Chapter 11 #2
He chuckles, low and warm. "Behave, and you can have a free run on it.”
I settle back, grinning out the window.
Art supplies. Freedom, even if just for a morning…
The Volvo glides into the village like it belongs there, quiet and unremarkable, just another family car among the handful of parked vehicles lining the main street.
The place is small—stone cottages with flower boxes in the windows, a bakery with steam fogging the glass, a post office that looks like it hasn’t changed in fifty years.
It’s quiet but not empty… a few locals walk dogs, an older couple chats outside the greengrocer, a delivery van parked near the cozy looking pub.
It’s busy enough that we blend in, but not so crowded that every glance feels like scrutiny.
Perfect.
Viktor parks in a side lane, kills the engine, and turns to me. “Stay close. No running. No scenes.”
I nod, already buzzing with anticipation. “I promise, D….”
I don’t quite say Daddy, but there’s a shared moment between us that means we both know I was thinking it. I blush, but Viktor doesn’t make me suffer and simply carries on as normal.
He gets out first, comes around to open my door—old-fashioned, gentlemanly, and definitely far from the kind of too cool for school Daddies I’ve met in the city—and offers his hand. I take it without thinking.
Viktor’s palm is warm and steady. As we cross the street together, fingers laced, a rush of warmth spreads through my chest, soft and fuzzy, like stepping into sunlight after being cold for too long.
I glance up at him and feel something settle inside me.
For this moment, walking hand in hand through a sleepy village, he doesn’t feel like my captor. He feels like… he’s mine.
Pull yourself together.
This can’t be real.
Can it?
We reach the art supply store, a narrow shopfront with a faded green awning and a bell that tinkles when we push the door open. The smell hits me immediately… fresh paper, turpentine, wood shavings, clay. Heaven. My heart lifts so fast I almost laugh out loud.
Viktor releases my hand and nods toward the aisles. “Pick out what you need. Everything and anything. No limits. But I’ll be expecting to see some great work at the end of it so choose wisely.”
I jump once on my toes, then throw my arms around his neck in a quick and impulsive hug. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”
Viktor stiffens for half a second, surprised, then his arms come around me, one hand resting briefly at the small of my back. “Go,” he says, voice low and amused. “Before I change my mind.”
I don’t need telling twice.
The store is small but wonderfully stocked.
I move through the aisles like someone who’s been starving and just found a buffet.
Clay first—bags of white earthenware, grogged stoneware for texture, a couple of porcelain clays because I want to try translucent glazes again.
Tools next: loop tools in every size, ribs, wire cutters, wooden modeling sticks, a fresh set of calipers.
I grab a potter’s wheel bat, a couple of banding wheels, plastic sheeting, a slab roller mat, underglazes, slips, a bag of grog for texture. My arms fill up fast. I balance everything precariously, then spot the kiln shelves in the back—small test tiles, bisque ware—and add a handful.
I’m grinning like an idiot the whole time.
I know that deep down this isn’t real life, but right now it feels so good I just let myself ride with it. After all, it’s not like I have much choice in the matter, is it?
For the moment, at least, my problems feel a million miles away. No gallery shooting, no locked house, no gunmen, no running through woods. Just clay, tools, possibility. And better yet—much better—I’ve already got a great idea for what my next sculpture will be…
I can see it clearly in my mind… two figures, intertwined but separate, one strong and protective, the other smaller and defiant, reaching up toward the larger one. Not quite embracing, not quite pulling away. Tension and tenderness in every line. The hares from the gallery were about conflict.
This one will be about… trust.
Surrender.
Maybe even love.
I want to capture that exact feeling I had walking across the street holding his hand—warm, fuzzy, terrifying, safe all at once.
By the time I’m done, my arms are loaded and I’m practically bouncing. Viktor is waiting near the counter, arms folded, watching me with a small, private smile that makes my stomach flip.
He takes the pile from me without a word, carries it to the register, and pays in cash—thick stack of notes, no questions asked. The shopkeeper, an older woman with silver hair and kind eyes, beams at us like we’re a normal couple on a normal shopping trip.
“Enjoy your making,” she says to me as she bags everything. “I know a pro when I see one!”
“I will,” I promise, meaning it. “And thank you.”
Viktor stands next to me, silent, but a look of pride on his face that makes me feel so warm and fuzzy inside.
Outside, Viktor loads the bags into the back of the Volvo while I stand on the pavement, hugging myself against the chill, still glowing. He closes the trunk, comes around to me, and—without warning—takes my hand again.
“Happy?” he asks.
I look up at him, the village quiet around us, and feel that same warmth bloom in my chest. “Yeah. Really happy.”
He squeezes my fingers once, then leads me back to the car.
As we drive away, the village shrinking in the rearview mirror, I lean my head against the window and let myself imagine the sculpture taking shape under my hands.
Clay between my fingers. Viktor nearby. No running. No fear.
And maybe a piece of art at the end of it that will make me, and possibly Viktor, proud…