Chapter 3 A Town Called Sanctuary
Lila
The biting wind off the Oregon coast slices through my too-thin hoodie. The acrid, briny scent of the churning Pacific fills the air, mingling with the damp chill of pine and wet earth blown inland. Somewhere nearby, waves crash against unseen rocks, a rhythmic, powerful roar muffled by the thick coastal mist.
I don’t know why I chose Yachats. Maybe because it’s small, quiet—forgotten. Maybe because Theo once mentioned his brother lived here, in a town where people kept to themselves. Or maybe because, when the car sputtered its last breath, this was the closest place I could reach before I was stranded.
I stagger down the empty street, eyes darting between buildings, my breaths shallow and uneven. Every shadow looms like a threat, every distant noise a reminder that I can’t stop. I need somewhere, anywhere, to hide, to rest, to just stop moving for a moment.
The car gave out miles back, leaving me stranded on the side of the road. Sitting there, helpless, is a good way to get caught with Kolya looking for me. Walking is my only option, but now, my legs barely hold me up.
The town is quiet under the dense cloak of night, the ocean’s distant roar the only sound filling the gaps between my shallow breaths. But as I pass a narrow alley between two darkened storefronts, a skittering sound echoes from the darkness, like loose gravel disturbed by a misplaced foot. It stops abruptly when I pause. A prickle of unease crawls up my spine; my instincts scream I am not alone. I glance over my shoulder, my pulse spiking. A shadow shifts across the street, barely visible beneath the dim glow of a streetlamp. My breath catches. Someone is there.
A dim light wavers in the distance—a porch light? A storefront? It doesn’t matter. Move. If I stop, whoever it is will catch up. If I collapse now, it's over. Fear and adrenaline surge through me, forcing my legs onward, even as acute pain lances through my body. Just a little further….
Fierce pounding starts behind my eyes, keeping time with the frantic beat of my pulse. My vision blurs, black spots swimming at the edges like insistent flies.
My heart pounds, my breaths coming in ragged, desperate gasps that barely pull in enough air, panic overriding rational thought. Do I imagine someone there? Is Kolya’s reach already here? The world seems to tilt, the pavement wavering beneath my battered feet.
My body screams protest, but fear shoves me forward. Then, nothing. The exhaustion, dense and suffocating, drags me under like an undertow. My limbs turn useless, heavy as stone; my body finally gives in.
My legs buckle beneath me without warning. The pavement tilts and warps, rushing up cold and unyielding. For a fleeting second, I fight it, willing my legs to move, wanting to get up. But my body betrays me.
A piercing, high-pitched ringing fills my ears, drowning out the sound of distant waves. The last thing I register before everything goes black is that wavering light—so close, yet impossibly far away.
Just before the world fades completely, footsteps crunch on gravel, steady and closing in.
A strange, swaying darkness. Pressure, gentle but firm, against my side and under my knees. The muffled thud of rhythmic steps. It’s…warm? Awareness flickers—floating, then steady movement, and finally...
Warmth surrounds me, steady and solid, rocking me with rhythmic steps. The heat seeps into my frozen skin, a stark contrast to the cold that has lived in my bones for days. It is safe. Or it presents that way. My body surrenders to it, lulled by exhaustion, but my mind claws for clarity, for answers.
Then it hits me—sudden clarity. I am being carried. By someone big. Someone unknown. My breath catches, my pulse spikes, and panic slams into me like a freight train. This isn’t right. This isn’t safe.
Panic surges through me like a live wire, my pulse a frantic drumbeat against my ribs. Every instinct, honed sharp by Kolya, screams: fight, claw, bite, inflict pain, do anything but remain passive in the grip of this unknown, powerful man.
Danger. Threat. Escape.
The words cycle frantically. But reality crashes down just as fast.
My muscles are useless, watery, utterly spent. Even lifting my head takes monumental effort that leaves spots dancing in my vision. Weak, pathetically exhausted. The cold, hard knowledge settles in my gut: no matter how desperately I want to break free, my body simply won't obey. I won't get two steps before collapsing again.
My instincts scream fight , but my limbs remain unresponsive. Terrifying helplessness. I need help. But needing help from a stranger, especially a man built like this one—that might mean trading one cage for another.
My breathing turns ragged, my chest tightening with familiar terror. Who is he? Every fiber of my being screams that finding out could be fatal.
Panic surges through me like a live wire, raw adrenaline overriding the exhaustion. I thrash wildly, my body acting on instinct.
My knee jerks upward, connecting with solid muscle; the impact barely registers against the unyielding wall of my captor’s chest.
My limbs flail, a mess of tangled motion, my breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps. My arms shove at him, my fingers clawing for purchase, desperate to break free. And then the world tilts, and I am falling.
Pain explodes through me, a shockwave of agony stealing my breath. My ribs crunch, fierce fire lancing through my side. My feet—raw, shredded—pulse with every frantic heartbeat.
My hands skid against rough concrete, the sting jolting through my nerves. The force of the fall knocks the wind out of me, leaving me gasping, my vision a chaotic swirl of light and dark.
Another burst of pain radiates from my ribs, unrelenting, as my scraped palms throb where they hit the ground. A sound, part groan, part whimper, escapes before I can swallow it down.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” a voice growls. Footsteps crunch against the pavement as the man looms over me. “You done?”
I force myself onto my elbows, ignoring the way my ribs scream in protest. My head snaps up. I finally get a good look at him.
He is tall, easily six-four, and built like a wrecking ball stuffed into a worn leather jacket, broad shoulders straining the seams. His messy, dirty blond hair looks perpetually windblown, strands falling into vivid green eyes—the green of moss in deep forests, shot through with flecks of gold, holding a restless, near-feral light, like he thrives on chaos.
Thick black ink scrolls up his forearms and disappears under his sleeves—glimpses of tribal patterns, scarred-over skulls, something resembling military insignia—almost indistinguishable from the older, faded scars mapping his skin.
His leather jacket hangs open, revealing the collar of his t-shirt and the prominent ridge of a thick, puckered scar slashing diagonally, partially visible above the fabric near his shoulder. It isn't faded—an angry, raised welt, the kind left by a wound that probably should have killed him.
And then there is his crooked grin, tilted and totally unapologetic, as if he’s always five seconds away from causing trouble. His voice, when he speaks, is a low, gravelly rumble that scrapes against my nerves.
I suck in a breath, still half-convinced he is some kind of threat.
“Who the hell are you?” I rasp, voice rough.
"My name's Ryker." His gaze sweeps over me. "Found you half-frozen and unconscious by the road that borders my property. Figured carrying you inside was better than letting you die on my damn driveway.”
My pulse hammers. Thoughts tumble, flipping between terrible scenarios. Did Kolya find me? Traded one danger for another? I don't trust this. Don't trust him.
He sighs, rubbing a hand down his face. "Look, fighting me isn't helping. You're half-frozen and can't stand. Take a breath."
I glare up at him, scowling. "I’m not some stray you can just scoop up off the street."
A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Could’ve fooled me.”
My entire body screams for relief, but my mind refuses to stop spinning escape plans. My feet are shredded, my ribs ache like they’ve been through a meat grinder, yet accepting help from a stranger makes my stomach turn.
But what choice do I have? My body is useless, every inch battered and exhausted. Run? Where? Stumble aimlessly through the freezing night again, only to collapse somewhere even worse? The idea churns in my gut, a bitter reminder—I don’t have options right now.
Ryker watches me, his gaze unreadable, though something lurks beneath the rough exterior—frustration, maybe even concern. His fingers twitch at his sides. No pity in his eyes, just observation. That should unsettle me more than it does.
Without warning, he crouches, shifting toward me faster than I expect. My body locks up, instinct kicking in—a sharp flinch I can’t suppress. He freezes for a half-second, realizing he moved too abruptly, then reins himself in, adjusting his grip as he lifts me effortlessly, like I weigh nothing. I barely get out a sound before he is walking toward the house.
“Put me down,” I protest, weakly pushing at his chest.
“Nope.”
I scowl. “I can walk.”
“You sure about that?” His voice is flat, unimpressed.
I grind my teeth but say nothing. Because no, I am not sure. And I hate that he knows it.
He carries me up the wide porch steps and into the house, kicking the solid oak door shut behind him. Warmth rushes over me, thick and consuming, melting away the bitter night.
The space is massive but inviting—clean lines, dark wood. On the right, a sleek staircase curves toward the second floor, while to the left, a floor-to-ceiling window frames the endless black ocean.
A roaring fireplace crackles nearby, casting dancing shadows over leather furniture. The scent of woodsmoke lingers in the air, rich and earthy, blending with something faintly spiced—clove, maybe, or cinnamon. Warm and lived-in. This isn't just a house. It feels... solid. Safe. Somewhere built to keep the world out.
He moves through the space with practiced ease, still carrying me, lowering me onto a deep, oversized leather couch. Before I can process sinking into something soft, he grabs a thick throw blanket from the back of the couch and drapes it over me without a second thought, almost by instinct.
He tugs it up higher, rough but careful. The material is butter-soft, molding to my exhausted body. I should resist, but relief is instant, overwhelming. My muscles go slack, my body betraying just how desperately I crave warmth and rest.
He disappears for a moment, returning with a first aid kit. "Let’s get you patched up," he says, kneeling in front of me. His hands are surprisingly gentle as he carefully lifts my battered feet, his fingers brushing against the raw skin with deliberate care.
He frowns at the dirt and dried blood caked onto my skin, then gets up again, muttering something under his breath before returning with a large bowl of warm water and a clean cloth. Without a word, he kneels, dipping the cloth into the water before gently pressing it against my foot.
The warmth seeps into aching muscles, but as he starts cleaning away the grime, a stinging pain shoots through me. I suck in a ragged breath, fingers clenching the couch. Ryker’s grip tightens slightly, steadying me. "Easy," he murmurs, his voice rough but not unkind.
"Hurts, I know, but I'll be quick." His touch, though firm, is gentle—more careful than I expect. He moves with quiet efficiency, methodically wiping away blood and dirt, his movements steady but unyielding. When my breath hitches again, his thumb brushes over my ankle in a brief, grounding motion. "Almost done," he says, voice lower now.
Once my feet are clean, he reaches for the antiseptic, dabbing it onto the raw wounds. A hiss slips past my lips as the cool sting sets in, my hands gripping the couch tighter. "Yeah, it stings," he says, voice softer now. He works efficiently, cleaning, wrapping, and securing the wounds with practiced skill. When he finally finishes, he leans back, studying his work. "Better?"
I nod, even though the pain still lingers. Manageable now. "Thanks."
He snorts. "Thank me now, but wait until you try walking. Might have to carry you everywhere. Try not to scratch me up this time." A ghost of that troublemaking grin touches his lips.
He studies me for a second, then tilts his head. "That everything?" His keen gaze sweeps over me. "Hurt anywhere else?"
My heart kicks up; I force my expression neutral. The deep ache in my ribs, the bruises hidden beneath my hoodie—I don't want him to see them, don't want to lift my shirt and expose how wrecked I am.
"Just my hands," I say quickly, holding them out as a distraction. "And my feet."
His eyes narrow slightly, doubt clouding his expression, but after a beat, he exhales and takes my hands, turning them over. His jaw tightens slightly at the raw scrapes.
For a second, just a flicker, something flashes in his eyes—frustration maybe. Gone before I can place it, buried beneath his usual gruffness. "Should've said something sooner," he mutters, grabbing another antiseptic wipe.
He works in silence, methodical but not rough, his calloused fingers surprisingly soft as he tends the small scrapes. He tends the wounds without comment. No demands. It feels... strange. Intimate. I shift slightly, uncomfortable with the mix of vulnerability and relief settling in my chest.
He finishes wrapping my hands and sits back on his heels, studying me. "Should help for now." His gaze goes over me again, sharp, seeming to catalogue every bruise he can see. "Sure that’s everything?"
I nod too quickly. "Yeah. That's it."
"Right," he says, pushing himself up slightly from his crouch. "Still don't know who I dragged off my driveway. Got a name?"
My throat tightens. Sharing anything feels like giving away a piece of myself, a potential weakness. Delilah is buried deep, the name Kolya stole and twisted. Lila is who I am now—safer, anonymous. Maybe. After a tense beat where I weigh the risk, exhaustion wins out over paranoia. It's just a name.
"Lila," I finally force out, the name feeling thin and unfamiliar on my tongue, barely a whisper.
He just nods, accepting it without comment or further questions. That simple acknowledgment, devoid of probing curiosity, settles something uneasy in my chest, surprising me.
His gaze lingers, a muscle ticking in his jaw. His eyes flick to my ribs, weighing whether to push. But then, just as quickly, he exhales, letting it go. "Hungry?" he asks, already moving toward what I assume is the kitchen.
I hesitate. My stomach is in knots, but I haven’t eaten properly in days.
“…Maybe.”
His smirk returns. "That's a yes." Ruffling a hand through his already messy hair, he pauses just long enough to flick a glance back. "Rest up. Going to whip something up." The corner of his mouth quirks again. Then, without waiting for a response, he turns toward the kitchen, already rummaging through cabinets like this is just another normal night.
Be wary. Catalog escape routes. Note his broad frame. Assess the threat. Stay ready to run. That’s what I’ve always done. But my limbs are lead, my vision wavering every time I blink. For the first time, my body refuses to listen.
Exhaustion outweighs instinct, dragging me under like an anchor. My muscles don’t just ache—they surrender, each one sinking deeper, heavy, unmovable. Trusting him, staying here—it is like stepping off a ledge, unsure if I’ll hit solid ground or freefall into another danger.
But the alternative—stumbling back into the night, vulnerable and alone—is a death sentence. I don’t know what is worse: the fear of letting my guard down or the reality that, for once, I might not have to.
For the first time in what feels like forever, I am not bracing for the next blow, the next cruel word, the next reminder I am nothing but someone’s possession.
Right now, sitting on this couch, in a house that isn’t a prison, wrapped in warmth and quiet, with a man who hasn’t hurt me or demanded anything… an unfamiliar feeling surfaces. Maybe safety. Maybe just exhaustion pretending to be safety.
I don’t know what to do with that.