Chapter 11 Small Mercies
Lila
The house starts to feel less like a cage and more like… something else. Not home—no, I'm still not ready for that word—but a safehouse, maybe. Caught between my past and whatever comes next. The three men orbiting me? They're still mostly a mystery, but one I'm slowly figuring out, piece by piece.
Ethan is the easiest to be around. He explains the surveillance system setup with that teasing grin and easy confidence, guiding my hand over the mouse. “Alright, Angel,” he says, nudging my shoulder with his. “Time to make you my hacker apprentice. I’ll have you coding like a pro in no time.”
“I doubt that’s a good idea,” I mutter, narrowing my eyes at the tangle of screens, cables, and blinking lights before me. The air smells faintly of hot electronics and Ethan’s clean soap scent. The quiet whirring of cooling fans provides a constant hum beneath his patient explanation. “I think you want me to break something?”
“Nah, I’d never let you near the really important stuff.” He smirks. “I just need someone to fetch me snacks while I work. Maybe sit on my lap, look pretty, and pretend to type.”
I roll my eyes, but the corners of my mouth twitch upward. “So generous.”
“I try.” He leans closer, his voice dropping. “But seriously, this is important. I want you to know how to check the cameras, how to lock down the house if something happens. It’s not just about keeping you safe—it’s about making sure you feel safe.”
I frown. “But you guys are always here.”
He hesitates for a beat, then sighs. “Mostly, yeah. But sometimes we need to go out on jobs. Missions. Whatever you want to call them. When that happens, you might be here physically alone—obviously all the security guards, you'll never be truly alone or unprotected—but without one of us right here in the house. And I need to know you can handle the lockdown procedures if necessary.”
Hesitantly, I hover my hand over the keyboard. The cursor blinks, taunting my uncertainty. A hundred what-ifs run through my head. What if I press the wrong button? What if I shut down the whole system? What if something happens while they’re gone, and I can’t fix it?
Ethan seems to sense my reluctance because he reaches out, lightly tapping the back of my hand. “Relax, Angel. You’re not defusing a bomb, just learning how to click a few buttons. If you mess up, I’m right here to fix it. No pressure.”
The tension in my chest eases slightly. I take a slow breath and press the key he indicated. A new screen opens, displaying live feeds from around the property. The sheer amount of control at my fingertips sends an unfamiliar rush through me.
For the first time in years, I’m not completely at someone else’s mercy.
Ethan grins. “See? Easy. Now, let’s set up emergency lockdown procedures. If something happens while we’re out, you hit this button—boom. Steel shutters come down, security locks engage, the panic room seals itself. No one’s getting in.”
I trace my fingers over the keyboard, absorbing the information, testing the clicks and commands. It truly clicks when I navigate back to the main screen without Ethan’s help. My fingers move almost instinctively, memory guiding them instead of fear.
For the first time in years, I’m not just reacting—I’m taking control, even in this small way. It feels… different. It feels like me .
Of course, Ryker has to ruin the moment.
A hand shoots out, flicking the back of my ear. I jerk, swatting wildly as Ryker cackles, hopping onto the counter with a protein bar dangling from his lips like an unlit cigar. “Damn, Baby Girl, I’ve seen grandmas pick this up faster than you.”
“You know grandmas who hack security systems?” I shoot back.
“Yeah,” he says, dead serious. “Mean old lady in Albuquerque. Runs an underground poker ring. She's ruthless.”
Ethan sighs, rubbing a hand down his face. “Ryker, do you ever shut up?”
“Not if I can help it.” He grins, flashing sharp teeth. “Hey, Lila, if you really want to get good, you should practice hacking into Bastian’s private files. Bet there’s some kinky shit in there.”
A surprised laugh escapes before I can stop it, the sound unfamiliar but strangely light. For a second, I almost forget where I am, who I am. Ryker notices, eyes gleaming with victory—but there’s something else there too. A flicker of satisfaction, yes, but also quiet relief. Like he was testing the waters, checking if I still have fight left in me. “There it is,” he declares smugly. “That’s what I like to see.”
“What?”
“A real laugh. Not the fake, polite crap you’ve been handing out.”
I want to deny it, but… he isn’t wrong. My shoulders have loosened, my breathing isn’t so tight. Maybe I'm not as broken as I thought. It’s the first time I’ve laughed and meant it in longer than I can remember.
The warmth of that moment lingers as I walk into the kitchen later, only to find Bastian waiting with a plate of food. His arms are crossed, eyes steady, pinning me in place.
“I’m not hungry,” I try.
Bastian raises an eyebrow, his voice calm but firm. “Eat.” No impatience, no threat—just quiet insistence.
The command makes my stomach twist. My body tenses instinctively, the old habit of bracing for a fight surfacing. But there’s no sharp edge to his voice, none of the warning signs I learned to fear. It isn’t a demand, not exactly. More like… certainty. As if he already knows I’ll give in, it’s just a matter of when. He must have noticed I haven’t eaten all day—maybe even since last night. My appetite has been unpredictable, but skipping meals is becoming a habit, and apparently, Bastian has decided it won’t fly anymore.
I hesitate, the scent of warm food hitting me—savory, with a hint of butter and herbs. My stomach clenches, reminding me I’m hungrier than I want to admit. Stubbornness wins out. I stay put. “I’ll eat later.”
“No, you’ll eat now.” His voice softens slightly. For the first time, a flicker of what might be concern—or protectiveness—crosses his expression before vanishing. He pulls out a chair, nodding at it. “Sit.”
Something in me bristles. Maybe it’s the way Kolya used to order me around, but I fight the urge to refuse purely out of defiance. Bastian must see the internal battle, because he sighs and leans forward, his voice dropping lower, more patient. “You need to take care of yourself, Lila. Whether you feel like it or not.”
I swallow. “I’m not a child.”
“Then don’t act like one.”
Oh, that does it.
Fire flares in my chest, hot and indignant, but before I can snap back, Bastian moves. He takes the plate, sets it aside, then points to the corner of the kitchen. “Five minutes.”
I blink. “What?”
“You don’t want to eat? Fine. Sit there and think about why you refuse to do something as basic as taking care of yourself.”
“You’re joking.”
“Do I look like I’m joking?”
No, he does not.
I scowl but stomp over to the spot he indicated, crossing my arms as I face the wall. Silence stretches. I become hyper-aware of my pounding heart, the tightness in my throat. This isn’t about control, not like Kolya. It isn't about taking something from me. It's about… something else. Accountability?
Damn it, I hate that it works.
When the five minutes are up, I turn, expecting smug satisfaction. Bastian just hands me the plate again, his demeanor still calm and steady. “Eat, Little One."
The endearment sits strangely in my chest. Not a command—just… steady. Something I don’t know what to do with. I almost flinch at the softness in his tone. Almost . Instead, I pick up the fork and eat.
The first bite hits my tongue, and I hate how good it tastes. Hate how much my body craves it, even while my mind resists. I set the fork down, trying to remind myself I am still in control. A few seconds later, I pick it up again. One bite. Then another.
The rest of the night settles into a comfortable rhythm, but I can't shake the feeling of being watched. Not like Kolya used to watch me, his gaze a leash tight around my throat. This is different. Lighter. I catch Ethan watching me, noticing the way I relax, as if making sure I’m not retreating. Ryker keeps tossing playful remarks, nudging me just enough to keep me engaged, his way of making sure I’m still present, still fighting. Bastian? He watches, his gaze level, unreadable, but not unkind. For the first time in a long time, I’m not being scrutinized—I’m being seen .
It makes me uneasy in a way I can’t name. Not discomfort, precisely. Something smaller, quieter. Something that hints at belonging, maybe, but I’m not sure I’m ready for that.
Not fear. Not danger.
Just… change.
The gentle chime of the bell above the door of The Blooming Nook is becoming one of the few sounds that doesn't immediately put me on edge. Stepping inside feels like entering a different world, leaving the gray coastal town behind for a small space bursting with vibrant color and life.
The air feels different here—cool and humid, thick with the layered perfume of blossoms: lilies, roses, the sharp green tang of fresh stems. Beneath it all lies the rich scent of damp earth from potted plants, sometimes mixing with the comforting smell of roasting coffee from the cafe next door. Sunlight streams through the large front window, lighting up dust motes dancing in the air and casting shadows from hanging ferns.
A small part of me whispers a warning with every step I take toward this place, a cold reminder that this normalcy, this quiet routine, is built on borrowed time. Kolya is still out there. The men, for all their protection, can’t be everywhere. This peace I find among the petals is fragile, a thin glass dome that could shatter with the slightest tremor. But I push the thought down. For these few hours, I let myself breathe.
Physically, I'm healing. The worst bruises have faded, though a wrong move still sends a sharp reminder through my ribs. Here, surrounded by life that demands gentle hands, feel… capable. Stronger. It isn't just about recovery anymore.
Working here—feeling the cool slip of a petal between my fingers, carefully stripping thorns from a rose stem, the repetitive, calming rhythm of arranging bouquets—gives me purpose. Structure. Something mine . It isn’t home, not yet, but the anxious feeling of just hiding out starts to loosen its grip, replaced by something quieter and steadier.
I wasn't actively searching for a job, but the need to contribute, to do something other than wait for the other shoe to drop, led me here. The men have their missions, their intense world humming just beneath the surface. This quiet corner shop, nestled between the smells of coffee and old paperbacks, feels like my own small pocket of peace.
Stephanie runs the place like a slightly bossy mother hen. She's in her mid-forties, taller than me, with sun-kissed skin, bright blonde hair often escaping her ponytail, and a sturdy figure. Her laugh lines radiate warmth, and her voice carries with effortless authority. She has three kids, a plumber husband named Harry—“the best damn man to ever fix a leak”—and an uncanny ability to see right through people.
“Let me guess,” she said the first time I walked in two weeks ago, sizing me up. “You’re not just here for flowers.”
I blinked. “I—what?”
Stephanie just smiled knowingly. “You’re looking for something, honey. Purpose. Stability. Maybe just a reason to get up in the morning?”
I hesitated, then nodded.
“Well,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron, “I could use some extra help, if you don’t mind getting a little dirt under your nails.”
That was how it started.
Now, every morning, I make the roughly fifteen-minute walk from the house to The Blooming Nook —unless one of the men insists on drop-off duty, which happens more often than not. I spend hours arranging bouquets, taking orders and learning the names of flowers I never knew existed. Stephanie teaches me their symbolism—red camellias for deep desire, lavender for peace, daisies for innocence. It’s strangely soothing, working with my hands, creating beauty instead of just surviving.
Stephanie is easy to talk to. She doesn’t pry or push, but she makes me feel like I could talk if I wanted to. As if I wouldn’t be judged for the pieces of myself I choose to share.
One afternoon, while we’re wiring delicate lisianthus stems for a wedding bouquet, a small clock on the counter softly chimes the hour. Checking the time, I glance through the large front window and see Bastian's sleek black SUV parked at the curb. He never comes in, but sometimes, if Ethan or Ryker aren't available, he handles drop-off and pick-ups. He waits, engine idling, gaze fixed on the shop door, waiting for my shift to end.
Stephanie follows my look, humming softly. "That one," she comments lightly, expertly twisting floral tape around a stem, not even glancing up. "He's the quiet type, isn't he? The kind that watches everything. Got that… intensity. Like he's carrying the weight of the world but trying not to let it show. Harry gets like that sometimes when one of the kids is sick, all focused and serious, but you can tell he's worried sick underneath." Her tone is casual, but her eyes hold a knowing glint when they meet mine. "Some men wear their hearts on their sleeves; others keep 'em locked up tight. Doesn't mean they're not there, though."
A flush creeps up my neck. I turn my attention fiercely back to the flowers. "He's just... careful."
"Careful, protective, a little bit broody," Stephanie chuckles softly, finally looking up with a warm smile. "Sounds like a man who knows what he wants to keep safe, if you ask me. Good on him for being persistent." She gives my shoulder a quick, friendly nudge before returning to her work.
Her observation hangs in the air, simple yet loaded. She didn't say he looks at me like I'm important, but the implication lingers uncomfortably in my chest. Small town. People notice routines, the pauses, how a car lingers just a moment too long.
I don’t know how to respond, so I focus on the flowers.
Stephanie doesn’t press. Instead, she hands me shears. “You ever think about what you want to do next?”
I hesitate. “Next?”
“Yeah. Life isn’t just about surviving, honey. It’s about figuring out what makes you happy.”
I’m not sure I have an answer yet. But for now, this —the flowers, the quiet companionship, the feeling of earning something—feels like a start.