Page 1 of Healed By Doc
Chapter One
Cara
The world is filled with monsters that seem to take different shapes with time. One minute, they’re simply a figment of your imagination, and the next, they’re materializing into solid figures that haunt you.Hurt you.
Seventeen years ago, I believed that the shapeless pile of clothes under my bed, crumpled together into a scary shape, was a monster waiting for me to fall asleep so it could come out and bite me. At four, I was terrified to even look under the bed after lights out or peek into the dark corner of the closet in case the monster jumped out and attacked me.
A year later, the monster that haunted me no longer dwelled under my bed or in my closet. No, it took the shape of the person who was supposed to love me most. This time, the monster was a pretty brunette with emerald green eyes, not unlike my own. Gorgeous eyes that watched me with both hate and regret. I was five when my mother packed her things and left, not once looking back at the little girl she was abandoning.
She left me under the care of yet another monster, one far worse because he wasn’t alone.
My most vicious monsters came in the form of my short-tempered stepbrother, whose life goal was to make mine a living hell, and a stepfather who hated the sight of me. They were aided by neighbors who pretended not to notice the yelling or the bruises and social workers who were too busy to do more than take my stepfather at his word. Other monsters came and went, morphing my life into a living nightmare. I got out, but the cost of survival was high.
A life was lost. Another ruined.
And I’m still paying the debt with grief and guilt.
I left that part of my life behind, bearing wounds that still haven’t healed and regrets that still haunt me, but…I escaped. I managed to survive the streets, got into college in an attempt to become a better version of the very people who failed me, and made my life what it is. Now I spend my days helping others escape their monsters.
Haven House.
A few months ago, this very building was a gentleman’s club, one that auctioned women to cruel wealthy men. It was once a place of horror before the infamous Steel Rebels MC took over and turned it into a women’s shelter, where women and their children can find safety under their protection. I’ve stayed at plenty of the city’s shelters and know firsthand they weren’t always safe. Between the crowding of desperate women and the shady workers, sometimes it was safer on the streets.
Haven House is different.
My eyes drift over the women walking into the common room. The air is filled with the gentle scent of freshly baked bread and something floral, a carefully curated blend meant to feel both comforting and hopeful. The walls are painted acreamy hue, and the furniture is a mix of vintage and modern pieces.
Everything about this women’s shelter is intentional. From the sheer linen curtains that allow sunlight to create patterns on the polished floors to the art pieces on the walls. It’s a home for women seeking a refuge from monsters.
My mouth stretches in a smile when I spot a woman gently stroking the soft fur of a therapy dog curled at her feet, her face reflecting a moment of peace. It’s a welcome contrast to the pain and trauma etched on her face when she arrived here a week ago, battered and bruised. Her expression may be clear for the moment of the horror she went through, but I know from experience that her soul is not.
It never will be.
My smile falters, and I push back my own memories as I start for her when a sudden crash shatters my attention. My head snaps toward the disturbance, my heart leaping into my throat. I don’t miss the way the women in the room tense up, always on edge at any sound, but this is a well-protected building. There are always a couple guards on watch around the building, and no one in their right mind would dare come after someone under the protection of the Steel Rebels.
Even so, that doesn’t quiet the panicked little voice at the back of my mind, reminding me of the monster I escaped, one that’s still out there somewhere. I push it down, force the thought away and paste on a smile for the women before pushing through the doorway, my eyes scanning the entry hall for the source of the commotion.
“Cara!”
I recognize the urgent voice as that of my boss, Samantha. She’s the director of the shelter and has been somewhat of amaternal figure to me from the moment I showed up here four months ago. She offered me a job and lets me live at the shelter while I juggle college and work. I follow her voice to the front doors and stop, my heart racing at the scene in front of me.
Samantha is kneeling beside a woman, her face etched with concern and horror. My eyes shift from my boss to the woman with a swollen eye and split lip. Her injuries aren’t an uncommon sight here, but something about the woman’s face and the way she is clutching her side send my pulse racing. Her left eye is bruised purple with a thin trail of dried blood along her hairline. Perhaps it’s the extent of her injuries or the innocent terror in her eyes, but it triggers my memories, and I’m suddenly transported back in time.
The memories paralyze me, and I find myself frozen to the floor as a cold wave of terror washes over me. Instead of the injured woman, I see a younger version of myself: the fear, the pain, the helplessness. My mind drifts to the events of that night years ago, reliving the violence…and the betrayal that followed.
“Cara!”
Samantha’s voice, sharp and clear, cuts through the fog of my mind, and I’m snapped back to reality.
“Sorry,” I choke out, my voice coming out in a near whimper as I try to push down my past pain to help the hurt woman. “I’m sorry.”
There is a questioning look in Samantha’s eyes as she studies my face, but now isn’t the time. “Trade places with me and get her inside. I need to call for help,” she says, nodding for me to take her place. I shake off the lingering shadows and force myself to move, kneeling beside the injured woman and taking her arm to help her up.
“Hi, my name is Cara,” I tell her as Samantha gets up to make the phone call. “I work here, and I promise you that you’re safe now.”
The woman looks up, and my heart clenches when I realize she is at most a year or two younger than me. She’s at least eighteen, but no more than twenty. “It’s my fault,” she whispers, her eyes crowding with tears. “This is all my fault.”
I thought so too once, but I was wrong, and she is too. I vehemently shake my head. “It’s not your fault,” I tell her, tugging her gently to her feet. “Come on now, let me help you inside. What’s your name?”
