Had she learned of the betrayal at our hands for never having told her?
And it was a betrayal, no matter how we tried to dress it up.
She wasn't a child anymore. She hadn't been for a good long while, whether I wanted to accept that or not.
And she deserved honesty from us, not evasions and half-truths, rules enforced for reasons we refused to disclose to her.
Had she been angry when she learned?
Upset?
Indifferent because there were more pressing things for her to worry about.
God, what if things were being done to her like they had been done to me?
Or, heaven forbid, worse?
"Stop, baby," Reign had demanded from beside me, his big hand landing mid-thigh, giving it a hard squeeze.
"I can't help it," I had admitted, not even bothering to pretend I didn't know exactly what he was talking about. After all these years, we barely needed to have full conversations anymore to get things across to one another.
"We'll have her soon."
Yes.
But what her?
There was no denying there would be changes.
I had changed after V had taken me.
And I had been older.
I had more life experience.
And pain, hunger, fear, and humiliation, they altered people, they got into your bones and changed your cells and altered your DNA.
The Ferryn we brought home was going to need time, love, space, rest, food, understanding.
And even then, there was no guarantee she would be our same sweet, rebellious girl.
We would have to get to know the new parts of her, show her that they were just as lovable.
Everyone had just gotten into place hidden in the tree line, most of us out front, most of Lo's men out back, trying to take stock of the surroundings, of the men, of the firepower.
And I couldn't deny the almost overwhelming surge of gratitude that overcame me at that moment, for all these people who would do anything, not just because they were commanded to, but because they thought of Ferryn as one of their own, wanted her safe return just as much as we did.
As many trained, hardened professionals that surrounded us, I was pretty sure not one was saved the heart attack of seeing the garage door open, and two girls sneak outside.
Escape.
Our girl.
My girl.
And another around the same age, with lighter hair and eyes, her clothes tattered and blood-stained.
Both were worse for the wear.
My eyes noticed that before they noticed the gun in my daughter's hand, the toilet tank cover in the other's. There were bruises and blooded bits. There were haunted, terrified looks in their eyes.
That was what the mom in me took in first.
"She's got a gun," Reign's voice whispered into my ear, making me aware of it. But only after noticing how raw her wrists were. From some sort of binding. I remembered that pain well.
But she did.
She had a gun.
How?
That was a good question.
And I knew the answer involved violence.
The answer involved her needing to take one of these men down to get it.
There was a small swelling of pride, in her drive, in her ability to pull that off, to utilize her many years of training. But that was all drowned out by the knowledge of how bad the situation must have been for her to take that leap.
Because she had to know we were coming. She had to know that we were using every tool available to us to get her home. She knew that she could have waited it out.
But something had happened to make her feel like that was not an option.
Something had driven her to rise up, to take charge, to free not only herself but this other girl as well.
My stomach twisted to think of what that motivator could have been.
We all watched in stunned silence as she eyed the crumbling retaining wall. She could do it. We all knew she could do it. She had been climbing trees and walls and anything else she could get her hands on since she was old enough to pull up her own weight. And after a few hard hits and skinned knees and palms, she learned how to do it without getting hurt.
She could do it.
But she didn't.
And I couldn't help but wonder if it was because she intrinsically knew that the girl with her could not make it.
The survival instinct was an interesting thing, wild and primal.
And usually selfish.
If it came to life or death, most people worried only about themselves. With a few exceptions being made for children.
But my daughter - my good, sweet, amazing daughter - was willing to take a more risky route in order to save this other girl who she barely knew.
Her body shifted, peeking out into the back of the grounds, finding danger, and jerking back.
Then she was moving toward the front, toward me, toward us.
She didn't know we were there.
She didn't know we had her back.