Chapter 6 #2
Her therapist had said the same thing. She frowned down at the screen.
There was so much more to Talon King than he let people see.
That scowl of his hid a heart of gold, too.
A person who didn’t have such kindness would have never volunteered to text with a stranger, would they?
But she wasn't a stranger anymore, was she?
They'd moved beyond that without her even realizing it.
Riley: How do you know that?
Talon: Experience. It gets better.
Experience. The word carried weight, spoke of battles fought and survived, maybe of other people he'd helped through dark times. She wasn't his first rescue, and she probably wouldn't be his last. But somehow, that didn't make her feel less special. It made her feel … understood.
Riley: Promise?
God, she sounded like a child. But she needed to hear it, needed someone who'd been through it to tell her there was light at the end of this endless tunnel.
Talon: Promise.
And just like that, she believed him. Because if there was one thing she'd learned about Talon King, it was that he didn't make promises he couldn't keep.
Riley set the phone down on the polished glass coffee table, her fingertips lingering for a moment against the smooth surface. The house was still silent, still cavernous, but it didn’t feel quite as hollow.
She leaned back into the pristine cushions, letting her head rest against the arm of the sofa. Talon’s single word, promise, still pulsed through her, quiet but steady. It was a warm presence.
Outside the tall picture windows, the manicured gardens stretched toward the water, the neat order of the hedges at odds with the tangle of her thoughts. A shaft of late-afternoon sunlight cut across the room, dust motes drifting lazily through the air like tiny flecks of gold.
The house was the same as it had been an hour ago—too big, too empty—but it no longer pressed in on her quite as much. Because she wasn’t alone. Not really. Not when she could reach out across the miles and someone would answer.
Her hand drifted to the phone again, fingertips brushing the screen before she pulled back with a faint smile.
No. She’d let his words settle. Let the silence stretch.
Talon’s promise was enough to carry her through the rest of the long, quiet Sunday.
Calling was out of the question. His security required the texts to be encrypted and bounced from point to point.
He’d told her that. It sucked, but she’d take the connection anyway she could get it.
September
Talon: Question: What's the weirdest thing you've eaten?
Riley lifted an eyebrow and looked up at the woman who was helping her with her wrist and hand exercises.
Another random question from her mysterious guardian.
She loved these moments—when he pulled her out of the monotony of recovery and into his world of strange experiences and casual observations.
"Could you excuse me for a moment. I need to answer this."
"Sure. We can take five." The woman walked over to her bag and grabbed her phone.
Riley moved to the corner of the room, suddenly protective of this conversation, this connection that had become so precious to her.
Riley: Why?
Talon: Currently staring at something called balut in the Philippines. It's a duck embryo.
Her hand flew to her mouth, and she gagged a bit at the thought. Dear God, that sounds disgusting. But also … he’s sharing this moment with me. Of all the people he could text, he chose to tell her about this bizarre culinary experience.
Riley: Oh god, no. Did you eat it?
Talon: Had to. Cultural respect and all that.
Riley cringed, and a shiver ran through her, raising goose bumps all over her arms. There was no way she would have eaten it. Respect be damned. But that was Talon, wasn't it? Doing what needed to be done, even when it was unpleasant. Even when every instinct probably told him to run.
Riley: You're braver than me. Weirdest I've done is escargot.
The words felt strange as she typed them. She'd once thought herself brave—traveling to dangerous places, negotiating with foreign governments, standing her ground in boardrooms full of men who wanted to dismiss her. But real bravery was what Talon did. What he'd done for her.
Talon: Snails are nothing compared to this.
No doubt! She found herself laughing, actually laughing, and the physical therapist looked up with surprise. When was the last time she’d laughed? Really laughed, not just polite social sounds but genuine amusement?
She looked at her plate and dropped a pat of butter on top of the horrible-looking stack of pancakes she'd made.
They looked like disasters, but she'd made them herself.
Using her hands to lift anything was extremely hard.
She shook and had to use one hand to steady the other, but she was making progress.
Baby steps. That was what her therapist called them.
But they felt like mountain-sized steps to her.
She wanted to share her success with someone. Not someone. Talon. She smiled and texted him. She knew he would appreciate what she'd done.
Riley: Started cooking again today. Made pancakes.
She’d cooked. Like it was the most natural thing in the world, not a monumental victory over hands that shook and a mind that sometimes forgot she was safe.
Talon: How'd they turn out?
She looked at the mess on the counter, the drips of batter down the side of the stainless-steel garbage can at the end of the prep counter, and thought of the first batch that had burned because she couldn't figure out how to flip the pancakes after she’d lifted them off the griddle.
She ended up twisting her entire body to help flip them over.
It was awkward, but it worked. And that felt like a metaphor for her entire recovery.
Riley: Burned the first batch. Second is edible.
Not good, not delicious, but edible. It was honest, and somehow, she knew Talon would appreciate the honesty more than false bravado.
Talon: Progress. What's next on the menu?
He got it. He understood that it wasn't about becoming a gourmet chef.
It was about reclaiming pieces of herself, one burned pancake at a time.
She carefully stabbed a piece of pancake and lifted her shaking hand to her mouth.
As she ate the maple syrup-coated goodness, she thought about his question.
If she made spaghetti, she could lift it with a tong out of the water.
Lifting the entire pot without spilling boiling water would be impossible.
Or maybe use a pasta pot. She could lift the strainer and just leave it on the edge of the pot to drain. Yeah, she could do that.
Riley: Thinking pasta. Hard to mess up.
Talon: Famous last words.
Riley stuck her tongue out at the phone but responded.
Riley: Thanks for the confidence boost
He made her feel normal. Like she was just a friend complaining about cooking challenges, not a broken woman trying to remember how to live.
October
Riley woke up and grabbed at her phone when it vibrated.
She glanced at the clock on her bedside table.
Four in the morning? She blinked as the light from her phone blinded her.
Who’s texting at this hour? Waiting a few seconds for her eyes to focus before she could actually see the words, she squinted to read.
Talon: It's 0300 here, and someone is playing a trumpet outside my hotel.
A trumpet? She rubbed her eyes and read the text again. He was somewhere dealing with a trumpet player at 3 a.m., and his first instinct was to tell her about it. The thought made her chest tight with something she couldn't quite name. She closed one eye and typed.
Riley: Where are you?
Talon: New Orleans. Apparently, the music never stops.
Ah, well, that explains the trumpet. She turned on her lamp, which was harder than it should have been, but at least she was able to rotate her wrist enough to work the small knob.
Another little victory. She sat up in bed, suddenly wide awake and grateful for this unexpected connection in the middle of the night.
Riley: I love that city. The food, the music, the energy.
It was a great city for a vacation, but if you needed to sleep, probably not, at least not in the French Quarter and definitely not during Mardi Gras. But more than that, it was a city that felt alive in a way that made her father's house feel even more like a tomb by comparison.
Talon: When were you here?
Riley: College spring break. Felt like a different lifetime.
Because it was a different lifetime. Before everything had gone wrong, before she’d learned that the world could be a terrifying place, before she’d met a man who made her feel safe with nothing more than text messages across thousands of miles.
Talon: Maybe you'll go back someday.
She thought about that for a moment. All the people, elbow to elbow in bars, the strangers, and the lack of personal space.
Man, that was a goal, wasn't it? To be okay with a bunch of strangers around.
To trust that most people weren't threats, that crowded spaces could mean celebration instead of danger.
She lifted a shoulder. Yeah, it was good to have a goal.
Riley: Maybe.
It felt like hope, that single word. Maybe she’d go back to New Orleans. Maybe she’d travel again. Maybe she’d learn to live instead of just survive.
Riley rocked in the chair on the porch. It was cold outside, but she needed the bracing chill.
The cold reminded her she was alive, grounded her when her mind wanted to drift back to dark places.
Her therapist had asked a lot of hard questions that day.
Questions she didn't have answers to, and that bothered her.
She'd always been someone who had answers, who could solve problems and make things work.
But how do you solve the problem of being fundamentally broken?