Chapter Five
Eliza woke with a sharp inhale, heart racing, certain for one disorienting moment that she was still there.
The panic came first—heat under her skin, breath stuck high in her chest, muscles locking as if bracing for impact. Her eyes flew open, searching for the familiar wrongness: concrete walls, buzzing lights, the table bolted to the floor, men walking toward her, hands on her.
None of it was there.
It took longer than she liked for reality to reassert itself.
The room was wrong—in the right way. Too big.
Too open. Light filtered in through glass doors instead of flickering overhead.
The ceiling was high, pale wood instead of stained panels.
The air smelled clean, faintly of salt and something green she couldn’t name.
No humming lights. No locked door that screamed when opened.
Safe.
The word formed slowly, cautiously, as if it might fracture if she leaned on it too hard.
She lay still for several long seconds, cataloguing sensation the way she’d taught herself to do.
The weight of the sheet over her legs. The softness of the mattress beneath her back.
The distant sound of water moving—gentle, rhythmic, unconcerned.
Her heart gradually slowed, each beat settling closer to normal.
She’d slept, but not deeply. Not the kind of sleep that erased time or dreams. Every sound had pulled her back toward wakefulness—the creak of the house settling as it cooled, the distant splash of water against stone, the low call of something outside she couldn’t identify.
Each time, it took long, careful seconds to remind herself where she was and, more importantly, where she wasn’t.
She sat up slowly, waiting for the familiar dizziness.
When it came, she stayed still until it passed, breathing through it.
The night before replayed in fragments, unbidden but insistent: the long drive, the steady hum of the road, the way Nikolai had noticed what she reached for without comment.
Salty snacks. Water. No questions. No pressure.
Dinner, eaten in silence that hadn’t felt heavy or expectant.
The way he’d moved through the kitchen with quiet efficiency, never once reacting when she flinched at a sudden sound.
Later, upstairs, he’d shown her how to lock the house down for the night—methodical, precise, explaining each step before touching anything.
Before touching her. He’d waited until she nodded. Always waited.
The memory tightened something in her chest.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood, padding toward the bathroom.
The mirror caught her reflection, and she almost looked away—but forced herself not to.
Bruises bloomed across her skin in shades of yellow and purple, some around her arms and other parts of her body that were clearly made by hard hands, dragging her, gripping her, holding her down.
Small cuts traced faint lines along her arms. She looked thinner.
Sharper. Like parts of her had been carved away.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She was down, but she was not out.
I'm still here, she reminded herself.
The shower startled her at first, the spray hitting her shoulders with a sharp hiss that made her gasp.
She forced herself to stay, to let the heat soak in, to let steam fill the space until her breathing evened out.
Gradually, inch by inch, her body loosened.
She stood beneath the water and let the tears come.
She needed the release, and although the tears fell for what felt like hours, she made no sound.
When the storm was over, she stood there even longer, water running over her face, down her back, washing away the last clinging sense of confinement.
Clean clothes waited where he’d said they would be. A t-shirt. Soft pants. Everything far too big for her, clearly his. She pulled them on without hesitation. The fabric hung loose, obscuring the lines of her body, giving her a strange sense of relief. Hidden felt safer than seen.
Downstairs, the house felt different in daylight.
Open. Bright. Alive.
Sunlight poured through glass walls, turning the water outside into a shifting field of silver and blue. The space felt expansive, intentional—nothing cluttered, nothing oppressive. She moved slowly, taking it in, letting her feet memorize the floor beneath her.
The smell of baking bread reached her before she saw the kitchen.
Nikolai stood at the counter, sleeves rolled up, dark hair still damp from a shower.
He moved with the same controlled ease she’d seen in everything else he did, as if even the act of cooking had been thought through.
A loaf browned in the oven. Cereal boxes sat neatly arranged beside a jug of milk.
Fruit washed and set out in a bowl. The domestic normalcy of it all made her chest ache.
“Morning,” he said quietly, glancing over without startling her.
She nodded, stopping just inside the room.
“I’ve ordered supplies,” he continued easily, as if her silence was simply part of the morning routine. “Clothes, groceries, and a few other items. More than we need. We’ll head back to the dock later to collect everything and bring it out here.”
She nodded again.
He didn’t wait for a response or fill the space with more words. He turned back to the counter, giving her room.
She poured herself coffee—black—and toasted a slice of bread, hands steady despite the way the ordinariness of it felt almost unreal. The smell of toast, the warmth of the mug in her hands, grounded her in a way nothing else had since she’d been taken.
She carried her plate outside, choosing the deck despite the heat. The air was thick and warm, but it felt honest. Alive. The water stretched out before her, endless and unconcerned, and she sat down where the breeze could reach her.
Nikolai joined her a few minutes later, coffee in hand. He didn’t crowd her. He didn’t ask questions. They sat side by side, watching light dance across the surface of the water as the morning wore on.
The quiet wasn’t awkward.
It was held.
Deliberate.
His phone rang.
Her shoulders tightened reflexively, the reaction automatic and unwelcome. She forced herself to breathe as she recognized the cadence of his voice. The same man as before. Elias.
“There’s activity in Chicago,” Elias said. “Trafficking ring trying to reconstitute. Different faces. Same patterns.”
“I’ll get online later,” Nikolai replied. “See what I can disrupt from here.”
“Appreciated,” Elias said. “Riley’s ... curious. But she’s not ready yet.”
“I understand,” Nikolai said without hesitation.
The call ended. He set the phone down and looked back at her. “We’ll head into town shortly. Just for a bit. Pick up what’s waiting for us.”
She nodded, wrapping her hands around her mug.
There was a lot to think about.
About how silence could be a choice instead of a weapon. About the way safety didn’t announce itself loudly, but arrived in small, careful decisions. About the man beside her who spoke gently into violence and didn’t demand her voice in return.
When they stood and headed toward the dock, the sun already climbing higher, Eliza followed without hesitation.
She was still quiet.
But she was no longer waiting.
****
The boat cut cleanly through the water, engine low and steady, the late-morning sun already heavy on his shoulders. Kol adjusted their course by instinct, eyes scanning the channel markers while his awareness stayed tuned to the quiet presence beside him.
Silence sat easily between them.
That hadn’t always been true—for him, or for anyone.
Silence could be weaponized, used to intimidate or isolate.
He’d learned that early. But this silence was different.
It wasn’t sharp or demanding. It simply existed, unforced, and Eliza seemed as comfortable with it as he was.
She sat facing forward, hair pulled back loosely, the oversized clothes still swallowing her frame, gaze fixed on the horizon.
They were almost at the dock.
As the marina came into view, Kol eased the throttle and brought the boat in smooth and slow.
The place was modest and unassuming—weathered planks, sun-bleached signs, a handful of boats tied up like they’d been there forever.
Nothing about it advertised importance, which was exactly why he used it.
He secured the boat and hopped onto the dock, tying them off before turning back to help her out. She took his hand without hesitation, her grip light but sure. He noticed the faint tremor she masked well and adjusted, steadying her without comment.
The parcels were waiting where he’d arranged for them to be delivered—stacked neatly in the shade. Clothes. Dry goods. Medical supplies and a surprise for Eliza, which he hadn’t mentioned. He loaded them quickly, efficiently, checking each item off mentally before stowing them securely in the boat.
When he finished, he glanced at her. “There’s a place nearby. Local and pretty rustic, but the food is good if you’re hungry.”
She nodded.
The restaurant was small and open-air, tucked back from the water beneath a loose canopy of palms and faded sailcloth.
Weathered wooden tables were scattered across a deck that had clearly been rebuilt more than once, boards smooth from years of salt, sun, and bare feet.
Ceiling fans turned lazily overhead, their soft whirring barely cutting through the heat, pushing air scented with citrus, brine, sunscreen, and frying fish.
Somewhere nearby, music played—old, tinny speakers carrying a rhythm that felt more like background texture than performance.
Laughter drifted easily from a table of locals, sunburned and relaxed, drinks sweating in their hands.
Cutlery clinked against plates. Ice rattled in glasses.
Life carried on at an unhurried pace that felt almost foreign.