4. Bianca
Chapter 4
Bianca
R ain hammers down on top of us for the second time today, but it’s a break from the stifling humid heat that’s been nearly suffocating for the past few hours. My head aches, a throbbing that never seems to want to go away, but at least I’m alive.
Silas sits beside me in the little shelter we were able to find, a small outcropping of rock barely large enough for the both of us. The rain has washed away nearly all the blood and dirt that clung to his skin, revealing a muscled torso bearing bruises and injuries from his time in captivity.
He doesn’t speak much, and I’m certainly grateful for that. Once I start talking, secrets may get spilled, and the man beside me might find out who he truly rescued.
As of now, I don’t think he even has a clue that the woman he pulled out of this hell might as well be the daughter of a demon.
“Today’s my birthday.” I blurt it out. “I think.”
“What is today?” he asks.
“September seventh,” I reply. “If I’ve been counting the days right, which I may not have been.”
“September seventh,” he repeats. “Happy birthday.”
“No need to say that. I was just making conversation.”
“We should do something for your birthday.”
I smile at him because it’s impossible not to smile at Silas whenever he’s looking at me like he is now. “No, we shouldn’t. I don’t even like my birthday. I’m honestly not even sure why I said anything.”
“How do you not like your birthday?” he asks, then starts scooping mud from in front of us into a pile.
“It was the day everything fell apart,” I reply.
“What do you mean?”
“My mom died, and I ran away from home.”
Silas stops scooping. “I am so sorry, Bianca.”
I shrug. It’s a half-truth because the actual story is far more horrific. “I just don’t do much celebrating anymore.”
“What did you used to do? Before?”
Leaning back against the rock, I try to decide how much to tell him. Truthfully, I never thought I’d ever want to speak about my past. Not after trying to keep it hidden for so long. But Silas makes me feel safe in a way I haven’t felt ever since I was a little girl. And even then, I’d learned that security had been bought with the blood of innocent people.
Telling him doesn’t feel like such a hard thing, especially given that I know our likelihood of survival is practically nonexistent. His wounds, despite my best efforts, are infected, and I’m nearly out of the supplies I need to keep it from spreading.
“My mom made me lemon cupcakes with vanilla frosting every year. She’d add sugar crystals to the top and we’d sneak out onto the roof and watch the sun go down while eating them.”
“That sounds nice.”
“It was,” I reply honestly, then close my eyes as an onslaught of tears threatens. My mom had been my best friend. My rock. And the image of her body will forever haunt me. There’s a part of me that almost wishes we won’t make it out. Or at least that I won’t. Because then I’ll never have to suffer through these memories again. I’ll be free of my past, blissfully unaware of the damage done.
“Well, it’s no vanilla cupcake, but—” Silas trails off, and I open my eyes.
In front of me, shaped with dirt and leaves, sits a muddy cupcake, a single pink flower sticking out of the top. The tears fill my eyes again, and I look from it to the man sitting beside me. A Navy SEAL with a heart of gold. Far too good to be sharing air with the likes of me.
“It’s perfect.”
“Yeah?” he asks, mouth lifting at the corners in a boyish grin that seems far too light for our dark circumstances.
“Yeah.” I reach forward and cup it in my hands, then close my eyes and blow the flower away as though I’m blowing out a candle.
“Happy birthday, Bianca.”
“Thank you,” I tell him, unsure how to explain that even though we’ll likely die in this jungle, it’s the best birthday I’ve had since I lost my mother.
The man didn’t follow me.
Something that puts me at ease, sure, but I’d almost hoped he was a threat so I could put some of this unrest to bed. It’s been days of feeling as though I’m being followed but being unable to prove it.
Today was the first time I’d seen him.
Yesterday, it was a woman dressed in white capris and a black T-shirt who’d eyeballed me at the small market here in town. The day before that, it was a man wearing a suit and tie as he stood just outside the post office when I’d gone to collect my mail.
So either I’m being followed, or I’m losing my mind. Honestly, it could go either way.
I finish eating my cupcake, then set it aside and head into the kitchen to grab a glass of water. The small two-bedroom duplex I’m renting isn’t much, but it’s home. I even put pictures on the wall, something I haven’t ever done before because I’d never planned to stay in one place long enough to get comfortable.
But I plan to stay here in Hope Springs as long as possible. Partly because I love it, and mainly because of the man currently making spaghetti on the other side of the duplex wall. It was a complete coincidence that I rented this place right after he did.
Even though I knew he wanted me to find somewhere else to live, I refused. Now I make an effort to leave before him and offset our schedules so we see each other as little as possible. For him and for me.
If I’d been anywhere else, I would have left at the first thought that someone could be following me. My father may be dead, but there are still people out there who were on his side. I know it. And if they find me, well, the jungle will look like a vacation in comparison.
I roll my shoulders and step out onto my half of the balcony that overlooks the ocean. The single chair and table I keep out here are inside the house in preparation for the storm, so I just lean against the railing. I should be inside, but with the windows boarded up, the house feels an awful lot like a prison cell, and I’ve spent enough time in those.
There’s a good bit of distance between me and the crashing waves, but from here I can see the steadily darkening sky—a sign that the storm is getting closer. I feel a bit nervous knowing I have to go back inside, so I close my eyes and simply let myself feel the wind as it toys with my hair.
I let the freedom of my surroundings saturate my soul and alleviate some of the tension. And as I stand out here, I try to imagine that Jesus is standing with me. I try to picture Him, try to imagine what it would have been like to stand in His glorious presence.
And even though I’m struggling to connect with the Bible and God’s Word, I try to pretend—for just a minute—that I’m not.
That it all makes sense and everything I’ve been through has brought me right where I am for a reason.
“You shouldn’t be out here.”
I jump, my heart racing as I whirl to the right and spot Silas standing on his side of the balcony, his arms crossed. “You’re out here, too.”
He doesn’t respond, just starts to go back inside.
“I don’t like feeling confined,” I say quickly. Vulnerability is not something that comes easy to me, but I know that Silas will keep my secrets. Because he’s done just that for half a decade already.
Silas pauses a moment, his large hand on the door. He looks like he wants to say something. And I wish he’d look at me.
Instead, he opens the door and says, “You’ll be fine.”
“Is this how it’s going to be between us forever? We just don’t talk about anything ever?”
“Yeah,” he replies without hesitation. “Because as far as I’m concerned, we never knew each other, and what happened between us never happened.” The door closes behind him.
How I ever thought things with Silas would get better, I’m not sure. I know he hates me. Despises that I settled here in Hope Springs. Maybe I should have left. Given him that distance he so clearly desires.
But how can I do that when it feels like things between us are unfinished?
I turn back toward the storm, trying my best to keep my head on straight. How is it that a hurricane doesn’t scare me, but being inside a boarded-up house is terrifying?
The wind outside is deafening.
I sit in my living room, knees curled up against my chest. Eyes closed. Just doing my best to keep breathing. I can’t go outside because of the storm, and I can’t seem to sleep because it’s so loud in here I can barely hear myself think.
Then there’s the panic attacks. The feeling of being smothered in this house. Like the walls are closing in around me. The wind echoes through my house like high-pitched screams.
Something hits the side of my house, and I bite back my own scream.
Eloise could be sleeping on the other side of the wall, and the last thing I want to do is wake her with my terror. I bite down on the inside of my cheek so hard that I taste the copper tang of my own blood.
Something hits my house again, this time above me.
Then a massive crack fills the house and the entire ceiling caves in.
I scream, lunging off of my couch just in time to avoid being crushed by the large tree that once stood outside my living room window.
It pins me, one of the branches catching my leg and holding me to the ground. I struggle to break free—heart pounding. This cannot be happening! Rain hammers down on me, soaking my pajamas and the carpet.
It’s freezing, and I struggle to get free, but the pain in my leg shoots up through my body. Is this how I’m going to die? Pinned to the floor of my living room, being waterboarded by a storm?
“Come on!” I yell as I try to lift the tree off of my leg.
Another loud crack that sounds like thunder. I arch my back to tilt my head toward the front door as it flies open. Silas stands on the other side, soaked with rain water, his eyes wild and furious. He rushes forward and squats down to lift the branch off my leg, and I wiggle free.
Then, he kneels beside me, his hands running over my head, my arms, as he checks for injuries. “Are you all right?”
I look up at him and our gazes lock. For the first time, he’s not looking at me like I’m an enemy. That mask he wears is gone, replaced with genuine concern. “I’m okay,” I reply.
Silas stands, so I try to follow, but pain has me hissing through clenched teeth. One look down and I can tell that the branch tore through the sweatpants I’d been wearing and into the flesh of my leg.
Fantastic.
Here’s hoping that won’t need stitches.
“Come on.” He lifts me and carries me out of my house and onto the front porch. A gust slams into us, nearly knocking him off of his feet. I can’t hear a thing with the deafening wind and the boom of thunder.
We make it to his front door in seconds, but we’re both soaked.
Still, at least his ceiling is relatively intact.
“Bianca!” Eloise screams and rushes toward me. She’s wearing cartoon dog pajamas, her eyes red and full of tears. The room is dimly lit with a lantern since we lost power a few hours ago, and there’s a stack of children’s books on the coffee table.
“Hey, I’m good.”
“You’re hurt. Uncle Lassy, is she going to be okay?”
He sets me on the couch. “She’ll be fine. I’ll get the first aid kit.” After setting me down, he heads down the hall. Eloise grabs a blanket and tucks against my side.
“I’ll be perfectly fine, kid, I promise.”
She sniffles. “It’s so loud.”
“I know, honey.” I wrap an arm around her and press a kiss to the top of her head. I’m soaking wet, but she doesn’t seem to mind, and neither do I. Truthfully, the closeness brings me more peace than I’ve had all night.
Which is insane, given the roof is literally caved in over my living room.
I glance up, grateful that the damage seems to be isolated to my half of the duplex.
Silas comes back down the hallway, still wearing his soaking wet clothes, and kneels in front of me.
“I can do it.”
“You can’t move,” he whispers.
“I can—” But then I glance down at Eloise, who has managed to fall sound asleep in the last sixty seconds. “Oh.”
“I’ve been trying to get her to sleep all night.” He lifts the blanket just enough to get a look at my leg, then proceeds to grip the tattered sides of my pantleg, and tear it away from the injury. “She’s been up since the power went out.” He studies my leg, so I take a moment to study him. Silas Williamson is stunning in his own right. Masculine, strong, his jaw sharp. The man commands attention when he walks in the room, even without trying.
I clear my throat. “How does it look?”
“Not too bad. Looks more surface.” He opens a bottle of rubbing alcohol, then places a clean towel beneath my leg and pours the liquid onto the open cut.
I hiss through my teeth, doing my best not to make any noise or jarring movements that might wake Eloise up. Silas doesn’t look up at me as he finishes cleaning, then wraps my leg in clean gauze and stands.
I watch him as he walks away, noting the way the muscles of his shoulders bunch as he moves. The man walks like a warrior. Like he’s always one breath away from running into battle.
Outside, the storm rages on, but it’s nothing compared to the one inside of me.
To keep myself from continuing to stare, I close my eyes and lean back, focusing only on Eloise’s soft breathing and the sound of the storm.
It’s a funny thing, but I don’t feel nearly as suffocated in Silas’s living room as I did in my own. Whether it’s the man or exhaustion making me feel at peace, I’m not sure, but for the first time since the storm started, I feel the gentle fingers of exhaustion pulling me under, and I let them take me away from here.
Away from my past.
From the storm.
And from feelings better left buried six feet under.