Chapter 7 - Nikolai
It’s not in my nature to handle stillness when too many things are still unresolved. It leaves too much room for thought, and for things to creep in that I don’t have the time or patience for. I’m used to movement, concrete decisions, and more importantly, action.
Right now, I have none of it, and I feel more out of control than ever.
Danielle has been here for a few days now.
Several days of hiding behind a closed door, of not touching the food or clothes I’ve brought her, and silence that stretches longer than anything I’ve dealt with in years.
Standing in the kitchen, I lean back against the counter with my arms crossed as I stare at the plate in front of me.
I sent one up last night for dinner. It was easy and simple, but something I assumed she might actually eat.
Instead, I found it this morning untouched, just like the previous meal, and now, I’m debating bringing this one to her at all.
She’s drinking water…that much I know. But in terms of food, it hasn’t been nearly enough.
I exhale slowly and drag a hand down my face as more frustration courses through me, just like it has been nonstop recently.
I get it. I do.
Grief isn’t pretty, and it doesn’t follow a schedule. It doesn’t care about logic or survival, or what the body needs to keep going. But understanding it doesn’t make it easier to deal with. It doesn’t make me any better at knowing what the hell I’m supposed to do about it either.
I’ve dealt with people in shock before, from victims to witnesses, and anyone else turned into collateral damage. You give them space, some direction, and eventually they stabilize enough to function.
This is different because she’s not just a victim. She’s here, in my space, under my roof, and there’s no separating myself from it like I normally would. Every instinct I have is telling me that one wrong move is going to make this worse.
Pushing off the counter with a deep breath, I pace once across the kitchen before stopping to glance briefly toward the hallway leading to the guest room.
The door is still closed, as expected.
I shouldn’t push, but I can’t just ignore it either.
She needs to eat even if she feels sick. She needs someone to show her this isn’t the end, regardless of how it feels. I’m not sure I’m the best person to do that, but to keep all of this clean, I’m the best she’s got.
Before I can keep going, the soft sound of a door opening cuts through the silence, and I freeze.
A moment later, Danielle’s standing at the end of the hallway, and for a second, I don’t move. I didn’t expect her to come out on her own.
She looks smaller, somehow.
Not physically, even if she’s lost some color, has shadows sitting under her eyes, and her frame is a little more fragile than it was when I pulled her out of that place, but there’s something else. More like something in her has dimmed, and the rest of her hasn’t caught up yet.
Her gaze meets mine, and there’s hesitation there. The wariness tangled in it is to be expected, but it isn’t the raw, explosive anger from before.
That’s something, and I know I have to be careful moving forward.
Hoping to make myself less imposing, I lean back against the counter and relax my posture.
“I didn’t expect to see you out here.”
Danielle doesn’t respond right away, but steps further into the space as her eyes flick briefly around the room like she’s reorienting herself.
“I was getting tired of staring at the same walls,” she murmurs, her voice rough and quieter than before.
Keeping things neutral, I nod and gesture to the undelivered plate nearby. “There’s food if you want it.”
She glances at it with disinterest, then away. “I’m not hungry.”
As I expected…so I don’t push it. “Alright.”
Silence settles for a moment while I watch her, not sure what to expect from her now.
She moves slowly, walking into the living area and lowering herself onto the edge of the couch. She doesn’t curl in on herself this time, and rather than hiding, she seems more present.
That’s new.
Staying where I am for a second, I give her time to settle before I move to the chair across from her, maintaining a comfortable distance.
Giving her space in all this is step one.
She rests her forearms on her knees and stares at her hands for a moment before she speaks. “The people you mentioned…the ones behind the clinic.” She glances up at me as the words leave her quietly. “Who are they?”
I study her briefly and consider my words before answering off the cuff. There’s something less frantic and reactive in her tone, with a focus I didn’t think I’d hear from her this soon. But I’ll take it.
“They’re an organized group,” I tell her, straddling the line between answering her questions and not revealing too much. “And it’s not just one clinic. They have multiple locations and different fronts. They move operations and change names when things get too visible.”
She nods faintly, seemingly absorbing it. “And the doctors? They were all in on it?”
“For the most part,” I reply evenly, feeling that familiar spike of irritation in my gut at the thought. “Some might not have known the full extent, but enough did. At the very least, they knew not to ask questions.”
Her jaw tightens, showing me a new spark of conviction in her eyes. “They knew what they were doing.”
“Yes.”
Danielle swallows and keeps quiet, her focus dropping momentarily before lifting back to me. “And you? How do you fit into that?”
And now we’ve found the line.
I exhale slowly. “As I told you, I have connections.”
“That’s vague.”
“Intentionally.”
Her eyes narrow slightly, picking at the parts I’m not saying out loud. “You’re involved in this kind of thing, aren’t you?”
“I know about people like them,” I reply, keeping my tone level. “But more importantly, I’m involved in stopping them.”
It isn’t a lie, but not the whole truth either.
She studies me again, longer this time, like she’s trying to decide where I stand in all of this…threat, ally, or maybe something in between. She’s trying to be careful after being burned already. Smart.
“I believe you,” she says finally.
Regardless of how that catches me off guard, I don’t show it as I keep my expression perfectly schooled. “Not that I’m complaining, but why?”
“If you were part of it, you wouldn’t have me in your home, or tell me anything about it,” she says flatly. “You’d still be there…or I’d be dead.”
I shrug slightly, seeing the logic in her assumptions. “Something like that.”
“Did you know?” she asks, her voice quieter again. “Before it happened?”
My stomach clenches at the question, sensing that this one could break the delicate peace we’ve formed. Still, I hold her gaze and force myself to tell the truth. “Yes.”
Danielle’s expression shifts with pain and anger, but she contains it long enough to keep from losing it on me. “Then why didn’t you stop it sooner?”
I don’t feel any blame or accusation in it, but hurt instead, and that’s worse somehow. Still, I refuse to look away.
“Because I needed proof,” I murmur, sliding my hands into my pockets. “I needed enough to take all of them down, not just one location, and I had it.”
Her lips press together, able to see the picture for herself. “And my dad was part of that waiting game,” she mumbles with a slow exhale before she adds, “I get it. I don’t like it at all, but I get it.”
That’s more understanding than I expected, and surely more than I deserve.
“I’m sorry,” I say, even while the words feel insufficient. That has never been my strong suit.
Instead of responding right away, she just sits there and looks at the floor with distance in her stare. Then, she faces me with the kind of conviction in her features that seems unnaturally hard for someone like her.
“I want them to pay,” she tells me, words direct and not leaving any room for misunderstanding. “I want whoever did this to my dad to face something for it.”
Watching her again, I see how her anger seems focused in a direction that makes sense, as if this is something she can put her mind to, even without being involved.
“I’m working on it.”
She looks at me with that same wariness from before. “You mean that?”
“I do.”
“Good,” she says quietly, settling back in her spot while she allows more silence to linger between us again. This time, it feels less hostile and more open, like something shared.
“I still want to leave,” Danielle says after a moment, seemingly expecting me to argue. “I can’t stay here forever.”
“I know.”
She crosses her arms loosely over her chest, then reluctantly admits, “But I don’t feel safe going out there yet. I don’t know who’s involved, or if anyone would come after me. Or if I’d just…disappear like he did. I don’t want to risk that.”
“You won’t,” I say immediately, far too certain.
“How do you know?”
“Because I won’t let it happen.”
The words come out without hesitation and without thought, but I don’t take them back. I already compromised the whole thing just getting her out of there, and I’m sure as hell not letting them win after all that.
She examines me again like she’s weighing that promise and deciding if my word is trustworthy enough. Finally, her resolve is strong enough for me to feel it from across the space. “I’ll stay. For now.”
Something in my chest eases slightly, and I nod despite the small part of me that recoils at the thought.
But before it can take control of the situation, I push that thought down. “I just need some time to sort things out, but I promise you, Danielle, they will suffer.”
She watches me a moment longer, then her shoulders relax, and she exhales slowly. “Okay…and it’s Dani, by the way.”
“What?” I ask stupidly, thrown by the pivot.
She pulls in another breath and sits a little straighter, as if introducing herself for the first time. “That’s what I go by. Just Dani is fine.”
“Oh,” I murmur, forcing myself to sound more sure again. “Noted.”
As our fragile agreement fits into place, she glances toward the kitchen again and hesitates. Then, when she decides it’s time, she pushes herself up slowly and walks over.
Finally.
Still, I don’t comment, and I don’t make it a thing.
Sitting at the island, she picks at the food at first, taking small, slow bites before regaining her bearings. Either way, she’s eating, and that’s enough to settle some of my concerns.
I keep an eye on her for a moment longer than I should, all the while relief cloaks me, but I remind myself not to cling to it too much. Beneath it is something I don’t even want to touch, because in truth, this is temporary. It has to be.
Eventually, I’ll figure things out, and she’ll leave. She’ll go back to whatever life she can rebuild from this, and I’ll go back to mine. That’s the only way it can end.
But as I lean back in my seat and watch her take another small bite, I can’t ignore the quiet, unwelcome thought pressing at the edges of my mind.
I don’t want to let her go.