Page 160 of Rescuing Ally: Part 2
“I had toast this morning. Yesterday morning. Some morning recently.”
“That’s not an answer,” Jenna scolds with authority that would make Carter proud. “Ally, you need real food.”
“I’m not hungry.” The lie tastes bitter on my tongue.
Truth is, I’ve been nauseous for days—grief sitting heavy in my stomach, making everything taste wrong. Even the smell of food makes my stomach rebel.
“Everything just—doesn’t agree with me right now.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Malia says, already moving toward the small kitchen behind the counter. “Grief and worry burn calories whether you feel them or not. Your body needs fuel.”
She begins assembling ingredients—fresh bread, butter, honey, and fruit that adds color and nutrition.
“I should be doing that,” I protest. “You’re still recovering from?—”
“Injuries that are healing,” she interrupts with gentle firmness. “Not from being helpless. Let me take care of you the way you’ve taken care of all of us.”
The offer touches something raw in my chest, emotions too close to the surface for comfort. Taking care of others has become my default response to feeling helpless—if I can’t control whether our men come home safely, at least I can ensure everyone has perfect coffee while we wait.
“Besides,” Jenna adds with humor that holds steel underneath, “if you collapse from malnutrition, Gabe will blame us. And frankly, I’m not sure any of us could survive his protective fury on top of everything else.”
“He is rather intense about your well-being,” Rebel says. It’s an understatement that makes everyone smile because it’s true.
“Intense like a hurricane is breezy,” Stitch agrees. “That man loves you with the focused intensity of a tactical laser.”
“Speaking of which,” Mia glances at her phone with anxiety, “any word yet?”
“Radio silence since they left.” I check my device for the hundredth time in the last hour, finding nothing but an empty screen and mounting worry. “Which means either everything’s going according to plan, or…”
“Or nothing,” Sophia cuts me off with authority that allows no argument. “Everything’s going according to plan. Period. End of discussion.”
The certainty in her voice carries weight beyond simple optimism. She survived Malfor’s attention and knows intimately what our men are capable of when properly motivated. If anyoneunderstands the odds of tonight’s mission, it’s the woman who lived through his cruelty and emerged stronger.
“They’re probably just having too much fun killing him to check in,” Rebel adds with dark humor.
“Our men against one paranoid megalomaniac?” Jenna shakes her head with amusement. “That’s not a fair fight. That’s pest control.”
“Poor Malfor,” Mia says without a trace of sympathy. “He probably thought those walls and guards would protect him.”
“Should have built higher walls,” Stitch observes. “And hired better guards. And maybe not tortured the women of men who kill people professionally.”
“Rookie mistake,” Malia agrees with precocious wisdom that would be concerning if it weren’t so accurate.
Toast appears before me, perfectly golden and spread with honey that catches the café’s lighting like liquid amber. Simple food that smells like comfort.
“Thank you,” I tell Malia, meaning more than just breakfast.
“Thankyou,” she replies, settling back into her seat. “For letting us wait together. For making this place feel like home when our actual homes feel too empty.”
The truth of it settles over us. We’re family, chosen and forged through shared trials, supporting each other through enough anxiety to overwhelm our individual strength.
But together, we’re stronger. Unstoppable.
“To Charlie’s Angels,” Rebel raises her coffee cup in a toast that carries weight beyond a simple gesture.
“To survival,” Stitch adds, lifting her tea with steady hands.
“To stubborn men who keep their promises,” Jenna contributes with humor that holds steel.
