Chapter 80 Ava
Ava
The back grounds of the safehouse stretch farther than I expected.
Stone terraces.
Tall hedges.
A line of dark pines beyond the walls.
The day is cool and bright, the kind of morning that would feel peaceful if my head weren’t still full of red markers and broken files and the knowledge that Hayes was only one branch on a poisoned tree.
Ethan walks beside me in silence.
Not crowding.
Not leading.
Just there.
Close enough that I can feel him.
Far enough that it doesn’t become another kind of pressure.
It’s a skill with him.
This impossible, infuriating skill of knowing when to hold on and when to let me stand.
We make it to the lowest stone terrace before I stop near the railing.
From here I can see the tree line and a hint of distant water flashing beyond it.
For a few seconds, I just breathe.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
Trying to settle around the truth instead of choke on it.
Ethan waits.
Finally I say, “I should’ve known.”
His voice comes immediately. “No.”
I laugh without humor. “That’s getting old.”
“Then stop blaming yourself for networks you didn’t build.”
I turn to look at him. “I was inside it.”
“And drugged. Controlled. tortured. Used.”
His jaw tightens on each word.
He keeps going anyway.
“You are not responsible for not seeing every corner of a machine built to keep itself hidden.”
I look away again.
Because some part of me knows he’s right.
Another part still feels like knowing less than everything is failure.
“What if they move because of Hayes?” I ask quietly.
“They might.”
“What if they erase people before we get there?”
His answer takes a second longer.
Honest.
Measured.
“They might try.”
The words hit like stones.
Not because they’re cruel.
Because they’re real.
I grip the cold stone railing. “I can’t do another buried room full of restraints, Ethan.”
He steps closer.
Not touching yet.
Just there.
“You don’t have to do today.”
“I mean ever.”
That silences him.
I close my eyes. “I know what I sound like. Some brave speech in the war room and then this.”
“No,” he says, voice low. “This is what brave looks like when it’s real.”
I swallow.
Hard.
He moves then, one hand settling at the back of my neck, warm and steady. “You can hate the thought of going back into hell and still go if it matters.”
My eyes open.
He’s right there.
Green eyes locked on mine.
No pity.
No disappointment.
Just truth.
“I’m tired,” I whisper.
“I know.”
“Not physically.”
“I know.”
That nearly breaks me more than the war room did.
Because he really does.
He sees the deeper exhaustion. The kind in the bones. The kind that says surviving something isn’t the same as finishing it.
I lean into him then.
Only a little.
But enough.
His arms come around me slowly, giving me time to change my mind.
I don’t.
I let my forehead rest against his chest and listen to the beat of his heart.
It’s strong.
Steady.
Human.
A sound no lab ever managed to steal from me.
“I keep thinking about that list,” I say against his shirt.
“The women?”
“Yes.”
He says nothing.
So I go on.
“Some of them are probably dead.” My throat tightens. “Some are probably lost. And some might still be where I was. Right now. Breathing that air. Hearing those doors.” My fingers curl against his shirt. “How am I supposed to sit here and wait?”
His hand moves over my back once. Slow.
“You’re not waiting,” he says. “You’re helping us do it right.”
“That sounds like patience.”
“It sounds like strategy.”
I pull back enough to look at him. “You’re really committed to making this sound noble.”
His mouth twitches. “Would you prefer reckless and emotionally compromised?”
“That sounds more honest.”
“Fine.” His thumb brushes my cheek. “We’re being recklessly patient.”
That gets me.
A small laugh escapes before I can stop it.
He looks absurdly pleased with himself.
I shake my head. “You’re impossible.”
“You say that like it’s bad.”
“No.” I glance down briefly, then back up. “Not bad.”
His expression shifts.
Warmer.
Deeper.
The kind that makes my pulse stumble even now.
I should probably say something less dangerous.
Instead I hear myself ask, “When did you stop trying to stop loving me?”
The question surprises both of us.
I can tell by the way he stills.
He doesn’t answer right away.
When he does, his voice is rougher. “I never stopped.”
My breath catches.
Even though I already knew.
Even though he told me some version of that in the room upstairs.
Hearing it in daylight does something different.
Makes it bigger.
Realer.
I search his face. “Not even when you thought I was dead.”
His hand slides into my hair. “Especially not then.”
I close my eyes for one painful second.
Because there’s so much grief in that answer.
So much time.
When I open them again, I ask the harder thing.
“Did you hate me for disappearing?”
His whole expression changes. “No.”
“But—”
“I hated what was done to you.” His jaw works. “I hated not knowing. I hated burying someone I never got to stop loving.” His thumb traces once near my temple. “I never hated you.”
That should not feel like a wound healing.
It does.
Something in my chest loosens that I didn’t even realize was still clenched.
I nod.
He watches me carefully. “What?”
“I think part of me did.”
His brows pull together. “Hated you?”
I laugh once, soft and miserable. “For not fighting harder. For not dying. For surviving ugly.”
His face goes hard in a way that makes the air around us change temperature. “Don’t.”
I look at him.
“Don’t talk about yourself like that.” His voice is low, fierce. “Not after what you endured.”
“I’m trying to be honest.”
“Then be honest about this too.” He steps closer, forcing me to hold his gaze. “You survived when they wanted to erase you. There is nothing ugly about that.”
The words hit so deep I can’t answer.
I just stare at him.
And because he’s Ethan and apparently determined to ruin me completely, he adds, quieter now, “There are parts of you that got hurt. None of them make you less.”
A tear slips out before I can stop it.
He catches it immediately.
Always does.
“I don’t know what to do with you,” I whisper.
His mouth brushes my forehead. “Keep me.”
The answer is so fast, so blunt, so him, that I actually laugh through the tear.
Then the laugh turns into something weaker.
Softer.
A little broken.
I lean into him again and let him hold me while the wind moves through the pines and the world, for one minute, feels like it might one day be survivable in a way that has nothing to do with just getting through.
Behind us, the terrace door opens.
Aaron sticks his head out. “I hate to interrupt whatever Nicholas Sparks situation this is, but Jonah says he found a shipping pattern.”
I close my eyes.
Of course.
Ethan looks skyward like he’s reconsidering murder.
Aaron lifts a hand. “I brought updates and zero emotional support.”
“Then you brought exactly what we expected,” Ethan says.
Aaron points at him. “That’s fair.”
I step back from Ethan reluctantly.
He notices.
So do I.
But there’s no time to sit with it because the war is already moving again.
Aaron’s expression sobers. “It’s real, Ava. The Portugal site may be receiving live transfers.”
The last softness inside me hardens.
Not all the way.
But enough.
I straighten my shoulders. “Then let’s go see what Jonah found.”
Ethan’s hand catches mine as we head for the door.
Just for a second.
A promise.
A tether.
I hold on.
Because maybe that’s what this is now.
Not just survival.
Not just vengeance.
Not even justice, not entirely.
Maybe it’s this—
finding the hand that leads you out of the dark
and refusing to let go while there are still others trapped inside it.