37. DARIA
Chapter thirty-seven
I woke up to silence. No alarms, no gunfire, no shouting. Just the deep, steady hum of the Valkyrie cutting through the water. For a moment, my mind refused to believe it. My body was too warm, too relaxed, too…at peace.
That was unsettling.
A glance at a clock told me I had been out for nearly twelve hours. Jesus—what time zone was I even in? My mind and body must have shut down the second I hit the bed. What pain meds had Braxton given me? I chuckled at the thought of the Boy Scout doing something so nefarious as sending me off into a drug-induced sleep for my own good. I stretched, every muscle groaning in protest, then rolled out of the sheets and headed for the shower.
Steam filled the small bathroom as I stepped under the water. It sluiced off the salt and sweat, carrying away the grime that had accumulated over the last twenty-four hours. My skin still bore faint marks from the last time Malinov’s men put their hands on me, but the worst of it had already faded. My body healed fast. The rest would take longer.
After drying off, I tugged on some clothes. I found a charcoal-gray fitted cashmere boatneck sweater that hugged my frame. I paired it with some matte-black, high-waisted leggings. They were sleek, with side pockets and just the right amount of compression to make my butt look perky. My outfit was built for movement but still stylish enough to pass for casual wear on this luxury yacht. I quickly blow-dried my hair and styled it with my fingers. Finishing off my outfit, I laced up a pair of black sneakers and headed out the door.
Ready to face whatever came next, I made my way upstairs to find the guys. The second I stepped into the main dining area, Nikolai’s voice hit me like a slap.
“Ah, the princess finally emerges.” He leaned back against the bar, arms crossed, exhaustion carved into his face. “You slept through all the fun.”
Braxton sat at the bar beside him, one hand wrapped around a coffee cup, the other draped lazily over the back of the barstool. He looked about as wrecked as Nikolai. There were dark circles under his eyes, his hair was a mess, and he was wearing the same clothes he’d been in last night. He lifted his gaze to me, scanning me, but said nothing.
I grabbed an apple from a tray on the bar, ignoring Nikolai’s smirk. “So you guys had fun?”
Nikolai gestured around broadly in a theatrical move. “Oh, you know. Just a casual game of dodge the Russian patrol boats in the middle of the Gulf of Finland. Then we got to play avoid Finnish radar while figuring out if the Swedes were feeling hospitable or wanted to overtake us.” He shook his head. “Hell of a time, really. I have no idea how you slept through it.”
I took a bite of the apple, chewing as I took a look at the screens, which were displaying all manner of maps and messages. Plates of food covered the bar—cold cuts, fresh bread, cheese, and fruit. My stomach grumbled, reminding me I’d not eaten breakfast and almost missed lunch. Braxton must have caught the way I eyed the food because he nodded toward it.
“You should eat,” he said. “You look…” He hesitated. His expression changed, something unreadable passing through his eyes before he blurted, “God, you’re absolutely gorgeous.”
The words landed like a grenade in the space between us. His brows pulled together almost immediately, as if he hadn’t meant to say it out loud. “I mean—” He grimaced, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “You just…look different. Well rested. I’ve only seen you in high-stress situations and running for your life. You know…”
He stopped speaking before making the situation any more awkward. I had no idea what to say in response, so I busied myself filling a plate with food and pouring a glass of juice. Compliments weren’t exactly a thing in my life, and Braxton, for all his quiet intensity, wasn’t the type to throw words around without meaning them. Heat crept up my neck, a foreign and unwelcome sensation. After a few moments of silence, I turned toward Braxton and blinked. “You clean up pretty good yourself.”
Nikolai laughed, shaking his head. “Oh, this is priceless.”
Braxton and I snapped at the same time, “Shut up, Nik.”
Nikolai grinned but didn’t push it further. Instead, he straightened and rolled his shoulders. “All right, let’s get down to business.” He motioned toward the navigation map on one of the large monitors. “Since you missed the first leg of our daring escape, here’s the recap.”
He moved to sit at his war table. “Thirty minutes after you passed out, we were threading the needle between Russian patrol routes, cutting south to blend in with civilian maritime traffic. I spoofed our signal to make it appear as if we were a Finnish research vessel.”
“Which almost worked,” Braxton muttered, sipping his coffee, “until a patrol boat got curious.”
Nikolai smirked. “Nothing a little fast maneuvering and electronic warfare couldn’t handle.” He tapped the screen in front of him. “I set a few well-placed ghost signals that sent them on a wild goose chase while we slipped through. We crossed most of the gulf under cover of night, drifted for a bit to keep our radar signature minimal, and then pushed into the Baltic at dawn. Had to convince some curious Swedish military planes that we were just a wealthy family on a much-needed vacation, but nothing too dramatic.”
I nodded, swallowing a bite of strawberry and finding a stool a few seats down from Braxton at the bar. “And now?”
“This is an exclusive private yachting port in Norway.” Nikolai pointed to a waypoint on the map. “We’ll reach this refueling stop in about forty hours. After that, it’s on to the North Sea, then the Atlantic. If all goes well, we should hit Manhattan by the first of October.”
Braxton, who had been staring at the screen, suddenly straightened. “First of October?”
Nikolai arched a brow. “Yeah. Why?”
Braxton rubbed his jaw, a slow grin forming. “That’s good. It gives us time to make it back to Tacoma with a few days to spare.”
I frowned. “For what?”
Braxton glanced over at me. “Atticus and Samantha’s wedding. October fifth.”
A wedding. Family. Normalcy. The words whirled strangely in my mind, so far removed from everything we had been dealing with—so far from my everyday life. This was the second time Braxton had left me speechless in a matter of minutes.
Nikolai tapped on the keyboard for a few seconds. “Great. So we survive the North Atlantic, dodge any bounty hunters, and get Braxton home in time to watch his brother tie the knot. Simple.”
Braxton smiled and let out a gentle sigh of relief.
He leaned against the bar, watching me pick at the open-faced sandwich I’d made.
“You’re gonna like them,” he said.
I forked a slice of cucumber, glancing up. “Like who?” I asked, popping it into my mouth and chewing.
“My brothers—Atticus and Conan—and Samantha, Atticus’s fiancée.” His lips twitched. “She’s tough. You’ll get along.”
I chewed slower. Braxton said all of this like it was inevitable, as if I’d already agreed to be part of his world.
“And you’ll like Anastasia too,” he added, glancing at Nikolai. “Nik’s twin, who’s starting a fresh life in Tacoma.”
Nikolai chuckled as he continued to tap on the keyboard, half-listening. “You’ll get to meet the entire Thorin bunch. I warn you, though, they’re loud.”
I didn’t want to continue this conversation—I hadn’t yet mapped out a plan for my future. Nikolai turned toward me, something in his expression shifting. He tapped his fingers against a water bottle on the table, studying me like he had just remembered something. “Speaking of fresh starts, I have a full set of documents for you,” he said with all the casual arrogance of a man who decided people’s fates like it was no big deal.
I stilled. “Documents?”
Nikolai took a drink from the bottle, placed it back on the table, and turned his chair to face me. “Your father actually made my job easier than usual. He’s been paying a full team to erase you from every Kremlin system and database in Russia.”
My pulse hammered against my ribs. The Devil had promised to disown me but had actually erased me? “Explain.”
Nikolai shrugged. “I was able to finish the job, so Daria Melnichenko doesn’t exist anymore.”
The floor beneath me seemed to tilt. I planted my hands on the bar. “What the hell did you do?”
Braxton stepped in. “Nikolai and I knew you’d need a safe place to land,” he said softly, as if trying to defuse a bomb. “You’re on the Kremlin’s kill list. Not to mention, the Tambovskaya Bratva wants your head on a pike. You needed a new identity—one that keeps you alive.” He inhaled slowly, a proud sort of grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’re an American now. A photographer. Artist. You’ve got travel papers, a passport—hell, even a Washington State driver’s license. Everything checks out too. It’s clean. Bulletproof.”
I stared at him. He looked…pleased with himself.
“You’ll be safe in the US,” he went on. “You can start over—with or without me around. It’s your choice. I just want you to have a good life.”
A choice. He thought this was a choice?
“You think I want this?” My words came out harsh, slicing through whatever warm sentiment Braxton had been trying to build. “You think I want to run and play house in America while people are still dying in Ukraine?”
His jaw clenched. “Daria—”
“No.” Heat flooded my chest, burning through every nerve. “You think you get to decide this for me? That I need rescuing?” I turned to face Nikolai. “You think you can just rewrite my life? You’re not any different from the bastards who tried to control me before!”
Nikolai’s chair scraped against the floor as he stood. “Your past life is over.” His tone carried command, not suggestion. “We are saving you whether you like it or not.”
I jumped to my feet, my fists curled. “I can fight in Ukraine.”
“You’ll be dead in a week.”
“Then let me decide that!”
Nikolai stepped forward, closing the space between us. “You’re under my protection now. I put my neck on the line for you. That means you don’t get to make decisions that get you killed.” He flicked his wrist toward the navigation screen. “Living in the US is your best option. I have people there who can keep an eye on you.”
“I don’t need anyone keeping an eye on me.”
“Besides, you already speak English.”
“I also speak French. I’ll go to France.”
Nikolai’s eyes narrowed. “This isn’t a negotiation.”
My rage boiled over. “You son of a—”
“It’s done!” His voice cut through mine, final and unmoving. “You are Volkovi Notchi now. That means you belong to my family, and we take care of our own.”
My pulse thundered. He had no right.
“You should be grateful,” he went on, shaking his head. “Your new papers are so clean no one will ever question them. And for the first time in your life, you’ll be able to walk down the street without looking over your fucking shoulder.”
I slammed my hand on the bar. “And I should thank you for stripping me of my name?”
“Your name was a death sentence.”
My head pounded. I turned, leveling Braxton with my fury. “And you? You went along with this?” I waved my hands in the air between us. “How arrogant do you have to be to think I wanted this?”
Braxton stood and raised his hands placatingly, his expression torn between shock and regret. “I thought—”
“You thought I’d be grateful?”
His jaw flexed. “I thought you deserved a fresh start.”
I opened my mouth to fire back, but Nikolai cut in, saying dryly, “Oh, you’re really gonna love this next part.”
Braxton and I both snapped our heads toward him. Nikolai grinned like a man about to light a match in a room full of gasoline.
“There’s one more thing you both need to know,” he said, stepping past us and heading toward the doorway, taking his time. “Technically, you’re married now.”
Silence enveloped the room as we digested what he’d just said.
“What?!” I shouted after a stunned moment, reality smacking me hard.
Nikolai smirked. “Welcome to your new identity, Mrs. Dasha Thorin.” He chuckled. “I know you’ll love Tacoma. Won’t she, Braxton?”
I spun back around to face Braxton. If glares could kill, he’d be a corpse at my feet.
His whole body was rigid, his eyes fixed on Nikolai. “What the actual fuck?” His voice came out hoarse, as though his brain had just misfired. Then he rushed past me and lunged at Nikolai, grabbing his collar and yanking him forward. “You never mentioned that to me.”
Nikolai barely blinked. “I didn’t think it was important.”
Braxton’s grip tightened. “You—”
Nikolai knocked his hand away. “It’s my prerogative,” he said, daring him to move. “I’m the boss.”
Braxton’s hand curled into a fist. My blood boiled.
Nikolai seethed, shaking his head and giving us an annoyed frown. “Listen, I have work to do. You two can sort out your little drama while I make sure we don’t get fucking blown out of the water.” As he stepped through the door, he tossed over his shoulder, “Don’t worry, you can always get a divorce. It’s common in the US.”
Then he laughed and walked out.
I stepped closer to Braxton, forcing him to meet my gaze. I needed him to see me —not the tortured woman he thought needed saving, not the enemy he thought he understood, but the one person in this room who knew exactly how the world worked.
“You want to save me?” I asked, my voice deadly calm. “You want to fix this—fix me? Then listen. Really listen, because this is my truth and how I see your country, the world, and my place in it.”
He swallowed hard but didn’t look away.
Good.
I wanted him to understand.
I crossed my arms and took a step back, grounding myself. “Look, I get that you feel bad about me getting taken. Tortured. But honestly? I’m fine.”
His brows pulled in tight, but I didn’t give him a chance to speak.
“This is the world I’ve lived in since I was a kid. Kremlin tactics, mafia power plays, psychological warfare—this isn’t new to me. I’ve trained for it. Survived it. I don’t need coddling. I don’t need a fucking new identity handed to me like some bandage over a cut. What I need is a way to get back to the fight. To do what’s right. Even if my effort is just a small piece of the puzzle.”
Braxton’s jaw tightened. “You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met. But don’t pretend this didn’t affect you. You’re still human. You need time to breathe. To process.”
“I’ve had worse,” I shot back. “Russian torture methods are brutal, yes, but they’re also methodical—pain and humiliation, used to extract intel. Except—I didn’t have anything to give them. I had no idea you were tied to Nikolai Volkov. And my Ukrainian handlers and counterparts? Already dead. I was floating in the gray of limbo land. Thankfully, they didn’t know that, or they might not have kept me around long enough for my father to sell me off to Malinov.”
His fists curled at his sides, but I kept going.
“Sure, everyone smacked me around. At the prison, they wired my wrists, dropped me in a tub, and alternated between shocking me and nearly drowning me until I passed out. When I woke up, they did it again.” Braxton gasped, and his mouth dropped open. I could see he wanted to reach out and hold me, but I stepped to the side.
“At my father’s house, they picked up where the prison guards left off—more getting knocked around, more shocks, more hands where they didn’t belong. And I got drugged out of my mind. But they didn’t rape me and were careful not to leave marks that could be seen,” I inhaled deeply and shook my head. “And you want to know why?” My throat tightened, but I kept my chin up.
“Because my father ordered them not to. Said I had to be pristine for Malinov. He made sure they didn’t leave visible marks because that bastard wanted a pretty bride he could parade around in two weeks.”
Braxton looked like he was ready to tear the steel wall off the bulkhead. “I’m sorry, Daria. If I hadn’t gotten caught. If we hadn’t—”
“Don’t,” I cut in. “Don’t play the what-if game. You didn’t torture me. You didn’t sell me like property.”
“But if we hadn’t met—”
“Then I would have been fine for the moment, but I’ve always had a short expiration date,” I quipped, heat rising in my chest. “And as much as it pissed me off that you lied to me, I’ll admit —your betrayal helped me survive. Focusing on you, how you chose not to tell me things you guessed I would have a bad reaction to, gave me something real to hold on to. A weapon. Every time I wanted to give in, I pictured your face and reminded myself what I’d do to you if I made it out.”
He looked like I’d stabbed him.
“I’ll make it right,” he said, bringing his hands up and closing the distance between us. “Whatever it takes.”
I shook my head, sighing. “I don’t need your pity. And I sure as hell don’t need saving. You think giving me a fresh passport and a fake husband fixes any of this?”
“I think,” he said carefully, “that giving you time in the US might help you catch your breath. Just long enough to get your footing.”
I ran a hand through my hair. “Maybe I’ll have nightmares. Maybe I’ll flinch when someone touches me wrong. But I’m still standing. And I need to get back. Not for revenge. For the people still there. The children. The families. You want to help me? Then understand this: I didn’t survive to start a new life just to sit on some sofa eating cherry bonbons.”
I stepped closer again.
“I survived so I could go back,” I said, my voice low and hard. “Because that war—it’s not about me. It’s about stopping the next massacre. You think Russia just wants Ukraine?” I tilted my head. “You think this war is about land? Resources? Some delusional dictator’s obsession with restoring the glory of a dead empire?” I let out a bitter laugh.
His nostrils flared, but he stayed silent.
“Putin doesn’t want to defeat Ukraine. He wants to expunge it, wipe it off the fucking map like it never existed.” I raised a finger. “That’s step one. Step two? The fall of democracy itself. And not just in Europe. He wants to bring your country to its knees.”
I took a breath, steadying the anger building in my chest. “That’s why I want to go back. That’s why my work in Ukraine mattered. It was a line in the sand, so the war doesn’t reach your shores or anyone else’s. And I don’t plan on stopping just because you handed me a new passport.”
Braxton’s brow twitched. He gave a small shake of his head. Uncertainty? Disagreement? I wasn’t sure.
“You think my work isn’t important? Or worth risking my life when others won’t?” I pressed, stepping closer to him. “Then explain this. Why does your country barely talk about the over twenty thousand Ukrainian children taken by force—shipped to Siberia, their names erased, their families slaughtered?”
My throat tightened, but I pushed through.
“Why doesn’t anyone talk about how those children will never be found? How they’ll be beaten, reprogrammed, told they were never Ukrainian to begin with—turned into laborers, soldiers, propaganda fodder? Slaves?”
Braxton’s lips parted like he wanted to say something, but no words came out.
“Or maybe we should talk about the war crimes your media conveniently ignores. Or the fact that the International Criminal Court in The Hague has issued an arrest warrant for Putin. Not rumors. Not speculation. A real legal action—for war crimes.”
I kept going. “What about the mass graves? Civilian executions? Torture camps?” I stepped close enough to see the pulse in Braxton’s throat. “The rape ordered by Russian commanders and cheered on by their wives back home?”
His breath caught. His hands clenched into fists.
The truth was finally breaking through to him.
“Russian soldiers don’t just kill,” I hissed. “They desecrate. They humiliate. They turn women’s and young girls’ last moments into a spectacle of pain. And your country? Your so-called beacon of democracy ?” I spat the word. “It wrings its hands, holds another pointless press conference, and then does nothing.”
Braxton’s chest rose and fell with a sharp breath. He hadn’t moved an inch, but his entire body had tensed like a wire pulled tight.
“But I guess that shouldn’t surprise me,” I went on. “Because your country—the same one that once fought against Russian tyranny—is now on its knees for it.”
His brows drew together instantly. “That’s not true—”
“Isn’t it?” I cut in. “Tell me, where is the America that stood against communism? Where is the country that demanded, ‘ Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall?’ and forced the Soviet Union into collapse? Where is the country that used to understand that democracy is only as strong as its people’s willingness to fight for it?”
I shook my head slowly, disgust curling inside me. “Now, the same political party that once called Russia the enemy is licking the boots of a dictator. The same men who preached about the evils of fascism parrot whatever Putin tells them to say.” My eyes bored into his. “They let him interfere in your elections. They flood your social media with Kremlin lies. They let Putin buy them—because that’s all it takes. A little kompromat, a little blood money, and suddenly the strongest democracy in the world is nothing but a puppet regime with a Russian hand up its spine.”
Braxton exhaled hard, his expression darkening. “Not all of us—”
“Then where the fuck are those people?” I snapped. “Where are the Americans willing to stand up to this? I don’t see too many of them in Ukraine like you.”
I stared at him, at the man who’d fought to save me, the man who’d offered me a new identity like it was a gift.
He didn’t speak.
What was he supposed to say?
There were no good answers, and the truth was, there wasn’t anything to gain by venting my frustration out on Braxton, but I desperately wanted him to understand how I and many others around the world saw his country and why his assumption that I would be overjoyed by receiving a new American identity couldn’t have been more off-base—because it erased me .
He’d thought I would be grateful. He’d thought I would want a clean slate in his country. But what he didn’t understand—what he needed to understand—was that people like me didn’t get clean slates.
For a long moment, Braxton stood there, stoically watching me. I was sure he didn’t want it to be this way—none of the good and righteous ever did—but denial was a luxury only the ignorant could afford. And Braxton? He wasn’t ignorant.
I took a breath, steadying myself. I didn’t want to hurt him, but I had to be honest about my feelings. We were now entangled in a way I could have never imagined.
“You know what makes Russian politicians more cunning than American ones?” I asked. “They don’t pretend. They don’t feed their people fairy tales about freedom. Russians know they can’t own their homes or their land—none of it—because, in a communist state that’s fallen into fascism, the government owns everything. Sure, the oligarchs think they own their multibillion ruble estates, but the bottom line is that, with a sweep of a powerful politician’s pen, it’s gone.”
Braxton listened intently. I could tell he cared and wanted to hear me out; he was always one to listen patiently. I took another slow, deliberate step toward him.
“In Russia, owning a gun takes more than a background check. It’s tests, medical evaluations, and government interviews. Americans scream about their freedoms being taken, but they have no idea what real control by a strongman looks like.”
I stepped even closer. “Your country still thinks wars are won with missiles and alliances. But that’s not how Russia plays anymore. They don’t need bombs. They use misinformation, pay politically biased news channels to say exactly what they want over and over until people believe it.”
His brow creased, but still he remained silent.
“You think America’s unraveling is some kind of accident?” I asked. “It’s not. The chaos, the division—that’s the Kremlin’s strategy. Seed the lies, inflame the fear, and make you hate each other enough to do the job for them.”
Braxton shifted his stance. The tension in his shoulders was obvious.
“Putin didn’t invent this game,” I said. “He just mastered it. Flooding your media and sowing the seeds of doubt. Making truth so blurry that people don’t trust anything anymore. And once that happens, freedom becomes just another slogan.”
Braxton’s expression told me he was analyzing every word I said, but he didn’t interrupt my rant. Damn him, he was truly an empathetic guy and the best listener I’d ever come across. Part of me wanted him to challenge me, push back and argue. It would make it so much easier for me to walk away from him. But he didn’t.
“And then?” I laughed under my breath. “Then Americans will be no different from Russians.”
I lowered my voice to a whisper and said, “You don’t see it yet. But if Russia succeeds, there won’t be a United States left to save. There will be no land of the free. There will be no democracy. Just a handful of rich, powerful men controlling the entire planet while the rest of humanity toils at their feet.”
I turned and moved a few steps away, swallowing down the lump in my throat and blinking away the sting in my eyes.
“You wanted my truth? Why I want to return to Ukraine? There it is,” I said, turning back toward him.
His face was twisted with conflict.
Then it hit me. Suddenly, I saw our situation clearly—why we were here, why fate had tied us together, why we had no choice but to survive together or die alone.
Braxton and I weren’t just two people caught in the crossfire. We were the personifications of the worlds we were born into. Russia. America. Colliding as power shifted because of one unwarranted, pointless war.
I was no one now. A name erased. A person without a country, without an identity. Lost, yes, but also desperate to make amends—to make right the wrongs I’d committed. I was still standing, still searching for redemption.
And Braxton—I’d sacrificed everything to save him.
He was the only thing I had left that felt real.
But what now?
I shut my eyes, inhaling a steadying breath.
Now, we had to choose—find a path forward together or walk away for good.
Slowly, I opened my eyes. “You thought I would be thankful, didn’t you?” I whispered. “You thought you’d come in here, play the hero, and I’d throw myself into your arms, grateful to be saved . Like in all those American romance novels.”
“That’s not it—”
“Isn’t it?” I asked. “Isn’t that exactly what you thought? That I’d just happily become an American?”
A muscle in his jaw ticced. “I never said that.”
“But that’s exactly what you and Nikolai assumed,” I said. “It seems like you think I should just give up. That I should let them erase my entire fucking existence and just be happy that you pulled me out of the wreckage.” I took a step closer, unable to stop the tears welling in my eyes. “You think I should just forget that I was ever Daria Melnichenko?”
Braxton flinched.
Shame crept into his eyes as he seemed to realize the depth of his mistake.
And it had been a mistake.
Because he hadn’t understood—not really. He hadn’t slowed down long enough to understand how different our worlds were.
He hadn’t seen me for who I was—the good, the bad, and the broken.
Not until now.
“You don’t get it,” I whispered, shaking my head. “You think you’re saving me, but you’re just trying to make me someone I’m not. Someone I will never be.”
“You’re right,” he finally said. “About a lot of things—but not everything. Not the things that matter most.”
I arched a brow, waiting.
He met my gaze, and there was something fierce in his eyes. “I never saw you as someone who needed saving.”
I blinked up at him, a little surprised.
“I saw you as someone who shouldn’t have had to fight alone .”
His words made me weak in the knees.
Braxton reached out and took my hands. “You think I don’t know what’s happening to my country?” His voice was hoarse. “You think I don’t see what’s happening with the people in power—the ones who let a man like Putin have his way with them?” His fingers tightened around my hands. “I grew up believing in something better. Believing that America stood for something real. That we were the good guys. That we fought for the ones who couldn’t fight for themselves.” He pressed his lips into a thin line. “But the truth is, I don’t know what the hell we are anymore.”
Something inside me twisted.
Because that was his truth.
“But I do know this,” he continued, his voice growing stronger. “Most people back home? They’re not like the ones in power. They’re not selling their souls for money and influence. Most people are good.”
His eyes locked onto mine.
“When a tornado flattens a neighborhood or a wildfire tears through a town, people don’t wait to be asked. They grab their boots, their trucks, whatever they’ve got, and they show up. No paycheck. No recognition. Just…because someone needs help.”
I stayed quiet, listening.
“I’ve seen it with my own eyes—total strangers loading water and diapers into pickup beds and driving cross-country to hand them out. I’ve watched people rip drywall from a stranger’s house because floodwaters ruined it. And they never have to be asked. It’s just what they do.”
He tapped his chest, right over his heart. “We fight, yeah. Sometimes over stupid shit. But we fight hard because we love harder. We work hard for our families. And when we mess up? We try to fix it.”
He drew close to me, until we were nearly touching.
“My country’s done terrible things, Daria, from the beginning—genocide of the indigenous people, slavery, bigotry. We’ve hurt people who did nothing wrong. But we’ve also grown. Slowly. Painfully. We keep trying to self-correct, even when it’s messy.”
He paused for a moment and placed both hands onto my shoulders, holding me firmly as if he was determined to make me understand his feelings. “That’s why I still believe in the American Dream. Not the version sold by politicians. The real one—the one where people help each other. Where we still have the right to fix what’s broken.”
He swallowed hard. “And yeah, I have the freedom to call out my leaders. I can say they’re corrupt morons. I can yell it in public, put it on a bumper sticker, hell—I can wear it on a damn T-shirt. And no one’s gonna drag me off for it. I don’t need a permit to leave my city or visit someone in another state. That freedom to move, to speak, to protest—to choose —that’s something not every country has.”
His hands moved to cup my cheeks.
“You think freedom is about power, about who controls the guns and the money. But real freedom?” He shook his head. “It’s about having options. It’s about waking up, deciding what kind of life you want to live, and knowing no one can stop you just because they don’t like your opinions. That you can build something for yourself without waiting for permission from some dictator or king. That’s America. It’s not perfect, but most of us strive to live up to the ideals that our country was founded on. To be decent people.”
Both of us remained silent for a while.
“Maybe that’s why so many want to burn it down,” I finally said quietly.
Braxton nodded once. “Yeah. And that’s why the rest of us have to be the ones to protect it.”
I let out a slow breath, studying his eyes. My stone-cold heart cracked a little, and I was on the verge of tears again. The man before me was unlike any other I’d known. He was unapologetically idealistic and had faith in the goodness of humanity.
And I’d come to know him in a way that had me at a complete loss for words.
Braxton cradled the back of my head in his hand. “I’m not walking away from you. No matter how much you want me to. No matter how much you hate me right now.” He stared into my eyes unrelentingly. “I’m with you, Daria. Whether you believe it or not.”
My throat tightened.
Because if he meant it—if he really meant it—then I wasn’t alone anymore.
And I didn’t know how to live with that.
Because I had never not been alone.