Chapter 14 #2
Every word is a brick in the wall he’s building between us. It’s not just distance; it’s erasure. The formal, hollow cadence of his voice hurts more than a rebuke—it’s the sound of him retreating into the only version of himself he thinks he’s allowed to be.
One thing is clear. That kiss, however spectacular I thought it was, isn’t something that Silas Hightower wants to repeat.
Silas
I dish out the pasta Ava made last night, steam curling into the stale cabin air, and carry her bowl to the couch. She pulls back, gaze fixed on the bowl, voice a fragile whisper I know I’m responsible for. "Thank you."
I retreat to the kitchen and eat standing up, leaning against the counter. Sitting next to her would be a tactical error I’m not equipped to survive.
I force a spoonful of the pasta down my throat, but it tastes like chalk. My hands may be rock steady now, but the memory of how they betrayed me—how they shook when I finally let her go—burns beneath my skin.
Lord, forgive me. Help me honor the promise I made to You. Keep my desires under Your authority.
The satphone's sudden trill cuts through the tension, vibrating the wooden table. Ava flinches, her eyes snapping to mine. For a heartbeat, the world stops; the air between us pulsates.
I force myself to move. I snatch the receiver, thumb hitting the button before the second ring finishes. "What do you have?"
Zack’s Texas drawl is steady, a sharp contrast to the riot in my chest. "We have news from the local PD."
I pivot away from Ava, shielding my expression, jaw tight. "Go ahead."
"A neighbor of Ava’s called them early this morning. They saw someone lurkin’ around her property. Male, matches the physical profile for Reagan. They arrested him a block away."
My grip tightens on the receiver until the plastic creaks. "Did they ID him?"
"Working on it. Found a partial print on her back window frame. They’re running it through the system now. We’ll play nice with them and see if it matches our file on Mitchell."
A fingerprint. Either he’s getting sloppy, or he’s messing with us. "How long?"
"Should know within the hour."
I glance over my shoulder. Ava is watching me, posture coiled, eyes wide with a terrifying kind of hope.
"Keep me updated," I say, voice clipped. "You get anything from the PD; I want to know immediately."
"You got it, boss."
Out of excuses not to look at her, I turn and relay what I pray will be good news.
"They caught someone at your property last night," I start, measuring each word. "He matches the description."
Ava’s hand flies to her mouth, a stifled sound escaping her. "They caught him?"
"They're running prints now. We’ll know if it's a match soon."
The light creeping into her eyes is agonizing. A soft, dawning belief that the nightmare might have an end. Tears well, shimmering, and she whispers, "Tell me they finally caught him."
I want to lean into that. I want to let the tension drain from my shoulders and believe life can be that simple. But I’ve spent too many years hunting monsters to believe they get caught on a whim.
"I can’t. Not yet. We wait for confirmation," I say, voice steady, betraying none of the war inside me.
She nods, a small, tentative smile touching her lips. The temptation to reach out, to smooth the worry from her brow and tell her it’s over, is a physical ache.
I should keep my guard up. I should be checking the locks again. But watching her breathe, I feel my own shoulders drop an inch.
Just for a moment, I let myself believe it’s resolved.
Ava
I press the warm ceramic of the bowl against my palms until it stings. It has to be him. It has to be. Silas’s movements are still careful and controlled, but there's a subtle shift in the set of his shoulders. The rigid, tactical edge has softened into something that looks dangerously like hope.
"I wanted to say something."
He stops, turning to look at me. The firelight flickers, casting his face in relief against the shadows.
"Thank you," I say. The words feel inadequate, a small pebble thrown into a canyon. "For bringing me here, for keeping me safe. For—" I gesture vaguely toward the door, the storm, the life he’s put on hold. "Protecting my mother. You and your team."
He nods once, his familiar military efficiency snapping into place. "Just repaying the favors I owe you."
The words sting, sharper than I expect. "Oh, I see. That’s why you came." The words slide out before I can call them back. "Professional obligation."
His eyes lock onto mine, and for a heartbeat, the careful mask slips. A raw, bruised vulnerability breaks through the surface.
“I don’t kiss my obligations,” he murmurs.
A log shifts in the hearth, sending a spray of sparks against the fire screen, but neither of us blinks.
The mask is gone, and what’s underneath is so raw it makes my own chest ache. I should say something, anything, but my voice is trapped behind the sudden knot in my throat. The cabin feels like it’s shrinking, drawing the two of us into a space so small there’s no room left for lies.
He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing as his eyes drift from my lips to my foot.
"You need that ankle wrapped properly," he says, his voice carefully neutral again. "Should’ve done it sooner."
He picks up the wrap and kneels beside the couch.
The leather of his holster creaks as he leans in.
"This is going to hurt a little," he warns, his fingers—calloused, rough, and mapped with the fine scars of a man who pulls triggers for a living—probe the swollen skin of my ankle.
I wince, a sharp intake of breath, but I don't pull away.
"Sorry." His touch becomes even more careful, hovering over the site of the injury. "This isn’t my area of expertise."
He works in silence, rewrapping the ankle with practiced, clinical technique.
Firm but not too tight. Supporting without cutting off circulation.
His hands are radiating heat, and I’m suddenly, dizzyingly aware of how close he is.
I can see the individual dark strands of his hair falling forward as he concentrates, and the small, pale scar above his left eyebrow.
I clear my throat, trying to keep my voice from wavering. "Whoever taught you that did a fine job," I say.
"My CO will be pleased to hear it. I failed the Combat Lifesaver the first time. Had to re-sit it."
A small smile tugs at my lips, a reprieve from the tension. "You failed?"
"Twice, actually." He secures the wrap with metal clips, his fingers lingering for a second too long. "Couldn't get the IV placement right under pressure. Kept blowing the veins."
The idea of Silas failing at anything makes my mouth curve into a genuine smile. "I had to retake my neuroanatomy final. Completely blanked on the cranial nerves during the practical."
A ghost of a smile crosses his face, humanizing the hardened lines. "How bad?"
"I put the accessory nerve where the vagus should be. My professor wasn't impressed. He said I wasn’t cut out for medicine. I was devastated.”
Silas looks up at me, frowning, his gaze intense. “But you passed?”
I nod, the old disappointment nipping at me. “I did.”
“What happened to him?”
I wince. “His wife left him, and he started drinking. He lost his position at the University and lost his medical license. I don’t know what happened after that.”
He shakes his head. “Nothing good, I’d guess. Alcohol is good for two things: sterilization and emergency pain medication.”
I nod. "Couldn't agree more. A significant portion of the stroke patients I see have alcohol as a contributing factor. Increases blood pressure, affects clotting, damages the vessels over time."
He shifts away from me, but stays near enough that we can carry on the conversation, the warmth of the fire pulling us into a shared space.
“What made you pick neurology?”
I pause, the question catching me off guard for a split second. A familiar spark of energy settles in my chest as I think back to those first weeks of medical school.
“The second I started studying the nervous system, I knew I wanted to learn more,” I say, meeting his eyes. “I’d originally planned on general medicine. I wanted something predictable and straightforward, but that changed the moment I saw how the brain functions.”
I take a breath, the conviction steady in my voice.
“The more I dug in, the less I saw it as a textbook requirement and the more I saw its beauty. I realized the nervous system isn't just a bunch of wires; it’s this incredible, complicated roadmap of God’s design.
Every nerve, every synapse—it’s so intricate it’s divine.
I went in looking for a career path, but I stayed because I found something wonderful. ”
He watches me for a moment, his expression unreadable before a flicker of understanding crosses his face. He nods slowly, his voice dropping an octave.
“How do you reconcile your faith with suffering?” he asks. “You see firsthand the design and then see the chaos when it breaks.”
I look away for a second, the faces of my patients blurring in my mind.
“When things go wrong, it’s the result of our fallen world.
Death and disease were never part of God’s original plan.
” I meet his gaze again, my voice softer but firm.
“I think about what Joni Eareckson Tada says—that God permits what He hates to accomplish what He loves. Even in a body that’s failing, There’s a soul He is refining. ”
He remains silent, listening, so I continue.
“And Amy Carmichael... she wrote about how our spirits can be 'unshaken' even when the physical world is crumbling. She saw pain not as an absence of God, but as a place where His grace becomes tangible. In neurology, I see the brokenness every day, but I also see the miracle of the human spirit’s resilience.”
“Do you tell your patients any of that?”
My lip twitches. “Well, there are rules. Occasionally, I bend them.”
He laughs. “Likewise. Although when I do it, occasionally I need government approval.”