16. Drowning On Dry Land
16
DROWNING ON DRY LAND
~JESSICA~
T he wind whips through my hair, autumn's crisp bite stinging my cheeks as I stare out the half-open window of the sleek black SUV.
Despite the chill, I need the fresh air.
Need to feel something real, something untainted pushing against my skin.
Without it, I'm suffocating under the weight of revelations still settling like toxic dust in my lungs.
I'm supposed to be resting.
That's what Dr. Chen insisted as they bundled me into this vehicle, IVs removed but medication still swimming through my bloodstream.
"Rest, recover, heal," he'd said, as if those words could possibly apply to someone like me—someone whose existence has been defined by vigilance for so long that relaxation feels like surrender.
How am I supposed to rest when my entire world has been turned inside out?
My apartment— that dilapidated, crumbling space I transformed into something resembling a home —wasn't just uncomfortably shabby.
It was actively killing me.
The paint, the very walls surrounding me while I slept, while I planned, while I breathed... leaching poison into my body with every passing day.
Just one more betrayal in a life constructed from them.
I bite my lower lip, wincing as teeth press against already tender flesh.
It's a nervous habit I'd thought long abandoned, resurging now when my carefully constructed control is fraying at the edges. I've been gnawing at it since we left the clinic, a physical manifestation of the anxiety coiling through me like razor wire.
Trapped. Bound. Cornered.
The thoughts circle relentlessly, predatory birds waiting for me to collapse. Because that's what this is, isn't it? A gilded cage. A prison disguised as salvation.
Oh, they've framed it as assistance: as protection, as medical necessity—but the end result is the same. I'm in a vehicle traveling to an unknown location, surrounded by Alphas I barely know, with options rapidly diminishing like oxygen in a sealed room.
I'm fighting the mounting tension with everything I have, because a panic attack now, here, surrounded by these men, feels like the final surrender.
The last piece of myself I'd be giving away.
Breathe. Just breathe.
The passing landscape becomes my focus—trees flashing by in blurs of orange and red, the afternoon sun casting long shadows across winding roads that take us deeper into isolation. I force my attention to the navigation display mounted on the dashboard, its cool blue glow showing our progress along a route that seems to avoid all major highways.
Security protocol. Harder to track on backroads.
Forty-five minutes remaining until we reach the lake house. Forty-five minutes to maintain what little composure I have left. Forty-five minutes until I'm completely at their mercy, deep in territory I don't know, with resources I don't control.
Forty-five minutes of freedom, such as it is.
The leather seat beneath me is too soft, too comfortable. The temperature is perfectly regulated despite my open window. Even the engine—powerful enough to outrun almost any pursuit—purrs with a quiet efficiency that speaks of money and privilege.
Everything about this vehicle, these men, this situation is designed to project security, comfort, and protection.
And yet...
My gaze drifts to the rearview mirror, catching the driver's eyes briefly before he returns his attention to the road. I can’t help but look to the passenger seat, Marcus Harrington—the Alpha who saved me seven years ago, who orchestrated my resurrection, who's been pulling strings in my life from shadows I didn't even know existed.
He sits and watches with the same precise control that seems to define his every action, expression unreadable.
Sitting in the seat behind him is Knox, the lanky tech genius whose fingers haven't stopped moving since we left the clinic—dancing across tablets and phones, securing systems, erasing digital footprints, ensuring we remain invisible to those hunting us.
Hunting me.
Driving us is Bastian, who fills the space with his massive frame, though he's positioned himself to take up as little room as possible despite him being the lead of this journey. A courtesy I didn't expect from a man who looks like he could tear steel with his bare hands.
He hasn't spoken since we left, but occasionally I catch him watching me with an expression I can't quite decipher—something between concern and calculation.
And then there's Viper.
Rook.
Whatever name he answers to now.
He sits beside me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body, his arm stretched across the back of the seat behind me.
Not touching, not quite, but present in a way that's impossible to ignore. His fingers have been tracing light patterns against my shoulder for the past thirty minutes—circles within circles, hypnotic in their repetition.
I know what he's doing.
Trying to lull me into sleep, into trust, into surrender.
The worst part is, it's working.
My eyelids feel heavier with each passing minute, my body betraying me despite my mind's desperate insistence on remaining alert.
My head dips forward, jerking back up as I catch myself drifting. The cycle repeats— forward, up, forward, up —a losing battle against exhaustion and medication and the strange security I feel despite everything.
I can almost feel their eyes on me, these four predators witnessing my weakness. In the rearview mirror, Bastian watches with clinical concern. Knox has paused his digital manipulations, gaze flickering between me and some data on his screen. Marcus's expression has softened almost imperceptibly, though his posture remains alert.
And Rook...
Rook's entire body has shifted slightly toward me, ready to catch me when— not if —I finally lose this fight against consciousness.
Pathetic. Weak. Vulnerable.
I'm going to stay awake.
I have to.
But my head is so heavy, my thoughts increasingly disjointed as the medication pulls me under. The road blurs, the trees become smudges of color, the sunlight fragments into kaleidoscope patterns behind my eyelids.
When my head falls forward one final time, I no longer have the strength to lift it. Strong hands guide me gently sideways until I'm resting against something warm and solid.
The scent that fills my nostrils is achingly familiar—dark bourbon and sugar, now tinged with the sharp bite of alcohol from the clinic's disinfectants.
I miss the other notes I've come to associate with him—gunpowder, metal, the particular tang that clings to him after he's been working in his basement workshop. But this is enough. Enough for my body to recognize safety, to surrender to the pull of exhaustion despite my mind's feeble protests.
The darkness claims me entirely, consciousness slipping away like water through cupped hands.
And then I'm running.
The dream unfolds with the vivid clarity of memory rather than imagination. Rain pelts my skin, cold and sharp as needles. The alley stretches before me, a tunnel of brick and shadow with no exit in sight. My lungs burn, feet slipping on wet concrete as I push myself beyond endurance.
Behind me, laughter echoes off the walls—six distinct voices, six shapes pursuing with the lazy confidence of predators who know their prey is cornered.
I turn to fight because there's nowhere left to run.
My back presses against cold brick, rain plastering my hair to my face, clothes torn, and body already aching from their initial assault. But I'm not going to make it easy for them. Never easy.
They form a semicircle around me, six Alphas in expensive suits now spattered with rain and mud. Four of their faces are marked with large red Xs, violent slashes across features that once haunted my nightmares before I found them, hunted them, ended them.
But two remain unmarked.
Two are pristine, perfect in their cruelty.
The leader steps forward—Elliott Prescott Junior, heir to his father's empire, entitled and vicious in equal measure. His hand reaches out, grips my chin with bruising force. His thumb traces my bottom lip in a parody of tenderness.
I bite down hard, tasting blood—his or mine, I can't tell anymore.
He doesn't flinch.
Doesn't recoil.
Instead, he laughs, the sound echoing in the narrow space between buildings.
His eyes darken with anticipation, with the pleasure of causing pain, with the knowledge that what comes next will break something fundamental inside me.
"You'll never be safe, Omega, " he whispers, his breath hot against my face. "For I always get what I want in this world, and no one can protect you. Not even death."
The slap comes next, head snapping sideways from the force of it.
Just the opening act, the precursor to violence so complete it would rewrite my understanding of pain. I open my mouth to scream, knowing what comes next, knowing no one will hear, no one will come, no one will?—
"Venom, baby. Shh."
The voice doesn't belong in the alley, doesn't fit the nightmare's established pattern. It's deep, soothing, concerned rather than cruel.
It echoes around me, disrupting the memory's momentum.
I'm disoriented, caught between past and present, dream and reality. Arms hold me—restraining or protecting, I can't tell anymore. My chest heaves with desperate attempts to draw air into lungs that feel compressed by panic. I'm thrashing, fighting, clawing my way back to consciousness like a drowning swimmer breaking the surface.
"Stop the car," someone orders, voice tight with urgency. "Pull over. Now."
The sensation of movement changes, momentum shifting as the vehicle slows. But stopping feels wrong, dangerous, a vulnerability I can't afford. The panic surges higher, flooding my system with adrenaline that burns through the sedative's fog.
The arms around me suddenly feel like a trap, a cage, the warmth transformed into scorching restraint. I'm fighting in earnest now, nails digging into flesh, body twisting with the desperation of a cornered animal.
"Let her go for a second." This voice is deeper, calmer—Bastian, I think, though I can't be sure through the roaring in my ears.
"But—" Rook's protest is audible, concern sharpening his tone.
"Just do it. Trust me."
The pressure around me eases, and I surge forward, eyes finally opening to a world that swims in and out of focus. The car door—there, to my right. My hands scrabble at the handle, finding purchase as the vehicle comes to a complete stop on the shoulder of a road I don't recognize.
Cool air hits my face as the door swings open, and I'm moving on instinct alone, bare feet hitting damp earth with jarring impact. I don't know where I am, can't process the thick trees surrounding us or the fading daylight filtering through autumn leaves.
All I know is that I need to run, need to escape, need to ? —
Water laps at my ankles, startlingly cold, the sensation cutting through panic with knife-like clarity. I've reached the edge of a lake, its surface rippling with early evening breezes, reflecting the amber light of approaching sunset.
I stop, chest heaving, as the shock of cold water grounds me in present reality.
My body shakes with tremors I can't control, sweat cooling rapidly in the autumn air despite the fact that internally I'm burning up. The world continues to tilt and spin around me, but the water—tangible, real, achingly cold—gives me something to focus on beyond the suffocating grip of terror.
It's not enough.
The panic has sunk its claws too deep, dragging me back toward memories I've spent years trying to compartmentalize. Sobs tear from my throat, harsh and broken, as I press my hands to my face in a futile attempt to hide from horrors that live inside my own mind.
I can't do this. I can't keep fighting. I can't ? —
"Jessica."
The voice is quiet but carries easily over the gentle lapping of water against shore. Not Rook's voice, nor Marcus's or Knox's. It's Bastian, his deep rumble somehow unthreatening despite coming from a man who could snap me in half without effort.
I peek through trembling fingers, vision blurred with tears.
He's crouched in the shallows several feet away, water soaking the bottoms of his expensive pants. His massive frame is deliberately hunched, making himself smaller, less imposing. His hands rest on his knees, open and empty—a gesture of peace, of non-aggression.
"I-I-I—" My voice fractures, words disintegrating as quickly as I try to form them. Air comes in gulping sobs between attempts to speak. "S-Sorry. Sorry. S-S-S?—"
He shakes his head slowly, the movement deliberate and gentle.
"No apologies," he says, voice low and steady. "It's overwhelming, yes?"
All I can manage is a jerky nod, tears flowing freely now, beyond any pretense of control.
"Too much change can do that," he continues, as if we're having a normal conversation and not standing in knee-deep water while I fall apart. There's no judgment in his tone, no impatience, no trace of the disgust I'd expect from an Alpha witnessing such weakness.
To my surprise, he lowers himself fully to his knees, submerging half his body in the cold lake water. The action makes no logical sense—ruining his clothes, placing himself at a tactical disadvantage, subjecting himself to discomfort—until I realize he's making himself even less threatening, prioritizing my comfort over his own.
"So we can stay right here," he says simply. "As long as you like."
Confusion breaks through panic, momentarily disrupting its rhythm. It's getting darker, the sun dipping below the tree line, temperature dropping with every passing minute. Soon it will be truly cold, especially standing in water.
"But..." I manage, the word escaping between shuddering breaths.
A small smile touches his scarred face, transforming his severe features into something unexpectedly gentle. It's the first time I've seen such an expression from him— from any of them, really —and the genuineness of it catches me off guard.
"As long as you need, Nightshade," he says, the nickname rolling off his tongue as if he's used it before, though I know he hasn't.
Nightshade. Beautiful but deadly.
Fresh tears well up at the unexpected kindness, at the casual acceptance of my breakdown, at the patience being offered when I've given these men nothing but suspicion and resistance.
"Would you like to be held?" he asks after a moment, the question simple and direct without pressure or expectation.
I shake my head reflexively, body still trembling, arms wrapped around myself as if I might physically fall apart without the pressure.
Then, to my own surprise, I whisper, "I used to like hugs."
The admission costs me something—a piece of the armor I've worn for so long it's become a second skin. An acknowledgment of the person I was before, the Jessica who found comfort in physical contact rather than threat.
Bastian's smile deepens slightly, crinkling the corners of eyes that have witnessed horrors I can only imagine.
"Me too," he admits, then tilts his head slightly, offering his massive hands palm-up in a gesture of submission. "But I can make an exception this time."
The offer hangs between us, fragile and unexpected.
I study him through the blur of tears—this mountain of a man kneeling in cold water, making himself vulnerable to ease my fear. There's nothing in his posture or expression that triggers warning bells, nothing that reminds me of that night in the alley.
Slowly, hesitantly, I take the few steps separating us.
His arms open, not grabbing, not demanding, simply creating space that I can choose to enter or avoid. I step into that space, my body still shaking with cold and adrenaline and emotions I've kept locked away for seven years.
His arms close around me with exquisite care, pressure barely registering at first, gradually increasing only when my body language accepts the contact. It's a hold designed for comfort, not restraint—encompassing without confining, secure without trapping.
And something inside me breaks.
Not in the way I feared— not the shattering that would leave me permanently damaged —but a breaking open, like a dam finally giving way after years of containing pressure it was never designed to hold. I sob against his chest, raw, guttural sounds that echo across the still water.
He doesn't shush me, doesn't offer empty reassurances or meaningless platitudes. He simply holds me, one massive hand cupping the back of my head while the other supports my back, his body absorbing the violent tremors wracking my frame.
Time loses meaning as I cry—for Jessica who died in that alley, for the years spent in solitary vengeance, for the poison that's been slowly killing me without my knowledge, for the fear that never truly goes away no matter how many of my attackers I eliminate.
I cry until there's nothing left, until my throat is raw and my eyes burn and my body sags with exhaustion more profound than mere physical fatigue. Throughout it all, Bastian remains solid and unwavering, a mountain providing shelter from a storm that's raged too long inside me.
When the tears finally subside, when my breathing gradually steadies, I become aware again of our surroundings—the darkening sky, the increasing chill, the gentle lapping of water against our bodies.
The absurdity of the situation hits me suddenly—two people kneeling in a lake at sunset, one having a breakdown while the other provides silent comfort.
A sound escapes me—not quite a laugh, not quite a sob, but something caught between the two.
"What is it?" Bastian asks, his voice vibrating through his chest against my ear.
"We're kneeling in a lake," I say, the words scratchy from crying but tinged with the hysteria of emotional exhaustion. "In October. You're probably freezing."
His chest rumbles with what might be amusement.
"I've endured worse conditions."
I have no doubt that's true, though I don't know the specifics of what "worse" entails for a man like him. The scars visible on his face and hands speak of violence survived, of pain endured, of resilience that matches or exceeds my own.
"We should go back," I say, though the thought of facing the others after such a display makes something twist uncomfortably in my stomach. "Before you catch pneumonia because of me."
"Are you ready?" he asks, the question simple but layered with meaning. Are you ready to face them? To continue this journey? To accept the help being offered, at least for now?
I consider lying—saying yes automatically because that's what's expected, because showing weakness feels like failure, because vulnerability has always been punished in my experience. But something about the genuine concern in his voice, about the way he's literally knelt in cold water to offer comfort without demand, makes honesty feel possible.
"No," I admit quietly. "But we can't stay here forever."
He nods, accepting this compromise without judgment.
"One step at a time, Nightshade. That's all anyone can ask."
The nickname again— casual, affectionate without being patronizing.
It fits oddly well, this poisonous flower with its deceptive beauty and deadly potential.
Slowly, Bastian rises, keeping one arm around my shoulders as he guides me to stand with him.
The water releases us reluctantly, cold now to the point of discomfort as we wade back toward the shore. My feet are numb, legs stiff with chill, body finally registering physical sensations beyond the overwhelming emotional storm.
As we reach dry land, I see the others for the first time since my panic-fueled flight from the vehicle.
They're positioned at careful distances—Marcus by the SUV, standing straight but non-threatening; Knox several yards away, pretending to be absorbed in something on his tablet though his attention is clearly focused on us; and Rook, closest of the three but still maintaining space, his entire body rigid with the effort of restraining himself.
The humiliation I expected didn't come.
There's no disgust in their expressions, no impatience, no judgment that I can detect.
Just concern, carefully masked but visible to someone trained to read micro-expressions as I am.
"Better?" Marcus asks, the question directed at me rather than Bastian, acknowledging my agency despite my recent display.
I consider the question seriously. Am I better? The panic has receded, leaving exhaustion in its wake. The nightmare images have faded back to where I usually keep them contained. My body aches and my eyes burn, but I'm present, grounded in reality rather than drowning in memory.
"Yes," I say simply, not elaborating.
Not quite a lie, not fully the truth.
Marcus nods, accepting the answer at face value.
"We have blankets in the vehicle. Dry clothes too."
The normalcy of the offer is almost disorienting after the intensity of what just occurred. No interrogation about what triggered me, no demands for explanations or reassurances that it won't happen again.
Just practical solutions to immediate problems—cold, wet clothing, physical discomfort.
Bastian's arm remains around my shoulders as we approach the SUV, his body radiating heat despite his equally soaked condition.
Rook watches our approach with an expression I can't quite read—concern, certainly, but also something that might be jealousy or confusion or both. His eyes meet mine, questioning without words whether I'm truly okay, whether I want him to intervene, whether I need something he can provide.
I give a small shake of my head— I'm fine —hoping he understands I'm not rejecting him but simply communicating that I'm stable for now. A flash of relief crosses his features, followed by what might be gratitude directed toward Bastian.
Knox is the first to speak as we reach the vehicle.
"We're still about thirty minutes out from the lake house," he says, voice carefully neutral. "Straight shot from here, no detours needed based on current surveillance."
The information is delivered like a mission update, professional and concise, offering me the dignity of normalcy rather than treating me as fragile or damaged.
I appreciate the approach more than I could possibly articulate.
"Blankets first," Bastian says, guiding me toward the open rear door where Marcus already stands with thermal material draped over his arm. "Then we continue."
No one argues, no one questions his authority in this moment. Even Marcus, clearly the pack's leader, defers to Bastian's judgment regarding my welfare. It's a dynamic I didn't expect—fluid, adaptable, based on expertise rather than rigid hierarchy.
As Marcus hands me a blanket, our eyes meet briefly. There's something in his gaze beyond clinical concern or strategic calculation—something that might be understanding, might be regret, might be connection.
It's gone before I can identify it fully, his expression returning to its usual unreadable mask.
"Thank you," I say, the words encompassing more than just the blanket.
A thank you for stopping the car, for giving me space, for not treating my panic as weakness to be exploited.
He inclines his head in that formal way of his, acknowledgment without unnecessary words. Then he's moving again, retrieving a second blanket for Bastian, organizing the interior of the vehicle to accommodate our wet condition.
Rook approaches cautiously, stopping just within arm's reach, respecting the space I might still need while clearly wanting to close the distance entirely. In his hands are dry clothes—sweatpants and a hoodie that must be his, given the size.
"You should change," he says, voice low and rough with emotion he's trying to control. "Before you get sick."
The concern in his voice, the restraint in his posture, the care in his actions—it all hits me with unexpected force. These men, these dangerous, deadly Alphas who could overpower me without effort, who could have forced me into compliance at any point, are instead offering choices, respect, and dignity.
It's so far from what I expected, from what experience has taught me to anticipate, that I find myself momentarily speechless.
Bastian's arm tightens briefly around my shoulders— a gentle squeeze of reassurance —before he steps away, creating space for Rook while ensuring I don't feel abandoned.
"I'll change as well," he says, moving toward the SUV where Marcus holds out dry clothing for him.
Rook takes Bastian's place beside me, not touching but present, solid, familiar in ways that ground me further in reality.
He doesn't speak, doesn't push, just offers the dry clothes with a patience I wouldn't have credited him with before this moment.
"Thank you," I say again, the words becoming a mantra for emotions I don't have names for, for gratitude I'm not used to feeling, for a situation I'm still struggling to fully comprehend.
His expression softens, the hard lines of perpetual vigilance easing into something that might, in different circumstances, be called tender.
"Always," he responds, the single word carrying a weight of promise I'm not ready to examine too closely.
As I accept the clothes, as I prepare to continue this journey into unknown territory with these four enigmatic Alphas, I find myself thinking of Bastian's words at the lake.
One step at a time, Nightshade. That's all anyone can ask.
One step at a time. Perhaps that's how survival works when you've been drowning for so long you've forgotten what it means to breathe.