Chapter Five #2
No one gave them more than a passing glance. They weren’t remarkable here. Just another pair stepping in out of the heat.
Kol chose a table in the shade, positioned with his back to a support beam and her facing outward toward the dock and the water beyond.
He waited until she was seated before taking his own chair, angling it slightly so he wasn’t directly across from her—close enough to talk, far enough not to crowd.
When the menu arrived, he didn’t slide it across the table and leave her to navigate it alone.
He picked his up and talked her through it quietly, line by line, voice low and steady.
He explained what was fresh that day, what was local, what was heavy, and what was light.
He told her which dishes were meant to be shared and which were best eaten slowly, fingers messy, expectations low.
“This one’s conch fritters,” he said, tapping the page gently. “Light batter. Salty. Good texture.”
Her lips twitched, the smallest movement, but it felt like a victory.
“And this—grilled snapper,” he continued. “They do it simple. Lime, herbs. Hard to mess up.”
He paused, watching her eyes track the page, reading not just the words but his tone. When she nodded, he ordered for them both, keeping it uncomplicated.
The food arrived quickly, set down with practiced ease. The fritters were golden and crisp, steam escaping as he broke one open. The fish was flaky and bright with citrus, rice, and beans rich with coconut and spice. The colors alone were enough to make the meal feel generous.
He described each dish as he set it between them, not narrating for the sake of talking, but offering context—what to expect, how it should taste, where it came from. He let her decide what to try and when, never urging, never watching too closely.
They ate slowly.
At first, she took careful bites, eyes flicking up now and then to catalog the room.
Gradually, she relaxed into the rhythm of it, tasting more confidently, reaching for another piece without hesitation.
Kol paid attention without staring, noting what she returned to and what she left untouched.
He spoke when it helped, filling the space with small, neutral observations about the Keys, the weather, the food—nothing that demanded anything from her in return.
For a little while, they were just two people having lunch.
And that mattered.
They ate slowly.
She tasted everything, cautious at first, then with more confidence. Kol watched without staring, attuned to the small signs that mattered—what she liked, what she avoided, when she needed space. He spoke when it helped, filling the gaps with context instead of questions.
When they were done, he paid and guided them back outside without hurry.
At the dock, he stepped into the boat first, then turned and offered his hand. She took it, allowing him to steady her as she stepped down. He let go and turned to untie the line.
Her fingers closed around his hand again.
Just for a moment.
Kol frowned slightly and looked back at her. She was watching him openly now—shy, uncertain, a little scared. Something in his chest tightened as he started to ask if she was all right.
She spoke first, her voice a little raspy from not having used it in a while. “Thank you, Nikolai.”
The sound of her voice hit him harder than any gunshot ever had.
It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. It was careful and real and utterly devastating. His heart stuttered, then fluttered, something dangerously close to breaking as she bit her lip and looked away, retreating toward the seat as if suddenly unsure she’d done the right thing.
He swallowed and nodded once, forcing his hands to steady as he finished untying the boat. He climbed in, started the engine, and guided them back toward open water.
The ride home felt different.
The house came into view as the sun climbed higher, its clean lines catching the light. As Kol cut the engine and guided them toward the dock, a quiet certainty settled over him.
The place was no longer just a safehouse.
It was starting to feel like home.
****
The man waited in the darkened room.
The room was vast, paneled in dark wood that drank the light instead of reflecting it.
Heavy curtains shut out the city beyond, leaving only a narrow strip of light from a desk lamp angled just so.
It caught the edge of a leather chair, the gleam of polished shoes, the slow movement of a hand swirling amber liquid in crystal.
Across from him, a much smaller man stood.
He did not sit. He had learned better.
Sweat gathered at his temples despite the cool air. His shoulders were hunched, posture instinctively defensive, as if he could make himself smaller by sheer will. His eyes flicked up only when spoken to, then dropped again just as quickly.
“Explain it to me again,” the man in the chair said.
His voice was calm. Cultured. Almost bored.
The guard swallowed. “The transfer was clean, sir. The location was secure. We had eyes on her at all times. Then—”
“Then she vanished,” the man finished for him, taking a slow sip of his drink.
“Yes, sir.”
Silence stretched.
The man set the glass down with deliberate care. “Do you know what I paid for?” he asked mildly.
The guard hesitated. “Her expertise, sir. Her memory. The accounts—”
“And?”
The guard’s throat worked. “Her.”
That earned him a faint smile.
“She was chosen,” the man said. “Not taken at random. I don’t invest without intent.
” He leaned forward slightly, light catching his eyes now.
“She understands systems. Money. Movement. She can hold an entire network in her head and tell you where to cut it so it bleeds quietly.” He paused. “And she is beautiful.”
The word was spoken with ownership, not admiration.
“She belongs to me,” he continued. “I paid for that right. In full.”
The guard nodded frantically. “Yes, sir. Of course. We were preparing her. She was compliant enough to be useful. Resistant enough to be interesting.”
The man’s fingers stilled.
“Interesting,” he repeated softly.
The guard flinched.
“She was not meant to be broken,” the man said. “She was meant to be shaped.” He tilted his head. “Do you know the difference?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I doubt that.”
The man stood then, height unfolding slowly, deliberately. Power radiated from him without effort. This was not a man who raised his voice to be obeyed.
He rose from the chair and crossed the room with unhurried steps, the soles of his shoes silent against the laminate flooring he had chosen himself—easy to clean, resistant to stain. He stopped directly in front of the guard, close enough that the man could smell the alcohol on his breath.
“You were instructed to prepare her,” he continued. “To condition her. To keep her functional.”
The guard nodded frantically. “Yes, sir. We did. She resisted, so—”
“So, you took liberties,” the man finished, voice still calm.
The guard froze.
“She was not damaged when she was delivered,” the man went on. “And yet when she vanished, she was, as I understand it, broken.” His eyes hardened. “That suggests enthusiasm and actions were taken when none were authorized.”
The guard’s mouth opened. No sound came out.
“Oh,” the man said softly. “You thought because she was paid for, she was yours.”
He turned his head slightly. “Deal with this.”
A figure detached itself from the shadows near the wall—a man who had not moved, had not breathed loudly enough to be noticed. He stepped forward in one smooth motion and reached for the guard.
The blade flashed once.
The guard never finished inhaling.
He collapsed to the floor, blood spreading quickly across the laminate in a dark, efficient spill. The man watched without expression, then stepped back as if inconvenienced by the mess.
“She was not meant to be broken,” he said quietly. “She was meant to be shaped.”
He returned to his chair and lifted his glass again, swirling the liquid thoughtfully.
“She is frightened now,” he continued, more to himself than anyone else. “Confused. Damaged by men who mistook access for ownership.” His lips curved. “That will make her dependent.”
He took a sip.
“I will find her,” he said. “I will bring her back. And I will teach her how to please me properly.”
In his mind, the outcome was inevitable.
Eliza Reed was broken.
And broken things needed him to fix them.
The phone on his desk vibrated.
He looked at it with mild irritation before answering. “Yes.”
“Sir,” the voice said, low and cautious. “We may have a location.”
The man went still.
“Explain.”
“One of our hospitality assets flagged an anomaly,” the voice continued. “A woman matching her description. Paid in cash. Small, coastal place. Middle of nowhere. The kind of restaurant people don’t go to unless they’re hiding or passing through.”
Silence stretched.
“Where,” he said.
A name was given. A state. A dot on a map so insignificant it barely deserved one.
Florida.
The man smiled.
“There you are,” he murmured.
He ended the call and reached for his jacket.
Patience was a luxury.
But now that he knew where his property was, there was no reason to wait.