Six months she’d been gone. They’d never been close, despite their husbands being brothers. Croia has always been timid, soft spoken, seemingly far too gentle for Ruarc. A true arranged marriage if she ever saw one. Nylah had at least made it look at though she liked Kieran in the early days of their marriage. Croia had looked like she’d rather stab herself in the eye. The quiet girl had always been Nylahs exact opposite, they mixed like oil and water.

Where Croia is demure, Nylah is high strung. When Croia would simply offer up the other cheek, Nylah fights back tooth and nail. When she went missing, Nylah had quickly lost hope that she’d be found alive. The weak didn’t survive captivity. No one knew who took her or why, though the speculations were endless. Kieran and Ruarc spoke endlessly, formulating plan after plan, following dead lead after dead lead. But Nylah? She is all too familiar with the depravity of men. Men who consider women to be commodities, something to flaunt, something to enjoy at their leisure. If they found Croia alive, she’d be a shell of her former self.

When Kieran found her, Nylah had nearly burned their new house to the ground when he side lined her. She huffed and she puffed, knowing that sending a group of men to rescue a woman who had likely been thoroughly abused by men, was their dumbest idea yet. Ready to breath fire upon her husband, it was his quick pleading that her reining her temper in. She wasn’t blind to the haunted look in his eyes. She knew what he was remembering.

She didn’t like it, especially when Kieran decided he was going. Begrudgingly, she conceded, only so she didn’t wind up chained to their bed in his absence. In the end, she’d given him a list. A list only Kieran would understand. No one touch her. She’d practically beaten it into his head by the time the door shut behind him. Keeping his brother on a leash would be an impossible task - Ruarc had all but disappeared inside himself over the last six months - but if he had any hopes of getting his wife back, then Kieran needed to figure it out.

Nylah didn’t know restless until those hours passed, so painfully slow. She was fairly certain she developed a stomach ulcer by the time Kieran’s name popped up on her phone. He was safe, in the same condition in which he left her, as promised. And they had Croia. Huffing out a sigh of relief and her shoulders sagging, Nylah left Ruarcs home. She hadn’t been the least bit shy about breaking into his home and picking out a bedroom. She picked the one that was both closest to the master and farthest from the noisier parts of the house. She’d jerked the curtains closed, sealing out most of the light. Because she didn’t know Croia, she didn’t know her favorite snacks, so Nylah took liberties and filled the nightstand drawers with an assortment. She stocked the bathroom with scentless products and swept the entirety of the room until it was safely neutral. Comfort, security, neutrality. Nylah remembers how nauseating it had been, to walk into her home and be surrounded by the pictures of the pieces of herself that she’d lost, that had been stripped from her. That hadn’t been Nylah anymore in those photos.

She raided Croia’s closet next, filling the spare bedroom with more things of comforts. Sweats, shorts, baggie shirts, sweatshirts, clean underwear., bras and socks. Croia didn’t have to leave this room if she didn’t want to. And then Nylah left and didn’t return for a few weeks.

When she finally did step foot in the apartment, she first stopped by Ruarcs private selection of booze. A bottle of very expensive bourbon in hand, she grabbed two glasses and set off to Croia’s room. Kieran had practically dragged him out of the house kicking and screaming. It was only the promise that Nylah could help, that she could relate, that had Ruarc grumbling his departure. She knocked twice on the door, waiting for a response before she cracked the door open. ”Its Nylah. Can I come in?”

Okay. The quiet voice barely touches her ears. Slowly, she lets the door swing open, the light from the hall casting a soft light into the otherwise dark room. Stepping in, she closes the door behind her, but not all the way. She leaves it slightly cracked open - an escape. Leaning back against the wall beside the door, Nylah makes no effort to come any closer, nor does her body language suggests she’s going to move anytime soon. Every move she does make is intentional, slow and deliberate. It takes a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dark room but when she does, she recognizes the wary look in Croias eyes. She’s seen it staring back at her in the mirror countless times.

Kieran had said she was thin, but any evidence of that was hidden under baggie clothing and shadows. ”Has anyone offered you a drink yet?” Lord knows how Nylah drowned a stiff drink afterwards. She holds up the bottle and glasses before making her way, slowly, to a dresser closer to the door than the bed. Glass clinks gently and the sound of liquid pouring seems loud in the quiet room. It’s almost too quiet. Turning, with a glass in each hand, Nylah approaches one of the nightstands before she places a glass on the end farthest from Croia. With a little push, she sends it sliding closer.

Nylah chooses an arm chair nestled in one of the far corners of the room. Making herself comfortable, she crosses her legs and rests them on the small ottoman. The amber liquid burns, a sharp contrast to the cool glass. The tv is the only light on in the room, aside from a few rays of natural light that comes in through the breaks in the curtains. It’s a comfortable cave. One that has so many memories rushing in. Her nostrils flare. She hasn’t anticipated this. Nylah takes another sip to her quiet her thoughts. ”It helps with the dreams.” She comments almost idly, gesturing with a tip of her head to the glass of booze. It’s all she says before she lets the silence consume them.

Than can damn near feel the confusion in Croia’s stare. Then understanding. And neither of them acknowledge it. It’s a secret that so few people hold and now Croia is the newest member. Nylahs past is a closely guarded secret, one she keeps under lock and key. Everyday. Kieran knew nothing for the first part of their marriage. Sure he had guessed that something had happened to her, to make her so distrustful, so hateful. But it wasn’t until later on that she told him. Everything. She painted the pictures of her first two marriages, or the horrors she endured while still getting up every morning to maintain her spot in her father’s organization. Nylah didn’t have the luxury of hiding in a room, with people at her beck and call. Nylah still had to carry on. It wasn’t until she became a widow the first time that she got to truly wallow. It was the day of the funeral. That night. She’d gotten so drunk, Harlow nearly took her to the hospital.

Croia downs her drink like her life depends on it. And in some ways, it probably does. Nylah remembers that first drink. That vicious burn of alcohol as she chugged it like she’d die if she didn’t forget immediately. She also remembers the urge to drown herself in a glass. It was a painless place, lost in the haze of a drunk, where nothing mattered and the world was a little less fucked up. But it’s always worse in the morning.

I see it when I’m awake, too.

Nylah sighs before tossing back the rest of her own drink. Clearly, she hadn’t thought it through, coming here. She hadn’t anticipated reopening old wounds. ”You will for a while.” A long fucking time actually. ”It doesn’t ever really go away.” It’s there when strangers get too close, when they offer a hug out of politeness or offering a guiding hand because she’s a lady. It’s there when the nightmares randomly resurface, when you least expect it.

Rising, Nylah makes her way back to the dresser. Getting drunk today, on Ruarcs private stash no less, hadn’t been on the agenda. But it is now. She pours herself a drink, a large one. She holds the bottle out in offering, approaching only if Croia offered her glass. ”It just gets easier to deal with.” A truth and a lie, all in one. Nylah had buried her trauma, buried it under her work until she crafted herself a reputation that made her the monster under your bed. The only thing that had actually made it easier was Kieran. Back then, if you had told her she’d be married a third time, and she’d be happy this time, she would have laughed. A faint, almost melancholy smile touched her lips. She likely wouldn’t have met Kieran, if not for everything she endured in her first two marriages. But those scars are still etched deeply into her soul. And they have been viciously torn open a year ago. Idly, she wonders what Ruarc had told her about that week, if anything.