Chapter 6 Trust Cuts Deep
Lila
I don’t need their help.
That thought hammers through my skull, an unrelenting beat drowning out reason. Crashing inside me, restless and insistent, but there’s nothing I can do about it. Not yet. So I push it aside, shoving the idea into the mental pile of things I don’t have the space to deal with.
My room has an ensuite, a small luxury I hadn’t expected. I took advantage of it when I got back to the room, letting hot water scald away the grime and tension, scrubbing until my skin felt new, until the weight of filth and sweat no longer clung to me.
For the first time in what feels like an eternity, I’m clean. When I stepped out of the shower, a neatly folded pile of clothes sat waiting just outside the bathroom door.
I clutch at the fabric of my borrowed clothes. The detergent scent is too clean, too foreign. It jars against the grimy memories of being the run.
I didn’t ask for them, but at some point, someone—Ethan, no doubt—left them outside my door. No words, no expectations, just another quiet attempt to make things easier for me. The material is soft, slightly oversized, the kind of well-worn comfort that speaks of years of use.
Worn cotton brushes my skin—soft, real—a shock after years of cold silk or Kolya's harsh grip.
It smells like Ethan—subtle hints of soap and something warm, grounding.
Comforting.
I hate that I register it. My fingers curl tighter, gripping the fabric like a lifeline as I fight to steady the chaos inside my head.
Their argument still echoes—Bastian’s sharp assessment, Ethan’s quiet defense, Ryker’s detached amusement. The weight of their words presses down, settling heavy in my chest. It's clear where they stand: Ethan, the hopeful one, sees something worth saving; Bastian, the pragmatist, sees only a problem, a liability; and Ryker? He just sees entertainment, a new variable disrupting their routine.
And me? I’m still deciding if they’re a worse problem than the one already chasing me.
I wrap my arms around myself, pressing my palms into my ribs, grounding myself in the dull ache of too many days without proper rest and without real food. I need to run. If I stay, if I get comfortable, I risk forgetting that this pseudo-safety isn’t real. Not for me.
Except… where the hell would I go?
The thought sends a wave of nausea rolling through me. I suck in a breath, digging my nails into my forearms as if pain will sharpen my focus. I need to think. I need to plan. But every road leads back to the same dead-end reality: I have almost nothing. A little cash from Theo, but not enough to get very far. No car, no plan. Just the clothes on my back, a body littered with invisible wounds, and a past that will hunt me down the second I step outside.
The worst part? The part I hate admitting even to myself? The thought of being alone again—truly alone—chills me more than whatever danger I’m in.
Cold tile beneath my knees. The sharp sting of a slap. Kolya's voice, low and lethal, dripping with amusement. 'You think silence will save you, Pet?' Fingers curl around my throat, squeezing just enough to remind me who's in control. 'There is no escape. Only me.'
I gasp, jolting upright, the phantom pressure of fingers still tight on my throat. Cold tile ghosts beneath my knees. The room spins. My breath hitches—shallow, useless—heart slamming against my ribs. No escape. Only me. The echo of his control suffocates. I was alone then. Am I choosing that loneliness again now?
I clench my jaw, shoving the weakness aside. No. I won’t let fear dictate my next move. I refuse to be someone who waits around, hoping for mercy that never comes. I have survived too much, endured too much, to play the helpless victim now.
The walls press close, my thoughts a knot too tight to breathe through. My breath stutters, still uneven from the memory’s grip—then, a knock.
“Lila?”
Ethan. Of course.
I don’t answer, but that doesn’t stop him. The door cracks open, slow and careful, as if he’s testing the waters before stepping inside. His face appears in the dim light, cautious but steady, a mix of patience and quiet determination.
“Hey, just checking in.” His voice is soft, but not patronizing, measured in a way that shows he’s trying not to spook me.
I level him with a glare. “I’m not a damn prisoner. You don’t have to check on me like I’m on lockdown.”
Guilt pricks at me the moment the words leave my mouth. He’s just trying to help, his voice gentle, but the defensiveness is automatic—a shield fused to my skin after years of needing it. Kindness feels like a trick I haven't learned to decipher yet, so I lash out instead.
He huffs a quiet laugh, seemingly unfazed by my harsh tone, shifting his weight against the doorframe. “Good to know. But you looked pretty wiped, and you barely ate. Thought you might want something more.”
I hate that my stomach twists at the mention of food. I hate even more that he paid attention. My pride wants to snap at him again, tell him to shove his concern, but my body betrays me—my fingers twitch against my knee, my throat constricts, and a loud grumble erupts from my stomach, breaking the tension. Ethan hears it, and his lips twitch with barely concealed amusement.
“I’m fine,” I say, forcing steel into my voice.
Ethan tilts his head, studying me with a gaze that’s too sharp for my liking. His ice gray eyes flick over my posture, my clenched fists, the way my body leans just slightly toward the door like a caged animal looking for an opening.
“You’re planning on running.” It’s a statement, not a question.
My fingers curl into a fist. “What makes you say that?”
He crosses his arms over his chest, looking entirely too relaxed for someone confronting a flight risk. “Because I’d be planning my exit too, if I were you.”
I bristle. “I don’t need saving.”
“I believe you,” he says easily, no challenge in his tone, just simple truth. “But maybe sticking around isn’t the worst idea. Just until you get back on your feet.”
I scoff. “And then what? You think I’ll just integrate into your little security clubhouse?”
Ethan shrugs. “We’re not offering you a job. Just a safe place to land.”
A bitter laugh escapes me. “There’s no such thing.”
His easy-going warmth vanishes, replaced by something more sombre, more familiar. “I know it doesn’t seem real right now, but you don’t have to keep your fists up all the time.”
I swallow hard. My throat is tight, dry. “Yeah? And what happens when I drop them?”
His jaw tightens, a shadow passing over his face. When he speaks, his voice is quieter, more certain. "Then we deal with whatever made you put them up in the first place."
I look away. I can’t let myself believe that. They don't owe me anything.
Before I can shut him down again, a voice cuts through the room. “For crying out loud, Mercer, you having a therapy session in there?”
I close my eyes, exhaling slowly, forcing my expression into something unreadable before I turn.
Bastian stands in the doorway, arms folded, watching us with the same cool calculation as last night. There’s no outward concern, no softness, but something about the way he holds himself feels deliberate—held back. Like he’s keeping something in check.
He fills the doorway—sharp, unyielding—stealing the air Ethan’s patience had given. He’s assessing me, not just as a liability, but as something else—something he hasn’t quite decided on yet. He’s sharp edges and cold logic, the kind of man who views the world in terms of risk and reward.
“What’s the verdict, Little One? You planning a midnight getaway?”
Little One. The name registers, unexpected from this cold, calculating man. A strange flicker, something almost warm, sparks briefly in my chest at the odd endearment, hinting at something softer beneath the steel. I squash it instantly, refusing to acknowledge the name or the feeling.
I lift my chin, meeting his gaze defiance. “What’s it to you?”
His expression doesn’t change. “You run, you make yourself a target. That makes you my problem.”
I clench my jaw. “Your problem? That’s funny. I didn’t ask to be here.”
“And yet, here you are,” he says smoothly.
I cross my arms, ignoring the way my chest tightens. “So what? You're gonna lock me up?”
His gaze holds steady. “No. But running on shredded feet with nowhere to go? That’s a damn stupid plan.”
I want to argue. I want to tell him to go to hell. But he's right—I have no plan. No next move. Just the desperate instinct to run with nowhere to go.
The silence between us thickens, stretching long enough that its weight settles into my bones. Then, without another word, Bastian turns to leave, but there’s the briefest pause—so small I almost miss it. His eyes flick to my feet, then back to my face, something unreadable flashing behind his cold exterior. It’s gone in an instant, the mask of detached control snapping back into place. But I see the flicker, the hesitation, even as he walks away.
Ethan sighs. “He’s not as much of an asshole as he comes across as.”
I shoot him a look. “Hard to believe.”
He grins, stepping away from the doorway, stretching like he's shaking off the weight of the conversation. "Just don’t make any impulsive decisions, alright? Take a breath. Think it through. Your feet are wrecked—you won’t get far like this. Give yourself a chance to heal first, please."
I watch as he leaves, closing the door behind him.
The room is silent again, but my head certainly isn’t.
I pace, tension crackling under my skin, my body wound tight like a coiled spring. Every second here is a risk, a gamble I can’t afford to lose. I should run. I should get as far away from here as possible before I start thinking these men are any different.
But my body aches, my feet raw and useless and pacing isn't helping. There's no denying I wouldn’t make it far. And the truth gnaws at me—the truth I don’t want to face. Running means pain. Running means exhaustion, hunger, loneliness and fear. I’ve lived that nightmare. I remember the bitter sting of desperation, of bruises forming beneath grasping hands, of the way fear locks in my throat until I can’t breathe.
I was a prisoner in my marriage, a possession, a thing to be used and discarded at Kolya’s whim. What if I end up in the same position again? What if trusting the wrong people puts me right back in a cage, only this time with three men instead of one?
I stare at the window, my way out. But doubts creep in, whispers like ghosts from my past. What if they’re different? What if they don’t hurt me? What if, for once, staying is the smarter choice?
Trust them or not, I have a choice to make.
And I’m running out of time.
Another knock at the door interrupts my spiraling thoughts. This time, it’s firmer, more deliberate. I hesitate, expecting Ethan again, but when the door swings open, it’s Bastian.
He steps inside, carrying a tray with a glass of water and a plate—something warm and steaming, the scent of roasted chicken and seasoned rice filling the room. My stomach clenches painfully, and I hate how my body reacts before I can stop it.
"Eat, Little One," he says simply, placing the plate and the glass on the nightstand. Beside it, he sets down a small blister pack of painkillers, still sealed in their foil backing with the brand name clearly visible. "For your feet. Take them after you eat."
I don’t move, staring first at the food, then at the medication, wondering if they're part of some elaborate trick. "Why do you care?"
His jaw tenses. "Because you’re under this roof, and I don’t let people waste away under my watch. Eat. Take the damn pills. You need to heal."
The words escapes before I can stop it, quiet, almost lost in the space between us. "Thank you." Maybe it’s exhaustion, maybe just sheer relief at the food, maybe just old habits dying hard.
He nods once, a flicker of surprise perhaps, quickly masked. Satisfied, he turns toward the door. But just before leaving, he hesitates—just for a second. As if debating saying something else. Then, with a quiet exhale, he mutters, "Get some rest. You’re safe here." Without another word, he’s gone.
Safe. A word that should bring comfort but instead sends an unfamiliar current through me. I don’t thank him. I don’t trust him. But as I take another bite, the warmth spreads, not just in my stomach but somewhere deeper—somewhere I refuse to acknowledge just yet.
Sleep offers no real escape. Hours later, I can’t breathe.
Every time I start to settle, every time I let my guard slip, Kolya’s voice snakes into my head, whispering reminders of who I am. What I am.
His.
I shake it off and force myself to focus. This place—the warmth, the illusion of security—it isn’t real. It’s a dream, one I don’t get to have.
My burner phone buzzes with a text message. It's an old flip phone, something I picked up at a gas station just outside of Los Angeles. No internet, no GPS— a number only I knew. At least, that’s what I assumed.
My stomach plummets. The cheap plastic of the phone suddenly feels slick in my palm, my fingers going numb. The screen glows with an unknown number, and an icy wave washes over me, so cold it steals my breath. A choked gasp escapes me. It can’t be. It just can’t . But the dread blooming in my chest, suffocating and absolute, tells me otherwise. Hope flares—Theo? Then dies instantly. Theo wouldn't contact me this way. Deep down, the truth is a cold, sharp stone in my gut. I don't need to read the message. The noose is tightening around my throat.
Unknown number: Did you really think I wouldn’t find you, Pet?
No. No, no, no.
My fingers tremble around the phone. My lungs refuse to work. How? How did he find me? How? How did he get this number? Is Kolya’s network just that vast, his eyes everywhere? It doesn’t matter. I’ve been careful. I’ve done everything right.
But it doesn’t matter. Kolya always finds what belongs to him.
I move before I can think, my body reacting on pure instinct. I grab the duffel bag Theo left me and shove in the essentials—cash, a jacket, the switchblade Theo tucked inside with the rest of the things I needed. It’s heavy in my palm, a cold reminder of the danger I'm still in. My heartbeat is a war drum in my ears, pounding out a single, terrifying truth.
I have to go.
The guys can’t get caught in this. They don’t know who he is—what he’s capable of. He’ll destroy them, just to prove he can.
My steps are careful as I creep down the hallway, hands shaking as I reach for the back door. No lights, no sound—just the quiet press of my bare feet against the cool floor initially. Near the entryway, my eyes snag on a pair of plain sneakers tossed haphazardly by the door, likely Ethan's.
Without hesitating, I snatch them up. A brief, sharp pang of guilt hits me, stealing from Ethan, the one who just tries to be kind. But survival screams louder than conscience right now. They'll be too big, clumsy, but better than shredding my already raw feet on whatever lies outside. I shove my feet into them quickly, the extra space awkward but bearable. I don’t have a car. But I have shoes now. I’ll run. It’s the only option.
I don't know where Ethan, Bastian or Ryker are, but if I can just make it to the tree line, maybe cut through the woods, get some distance before they notice I’m gone—
A figure blocks the doorway.
Ryker.
He leans against the porch railing, arms crossed, looking at me as if he’s been waiting.
"And where do you think you're going Baby Girl?"
My breath stutters. “Move.”
He doesn’t. “Nope.”
“Ryker, I don’t belong here.”
He shrugs, completely unfazed. “Maybe. But that don’t mean you’re leaving.” His eyes flick down my body, lingering for a split second on my feet stuffed into Ethan's oversized sneakers. A smirk touches his lips. "Besides, you won't get far in those clown shoes." He leans back against the railing, casual. "Thought you cut a deal? One week. Get your feet under you before pulling this disappearing act. Or did that little talk with Ethan and Bas slip your mind already?”
His words, the mocking tone about the shoes—it pushes panic into pure desperation. I surge forward, trying to shove past his side. It’s like hitting stone, but in that brief, clumsy contact, the world narrows to the doorframe beyond him.
His hand immediately clamps onto my waist—not hard, just firm. Enough to communicate that this isn’t up for debate.
“Let me go.” My voice shakes, thick with frustration and fear. I can’t stay.
“Not a chance.” His tone is calm, steady. Infuriatingly steady. As if he already knows how this is gonna play out.
I twist, trying to rip free, but he doesn’t budge. He’s a damn wall. Frustration burns in my throat.
As his grip tightens around my waist, I flinch involuntarily, pain shooting through my bruised ribs. I quickly stifle a wince, not wanting him to see my vulnerability.
“You don’t understand,” I hiss, voice cracking. “He found me. He’s coming.”
Ryker tilts his head, his expression shifting, something calculating flickering in his eyes. His gaze drops to my trembling hands, then to the wild fear in my eyes. "What happened, Lila? You look like you’ve seen a ghost." His voice is lower now, the usual mockery gone. When I just shake my head, unable to speak, his eyes narrow slightly, scanning me, then he spots the dim glow of the phone screen still clutched in my white-knuckled grip. "What's that?" he asks, his attention sharpening. Before I can react or hide it, he reaches out, his fingers gently but firmly prying the phone from my grasp. He uses his thumb to flick open the screen, then navigates to the messages with practiced ease, angling it so I can see the horrifying glow of the last text received.
Unknown number: Did you really think I wouldn’t find you, Pet?
My stomach plummets, the air punched from my lungs. I lunge for the phone, trying to snatch it back, but he holds it just out of reach, his grip tightening slightly on my trapped wrist.
“This why you were running?” he asks, his voice low, rougher now. He finally lets go of my waist, his gaze locked on mine, hard and assessing. The phone remains held up high, an undeniable piece of evidence.
My chest constricts. I want to scream, to deny it, but the words are right there, glowing on the screen, confirming my worst fear. He found me.
“It’s him, Ryker,” I whisper. “He found me.”
His expression darkens—not with fear. With something colder. Sharper.
“No, Baby Girl.” His voice is steel. “This is him trying to make you run. So he can catch you.”
The words hit me like a punch. My pulse stutters. My knees almost give out.
“And you were about to hand yourself to him on a silver fucking platter.”
Oh, God.
I almost helped him. I almost played right into his hands.
The bag slips from my fingers, hitting the porch with a soft thud. My entire body trembles now, everything catching up to me all at once.
Ryker exhales, rubbing a hand down his face. Then, without a word, he pops the back off the phone, yanks out the SIM card, and snaps it between his fingers. The phone follows, shattering in his grip like it’s nothing. "Ethan will get you a new one—something more protected. This?" He gestures to the broken pieces. "Was a liability." “Next time you wanna run, at least be smart about it.”
Then, because he’s him , he smirks. “Or, you know, give me a heads-up. I love a good chase.”
I don't know whether to punch him or cry. Maybe both.
But I do neither.
I just stand there, trapped in the terrifying knowledge that no matter how far I run, Kolya will always be one step behind.
A door creaks behind us. Footsteps, slow and steady. Ethan.
He takes one look at my feet swimming in his shoes, my shaking form, my wide eyes—and sighs. "Come on, Angel. Let's get you back to bed."
I don’t move. I can’t. But then Ethan steps closer, his hand brushing against mine, warm and steady. "You're safe, Lila. You're not alone anymore."
My throat tightens. Exhaustion crashes over me, the weight I'd held back. Ethan doesn’t push. He just waits.
And somehow, that’s what makes me cave.
I let him guide me inside, his arm around my shoulders. Ryker follows, his presence a silent storm behind me. He doesn't crowd me, but I feel his focus like a physical shield.
Ethan pulls back the blankets and nudges me toward the bed. As I move numbly towards it, Ryker steps forward, gesturing towards my feet.
"Hold up," he murmurs, his voice low. Before I can react, he crouches down, his large hands surprisingly deft as he tugs off the oversized sneakers. He glances up at me, a ghost of his earlier smirk returning. "Gonna leave these right here," he says, placing them neatly at the foot of the bed frame, "you know, just in case you feel the sudden urge for another late-night jog."
Despite the situation, a tiny huff escapes me—maybe exhaustion, maybe amusement at the absurdity.
Ethan watches the exchange, then gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Sleep, Angel. We’ll figure everything out in the morning." He backs away, heading towards the door and pausing to look back at Ryker with that silent question. Ryker gives the minute nod, and Ethan leaves, pulling the door almost closed behind him, leaving just a sliver of hallway light.
I don’t argue. I sink into the mattress, the adrenaline drain leaving me freezing, the weight of the night pressing down. My teeth start to chatter, uncontrollable shivers racking my body from the shock and sudden release of tension.
Ryker lingers near the foot of the bed, watching me, his usual smirk gone, replaced by something serious, almost hesitant.
"Hey," he says, his voice low, surprisingly gentle. "Mind if I… stick around? Just 'til you fall asleep. Make sure you're good."
I nod mutely, pulling the blankets tighter, but it does little against the bone-deep chill.
He moves carefully, sitting on the bed near the edge, close but not touching, his heavy presence a strange sort of anchor in the spinning room. He just watches me shiver.
After a moment, he clears his throat. "Okay, look, you're shaking like a leaf. Would it... would it help if I...? Just to warm you up?" He shifts slightly, gesturing vaguely. "Strictly staying on top of the blankets," he adds quickly, as if needing to reassure both of us.
My first instinct is to flinch away, to say no. Years of unwanted touch scream at me. But I'm so cold . And beneath the brash exterior, his offer feels... careful. Tentative. After a long pause, where the only sound is my chattering teeth, I give another small, jerky nod and say "okay".
He moves slowly, deliberately, easing himself onto the bed more, beside me, lying on his side facing me, still fully clothed, on top of the covers as promised. Then, carefully, he reaches out, sliding one strong arm around my shoulders, pulling me gently against his chest.
His body is a furnace. Solid muscle and radiating heat seep through the blankets, through my borrowed clothes, chasing away the chill. I stiffen for a second, every instinct screaming danger, but exhaustion wins. Hesitantly, I let my head rest against the hard plane of his chest, hearing the steady, slow beat of his heart beneath my ear. His arm tightens almost imperceptibly, a silent promise of protection.
The shivering starts to subside, replaced by the overwhelming warmth and the surprising comfort of his solid presence. His scent, uniquely Ryker, faintly smelling of the outdoors, gun oil, and sheer force of will—surrounds me.
As my eyes drift shut, his quiet murmur reaches me, rough but steady. "Gotcha, Baby Girl. Just rest."
And in the circle of his arms, as the darkness settles around me like a comforting shroud instead of a threat, I can’t hold back any longer. The tension snaps, and I finally let myself sink into Ryker's strength, safe in the knowledge that I don’t have to fight alone anymore. I sleep.