She was so very female, yet not at all delicate or frail. Watching her work, he’d gotten the impression of resilience. Sturdiness, even. She wasn’t someone who’d fold under pressure. That was a character trait the Navy SEALs valued.

But…she did appear tired, and her eyes were red, as if she’d been crying. The thought was worrisome.

“The Prophet has told us what a good woman should wear, and our safety comes from following his guidance in all things,” the woman with gray streaks in her hair told Frankie.

While the younger PZ woman remained silent, the other two spoke in low voices of their contentment that God, the Prophet, and their husbands would handle everything. Their joy was in obedience.

Bull didn’t react. To each his or her own, and they sounded content. He and his brothers—especially Gabe—worried about the women behind the high PZ fences, but this group didn’t act as if they were imprisoned or unhappy.

“Your lives sound just wonderful.” Frankie beamed at them. “Do you suppose I could visit sometime? Maybe even talk to some people about…I don’t know…joining or something?” Her voice sounded higher than normal, her face guileless, and she came off as years younger. More innocent.

She wanted to visit the fanatics? For fuck’s sake. Still stalling, Bull dropped some oranges into his basket. The New Yorker hadn’t seemed like someone susceptible to a fucking cult. His muscles twitched with his urge to yank her away from the PZs.

She might not take that well.

Yet the staff in the restaurants was his responsibility, almost like an extended family. Damned if he wanted to think Frankie would imprison herself inside high fences where some asshole would dictate all her choices, from clothing to what to think. What would drive her to even consider that shit?

Well, he’d keep an eye on her. However, since she didn’t like him, maybe he could get Felix to talk with her.

Whatever was wrong, Bull would help if he could.

Kit. The shock of seeing her best friend still reverberated through Frankie. She’d walked into the grocery, and there was Kit. Unfortunately, her friend was accompanied by not only the women, but male PZs.

Emotions pelted Frankie like a hailstorm. The same height as Frankie, Kit had always been more slender. Now she was emaciated, with hollowed cheeks. Her fair skin was sallow, her gold-brown hair yanked back tightly in a bun. She wore an ankle-length, heavy, black skirt and a white shirt buttoned to the neck. Her amber eyes were haunted and exhausted. A yellowing bruise covered her left jaw, and she moved…carefully. Like she hurt.

Cazzo, Kit.