Page 121 of Nyx

"Some of the women wanted to help with prep," she says. "We've had painting supplies out, fabric, yarn, cross-stitch kits, things like that. Traci was working on a few projects, but I think that has slowed since she hasn't been feeling well. We have completed projects from women who have been here prior."

"That's amazing," I say.

I had seen Traci doing some cross-stitch things, but I just figured she enjoyed the craft.

"Will their work be in the auction?" I ask.

"If they want it to be. Names won't be attached unless they request it, of course."

"That's good."

"It is," she agrees. "And I want you to decide something."

The words make my stomach tighten. I'm better at having a task list than making my own choices.

"Decide what?"

"Whether you want to go tomorrow or stay here."

"Oh," I say, not expecting to even have the option.

I stare at her, not because the question is complicated, but because of everything that comes with it.

She's silent as she waits for my answer.

I fold my hands in my lap and look down at them.

My first instinct is to say I'll stay here rather than go.

I had presumed my attendance was expected, but things have happened since it was first mentioned during my interview, and it has changed the situation for me.

The shelter feels safer than a public park. There are walls here. Locks. Cameras. Men outside who know exactly what they're looking for if a threat arises.

A park has too many directions.

Too many people.

Too many places someone could stand and watch.

Graham could blend in with a crowd, or he could send someone else that I wouldn't recognize as a danger to me until it was too late.

The fear is so familiar that it almost feels like a voice of reason, the same whisper that has kept me moving all these years in order to stay safe.

But then I think of Nyx, and his promise to keep me safe no matter what my choices are.

I feel like staying scared has kept me safe all these years, but then I remind myself of the exhaustion that has come along with it.

It has kept me stuck in this vicious cycle of always looking over my shoulder, of trusting no one, and honestly, I've been miserable.

"My ex has already stolen enough from me," I whisper before I realize I've spoken the words out loud.

I look up at her from my tangled fingers.

Victoria doesn't react with pity. She only nods once in understanding.

"He has," she says.

"I don't know if I can go. I want to say yes, but I don't know."