seemed to take her time, making sure she didn’t miss anything, and I was grateful for that.
When she reached for the scissors, I braced myself. She didn’t hesitate, though; she snipped off a piece of gauze, the small sound of the scissors cutting fabric cutting through the silence. She placed the gauze on the biggest cut, holding it in place for a moment. She looked at me like she was checking to make sure I was okay, and I nodded, not wanting to make her feel worse.
She wrapped the gauze in place with medical tape, not too tight but enough to hold it in place. The soft pressure against my skin was surprisingly comforting. She did the same with the other cuts, carefully cleaning them, applying more gauze, and wrapping them with tape. Her movements were slow, but each one was sure, and I felt like she was taking extra care with every step.
When she was done, she reached for another bandage, carefully peeling it from its wrapper and applying it to the last of the cuts. She worked quickly now, but she was still gentle. When she finished, she sat back on her heels and let out a small breath like she had been holding it. She looked up at me, her face soft, and I could see the quiet apology in her eyes.
“That should do it,” she said quietly, almost like she was speaking to herself. “It’ll hurt a little, but you’ll be okay.”
I flexed my toes gently, testing the bandages. The stinging had eased, and the bandages felt tight but not uncomfortable. It wasn’t perfect, but it would hold. I nodded, my voice a little hoarse when I spoke. “Thanks, Sophia. I mean it.”
She met my gaze, her eyes shy but warm. A small smile appeared on her lips, like she was relieved. “You’re welcome,” she whispered, and for the first time since I’d gotten here, I felt like maybe everything was going to be alright.
After breakfast, Clarice took it upon herself to show me around. The others had gone off for what she called a perimeter check, something I didn’t quite understand. The idea of a security sweep made sense in theory, but the way they moved, the silent urgency of it, made me feel like this place was more than just a shelter. It wasn’t just a home—it was something else entirely.
I walked beside Clarice, feeling the softness of the fluffy slippers Sophia had given me sink into the smooth, polished floors. My feet still ached from the cuts, but the bandages held firm, and the comfort of the footwear made it easier to move.
The facility itself was massive, much bigger than I had expected. From the outside, it had looked like any other secluded estate, but inside, it stretched on endlessly. It was beautiful in an almost haunting way. Large windows lined the walls, letting in beams of golden sunlight that danced across the marble floors. The salty scent of the ocean filled the air, mixing with the faint aroma of fresh linen and something floral, like jasmine. Clarice had told me the entire place was built against a cliffside, overlooking the Atlantic, tucked away somewhere deep in Montauk. It was hidden, but not isolated. It felt like a place meant to be found only by those who needed it.
Clarice walked with an easy confidence, her blonde hair swaying behind her as she gestured to different rooms.
“We had to move here recently,” she said, glancing at me from the corner of her eye.
I frowned. “Why?”
She hesitated for a moment before sighing. “Our last hideout kept getting attacked.”
I stopped walking. Clarice took two more steps before pausing as well, turning to face me. I didn’t say anything, but she must have read the look on my face because her expression softened.
“Every single woman here is hiding from someone,” she said simply. “A husband, a father, a boss, a man who wanted to own them and wouldn’t take no for an answer. It’s kind of expected that one of us will be tracked down eventually.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat and nodded. She wasn’t trying to scare me. She was just telling the truth. I also was running from a man.
We continued walking, passing rooms that made me realize just how much more this place was than I had assumed. There was a gun room, lined with racks of neatly organized firearms. Pistols, rifles, knives. Weapons were mounted on the walls, gleaming under the dim lighting. I ran my fingers over the handle of a dagger, feeling the cold metal press against my skin.
Clarice leaned against the doorway, watching me. “Everyone here is trained,” she said. “Skilled enough to know that anything can happen at any time. Always alert. Always expecting the worst.”
I turned to her. “You’ve been attacked before?”
She nodded, crossing her arms. “The last time, we lost a couple of women.”
I set the dagger down carefully. “There were more of you?”
Clarice exhaled, her gaze darkening. “Yeah. There were more of us. Including our leader.”
I looked at her, waiting, and she gave me a small, wistful smile before speaking again.
“Her name was Adanna,” she said. “She was the one who bought this place. Who found us. Every single one of us. A Nigerian woman, fierce as hell. She took us all in when we had nowhere to go.”
There was something almost reverent in her tone as she spoke about her, as if the woman had been more than just a leader—more than just a person.
“She used to be married,” Clarice continued. “Back in Lagos. To a man who made her life a nightmare. He beat her so bad once, she lost her baby. She was seven months pregnant. He left her bleeding on the kitchen floor for hours before she managed to crawl her way out and find help. But it didn’t stop there. He found her again. Dragged her back. Locked her in their house for a year, like she was a damn prisoner.”
My stomach twisted, nausea creeping in at the edges of my mind. I could already tell where the story was going, but I didn’t interrupt.
“She finally escaped,” Clarice said. “But not before he put a bullet in her shoulder and nearly drowned her in a bathtub. By the time she got out, she had nothing left but the clothes on her back. She made her way here, to the States, and started over. Found other women like her. Women who had suffered at the hands of men who thought they owned them. And she built this place for them.”
I could barely breathe. The weight of the story, the horror of it, sat heavy in my chest. I had known pain. I had known loss. But this was something else entirely.
“What happened to her?” I asked quietly.
Clarice’s jaw clenched. “When we got attacked. They took her. We don't know who or why we were attacked the last time but they killed our women and took her away alive.”
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