Page 35 of Hero's Heart

He came back a moment later, a pair of sandals in hand. “I think these will be much better than your current footwear.”

“I—” She felt bad about taking them from a home that obviously didn’t have very much. “I think I’ll be fine with my current shoes.”

He offered her a gentle smile. “I left some cash on the porch. More than enough to cover what we’ve taken.”

Relief flooded her, and she managed a smile. “Good. I’d hate for a sheriff to actually shoplift.”

The town’s streets welcomed them with eerie quiet. The storm from the night before had left puddles scattered across the cobblestones, mirroring the streaks of orange and pink in the sky. The scene might have been serene under other circumstances, but right now, Sloane just wanted to get off her feet.

“Do you think we’re safe here?” she whispered, walking close enough to Callum that her shoulder brushed his arm.

He didn’t answer immediately, his sharp eyes scanning the windows and doorways around them. “Safer than we were.”

Callum’s steady presence grounded her, his movements deliberate and calm despite the precariousness of their situation. She envied his composure.

“How do you stay so calm?” she blurted, unable to keep the question inside any longer. Her voice sounded too loud in the stillness.

Callum glanced at her, a hint of amusement softening his otherwise stoic expression. “Practice,” he replied, his voice low. “And knowing that losing your head never saved anyone.”

They turned a corner, and the aroma of fresh bread hit her like a physical blow. Sloane’s stomach growled loudly. She spotted a market stall just ahead, its wares an array of fresh loaves, fruit, and cured meat. Her steps faltered, and her longing gaze lingered on the food.

“Wait here.” He handed her the clothes he’d taken from the clothesline. “Just stay against the wall and keep your gaze down.”

Sloane did what he asked but watched him under her lashes as he casually approached the stall. With movements so fluid they were almost imperceptible, he pocketed several different types of food. But just before turning away, he discreetly slipped some bills beneath a crate. She hid her smile. She’d be able to eat the food and wear these clothes with no problem, knowing nobody was suffering because of it.

He came back and led her to a side street, the cobblestones slick beneath their feet. Around the bend, a weathered inn came into view. Its faded yellow façade and creaking wooden sign made it look almost abandoned, but to Sloane, it was the most inviting sight she’d seen in days.

“Here,” Callum murmured. “This will do.”

Sloane hesitated as Callum stepped forward to push open the heavy door. Inside, a grizzled man behind a counter barely gave them a glance.

“We need a room,” Callum said, his tone steady and polite. He placed a small wad of cash on the counter, a subtle but clear message.

The innkeeper didn’t ask questions. Taking the money, he slid a tarnished key across the counter. “Room three,” he grunted, jerking his chin toward the staircase.

Callum led her to the room and opened the door. It was small and plain: a double bed with a threadbare quilt, a wooden chair, and a chipped bedside table. A door to the left revealed a tiny bathroom.

“It’s not much,” Callum said, his voice low. “But it’s enough.”

Sloane stepped inside and leaned against the wall, her exhaustion catching up to her in a rush. “It’s perfect,” she murmured.

Her eyes darted to the bathroom in longing. She wanted a shower much more than she wanted food. “Do you mind if I…?”

“Go ahead,” Callum said, easing into the chair. “I’ll be right out here.”

The bathroom door creaked shut behind Sloane, the sound grating against her raw nerves. She leaned her weight against the flimsy wood, closing her eyes. The tiny space reeked of mildew and despair, the cracked mirror above the stained sink reflecting a fractured version of her reality.

She stripped off the mud-caked dress, wincing as it peeled away from her skin. Every movement sent pain through her body, the bruises and scrapes mapping the violence she’d endured. Her reflection was barely recognizable; the hollow-eyed woman staring back couldn’t possibly be her.

Her eyes fell to her breasts, covered with bruises from where Nikola had groped her. Her knees buckled slightly, and she gripped the sink for balance. The thought of his hand between her legs caused bile to rise in her throat.

“Pull it together,” she whispered hoarsely, her breath fogging the mirror. “He can’t hurt you anymore.”

The words felt fragile, paper-thin against the weight of her fear. She turned on the shower, the water sputtering before a lukewarm spray began. It was better than nothing. Sloane stepped in, flinching as the water struck her battered skin. She scrubbed furiously, her hands shaking as she tried to erase more than just the grime.

Tears blurred her vision as she worked soap over her bruised thighs, the mottled skin a cruel reminder of what she so desperately wanted to forget. No amount of scrubbing was going to take away the memories.

The tiles beneath her feet felt cold, unyielding. Sloane pressed her palms against the shower wall, letting the water cascade over her. The tears came in waves, unstoppable, her sobs echoing in the confined space.

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