Chapter 3
Nadia
Saint’s grilled cheese tastes like heaven, and that feels illegal after the morning I’ve had.
He eats his own sandwich in silence, posture loose but attention never really leaving the room. Every few minutes his gaze sweeps the cabin like he’s counting exits, even though it’s just the two of us and a wood stove ticking warmth into the space.
The safe house is… nicer than I expected. Cozy, even. The air smells like wood smoke and melted cheese, and between that and the tea warming my hands, my nerves start to unclench in slow, reluctant increments.
For a long moment, we don’t talk. I pick at my sandwich, stealing glances over my mug.
Up close, he’s even more intimidating. Not pretty.
Not polished. Just… arresting. A sharp jaw.
A faint scar along his left cheekbone. Hands big enough to make a coffee mug look like a toy, veins raised over the backs, knuckles nicked like he’s spent a lifetime meeting hard things head-on.
He moves with an economy that screams discipline.
Ava mentioned he was ex-military. She didn’t say much else. Or maybe she did and my brain filed it away under later, because for the past year my life has been a rotating emergency.
I take a sip of tea to steady myself.
“So,” I say finally, because silence makes my skin itch, “Saint. That’s a nickname, right? Or were your parents really committed to the theme?”
His eyes flick to mine. Something like amusement moves across his face.
“Patch name,” he says.
“That doesn’t answer the why,” I say. I nod toward the small silver cross that flashes when he shifts. “The cross… I’m guessing that isn’t just an accessory.”
His gaze drops to the pendant like it weighs more than metal. He chews once, slow, like he’s deciding how much truth to hand me.
“It started in the Army,” he says.
My attention sharpens. “Okay.”
He leans back in his chair. For the first time since I met him, his eyes go somewhere that isn’t this cabin. Somewhere far away.
“It was a checkpoint,” he says. “Overseas. Convoy day. Traffic backed up for miles. Command wanted everything moving fast. We waved a lot through just to keep the line from turning into a riot.”
His jaw tightens, barely. His voice stays level.
“A minivan rolled up. Driver too calm. Woman in the passenger seat too quiet. Kids in the back staring straight ahead like they’d been trained not to exist.”
His eyes lift to mine.
“You ever see a kid try that hard to be invisible?”
My throat tightens.
Yes.
Me.
My sister.
“Yes,” I say softly, before I can stop myself.
Something in his expression shifts, subtle as a breath.
“I didn’t like it,” he continues. “My superior wanted to wave them through. Keep it moving. I told him no. Called for secondary inspection.”
He pauses, like he can still see it.
“The driver had paperwork that said they were family,” he says. “He even had the right names. The right story.” His mouth turns hard. “But it didn’t fit. The woman kept looking at him like she was waiting for permission to breathe.”
My chest squeezes. My ribs remember what it’s like to live inside someone else’s control. To measure every breath. Every move. Every word.
“He wasn’t their husband or their father,” Saint says. “He was trafficking them. We pulled them out. Got them safe.”
He doesn’t look proud when he says it. He looks like it cost him something. Like he’s still paying.
“The woman wouldn’t stop crying,” he adds. “Kept saying ‘thank you’ like she didn’t believe it was real. When I told her my name…” His gaze holds steady on mine. “…she heard what she needed.”
“What’s your name?” I ask, quieter than I mean to.
His eyes don’t flinch.
“Gabriel.”
The name lands like a key turning in a lock I didn’t know existed.
“And she called you Saint Gabriel,” I whisper, more statement than question.
A corner of his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile.
“Yeah,” he says. “She pressed this into my hand.” His fingers touch the cross at his throat. “Told me saints protect families. Protect women. Protect the innocent. Then she walked away holding her kids like she wasn’t letting go again for anything.”
My breath comes shallow. I hate that my eyes burn. Hate it even more that it’s not just sadness. It’s admiration. It’s relief. The idea that someone looked at danger and chose to stop it, even when it would’ve been easier not to.
“That must have been…” I search for the word. There isn’t one. “A lot.”
His eyes don’t soften. But something in him does.
“It was just the right call,” he says.
“You still wear the cross,” I point out.
His thumb brushes the pendant once, absent. Protective. Habit.
“It reminds me not to get complacent,” he says. “Reminds me what happens when you let things slide because it’s easier. Reminds me to trust my gut when no one else wants to slow down.”
His gaze shifts fully back to me. The weight of it warms my skin in places I don’t want to name.
“And the club?” I ask, because I need air. “They just… accepted the name?”
“They like what it stands for,” he says. “Same thing. See what other people miss. Step in when it matters.”
I swallow around the tightness in my throat.
I want to say something brave. Something clean. What comes out is the truth.
“I know what it’s like,” I say quietly. “To be… managed. By someone else’s moods.”
His eyes sharpen, not with judgment. With understanding.
I twist my mug between my hands. Heat against my palms. Something to hold.
“My college nickname was Nerdy Nadia,” I say, trying to make it light and failing.
“I was the one who did all the group work and smoothed over fights during project meetings. If there was a bake sale, I organized it. If there was a schedule, I color-coded it.” My mouth twists.
“I read a room and I adjust to what people need.”
“That’s not a flaw,” he says.
“It can be,” I admit. “If you don’t know who you are without it.” I force a breath. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to make this a therapy session.”
“You didn’t,” Saint says.
He says it like a fact.
Like I’m not too much.
Like my words aren’t inconvenient.
The warmth in my chest shifts into something more complicated.
He pushes back from the table and stands. Even that movement has control. Like his body was trained to take up space and never apologize for it.
“You should rest a bit,” he says. “You’ve been through a lot. Take a nap. Ghost will call when the roads are clear. We’ll get you to Ava.”
My first instinct is to argue. My second is to remember every time I tried to argue with the wrong man and paid for it. The instincts don’t separate cleanly. They tangle.
This isn’t him. I know that.
My body takes time to believe it.
I nod anyway. “Okay. I think I will.”
“Take the bedroom.”
“What will you do?” I ask, because the idea of him pacing out here alone makes my stomach tighten.
“Make plans,” he says. “Strategize.”
I gather my things and head for the bedroom. It’s small, but clean. A heavy quilt folded at the foot of the bed. Fresh linens stacked neatly like someone came through recently and decided this place should feel like safety, not a bunker.
I close the door and sit on the edge of the mattress.
The morning rushes back in fragments. Miles of highway. The hum of the engine. Headlights in my rearview. The bang on my window. The way Saint stepped in like a wall and the world shifted around him.
I’ve been driving for hours since dawn. Now that I’m still, the weight of it all catches up.
My hands still tremble, just slower now.
I’ve spent my whole life trying to make myself smaller. Quieter. Easier.
With Saint, I don’t have to perform.
I just have to exist.
It’s a strange relief.
After I wash up, I crawl under the quilt. The sheets smell like laundry detergent and cedar. I close my eyes and picture Ava’s face when I finally see her. The thought makes me smile, and the smile hurts.
I thought I’d already be with her by now.
Saint called her earlier. I know she knows I’m safe.
I also know Ava worries like breathing.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand.
I reach for it, expecting my sister’s name.
It’s a number I don’t recognize.
My blood goes cold as I read the message.
Unknown: Did you think you could run, little bird? I have friends everywhere. You won’t make it far.
My throat closes.
No.
He’s in jail. He’s supposed to be in jail. He’s not supposed to have a phone. He’s not supposed to reach me.
My fingers go numb around the device.
Panic claws up my chest and I shove off the bed, yanking the door open like I can outrun the fear with motion.
Saint is in the hallway, phone to his ear. He turns instantly, the whole of him snapping into focus like a weapon being raised.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
I hold my phone out with a hand that won’t stop shaking.
“He knows,” I whisper. "My stepfather."
Saint takes the phone. His eyes scan the screen. A muscle ticks in his jaw, once, tight enough to hurt.
He hands it back and cups the back of my neck, anchoring me without pulling me closer than I choose.
The contact steadies me in a way I hate needing.
“He doesn’t know where you are,” he says, calm as stone. “This is a scare tactic. He’s reaching for you because he can.”
“But he can’t,” I say, and it comes out like a plea. “He’s locked up.”
Saint’s eyes flicker. Not doubt. Not fear. Something colder.
“Men like that have long arms,” he says. “Jail doesn’t cut them off. It just changes their methods.”
My stomach drops. My mind sprints, searching for reasons. For mistakes.
Besides Ava, only my former roommate knew I was on the move. No one else.
“Go back to bed,” Saint says. “You’re safe here.”
“Saint—”
“I’ll handle it,” he repeats, voice brooking no argument. Not control for control’s sake. Control because the world is trying to tilt again and he’s refusing to let it.
Then his hand shifts, sliding from the back of my neck to my shoulder, and he steps closer just enough that the warmth of him reaches me.
Not trapping. Not taking.
Offering.
“Hey,” he says, quieter. “Look at me.”
I try. I do. But my vision keeps snagging on the message, on the old fear it drags up, on the part of me that still expects punishment for breathing wrong.
His fingers flex once, gentle but sure.
“Breathe,” he says.
I swallow. My lungs refuse.
Saint’s other hand comes up slowly, like he’s asking permission without words. He doesn’t touch until I lean the slightest bit forward, until I close the gap myself.
He takes it as permission and wraps me in his arms.
Heat. Strength. A shelter I didn’t know I’d been bracing for.
My breath catches against his chest. My whole body goes tight, waiting for the moment it changes, when the comfort curdles, when the price comes due.
But it never does.
He just holds me. Steady. Unmoving. Like I can stay here as long as I need.
My hands shake as they lift, then settle against him. Fingers curling into his shirt like I’m afraid the second I let go, I’ll fall through the floor.
His breath brushes the top of my head. His voice follows, soft enough it feels secret.
“You’re here,” he says. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”
The words don’t split me open. They melt something frozen. A slow thaw that starts in my chest and leaks warmth through my limbs until my eyes sting and my lungs finally work.
I don’t cry. Not fully. But I shake once, hard, like my body can’t hold the weight of relief and fear at the same time.
And still, he just holds me.
I pull back before I can fall apart, but he doesn’t let go right away. His hands linger, one at my back, one at my arm, like he's offering to catch me if I change my mind.
I don’t.
But I almost do.
He lets me go.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to argue. To insist I can handle it. That I don’t need anyone’s protection.
But the truth is, I want his.
And I’m too scared, too raw, to pretend otherwise.
So I nod. “Okay.”
Saint watches me all the way to the bedroom door. Only when I’m back inside do I hear him resume his call, his voice a low murmur, calm and cold, like a man making promises no one survives breaking.
I crawl under the quilt, my heart still racing, my limbs too tired to move.
For a while, sleep doesn’t come. My brain spins. My muscles won’t unclench. My breath gets stuck on every memory I thought I’d already buried.
But then I remember the heat of Saint’s chest. The weight of his arms. The way he held me like I wasn’t broken or fragile, just worth protecting.
That thought is heavier than fear.
Eventually, it pulls me under.
I fall asleep to the soft sound of his voice, drifting through the walls, and the steady, unfamiliar comfort of knowing someone else is standing guard.