Chapter 45
Chapter forty-five
Elijah
One month later
Ava’s breathing isn’t right.
It’s subtle at first—little hitches between exhales, like her lungs are second-guessing themselves. She shifts beside me in bed, caught in something I can’t see. I’m not fully awake yet, but I feel the change in her body. Something’s wrong.
I turn toward her.
Her face is twisted in pain. Brow furrowed. Lips moving without sound. Her fingers dig into the blanket like she’s trying to anchor herself to it.
“Ava?” I whisper, sitting up. My voice comes out cracked.
She doesn’t wake.
She gasps—sharp and shallow—and suddenly jerks like she’s being pulled under. And then it hits: the scream. Not loud. Not cinematic. Just torn and real, and it cuts through me like a knife.
“Ava, baby—wake up. It’s just a dream. I’m here. I’ve got you.”
I reach for her shoulder, gently, but she shrinks from my touch like I’ve slapped her.
Her eyes snap open, and what I see in them wrecks me.
She doesn’t see me.
She sees him.
She scrambles back, slamming into the headboard, chest heaving, arms up in defense. She’s shaking so hard the whole bed trembles with her.
“Don’t touch me! Don’t—!”
Her voice is cracked wide open, like something inside her broke and never healed.
I freeze, my hands in the air. My heart’s going a thousand miles a minute, but I force myself to keep my voice soft, steady, safe.
“Ava. It’s me. It’s Elijah. You’re safe. You’re home.”
She’s not breathing right. Her eyes are wild—searching the corners of the room like he might still be here, hiding in the dark. She’s caught between two worlds: the memory, and now.
I watch her come back inch by inch. Her eyes land on mine—and I see it. That tiny flicker of recognition. And then she breaks.
She folds in on herself and sobs—like something deep in her has shattered, and this is the sound it makes. I move toward her, slow, and when she doesn’t pull away, I pull her into me.
She collapses against my chest. Shaking. Crying so hard it feels like she might come apart.
“He said you’d leave me,” she whispers, voice barely there.
My jaw clenches. I press my hand to the back of her head, the other around her spine, holding her together because right now, I’m not sure she can do it on her own.
But then her voice breaks again—quieter, rawer. Almost like she doesn’t want me to hear it, but needs to say it.
“He told me I’m worthless. That you’d end up getting tired of me, like he did. That a man like you would never stay with a woman like me.”
She pulls in a shaky breath, not looking at me.
“And I know you always tell me you’ll never leave. That you love me. But a small part of me believed him… and now it’s the one screaming the loudest inside my head.”
Her whole body tenses against mine.
“I’m trying, I promise, I am—but it’s stronger than me.”
God. It guts me. I tighten my arms around her, grounding both of us.
“I know, baby girl, I know. But… don’t you dare believe that. Not even for a second,” I whisper, my voice shaking. “That voice in your head? That’s his poison. Not truth. You’re not too much, and I’m not going anywhere.”
I pause, jaw clenched so hard it aches.
If I could kill him again, I’d do it a million times over, just to make him pay for all the damage he’s done to this sweet woman.
Ava didn’t deserve to suffer this—any of it.
Not the fear. Not the doubt. Not the slow erosion of her self-worth.
He was the monster who broke her spirit…
and I was the idiot who didn’t know how to protect her.
I pull her closer.
“You’re the best thing in my life. And I’m gonna keep showing you until that voice in your head shuts the hell up.” I say.
I kiss her hair. She doesn’t stop crying. And I don’t stop holding her.
“I’m still here, Ava. I’m still yours. I’m not leaving. I don’t care how dark it gets—I’m staying.”
She grips my shirt in both fists, like she’s afraid I’ll vanish if she lets go. Her whole body is trembling against mine.
And God, I hate this.
I hate that I can’t fix it. I hate that she still hears his voice in the dark when she should only ever feel safe in my arms.
Hate that a few fucking hours with that monster did this to her—and no matter what I say, part of her believes him more than me.
I hold her tighter.
“You’re not broken,” I whisper, because I know she thinks she is. “You’re hurt. And healing. And I love you. You hear me? I love you.”
Her sobs start to slow. Just a little. Her breath still stutters, but her body begins to soften in my arms, like maybe—for now—she believes me more than him.
I feel her nod, her forehead against my chest. I exhale into her hair, quiet and aching.
She’s here. She’s safe. And I’m not letting go.
***
She’s already out of bed when I wake up. The space where she slept is cold, the sheets rumpled but empty. I sit up slowly, rubbing the back of my neck.
I find her in the kitchen, standing by the sink with a mug in her hand. She’s in one of my old T-shirts, sleeves falling past her elbows. She doesn’t look at me when I come in.
“Hey,” I say gently.
She glances over her shoulder with a small smile—too quick, too light.
There it is. The mask.
“Morning,” she says like nothing happened.
Like she didn’t wake up screaming hours ago. Like she didn’t collapse in my arms, terrified and broken and barely breathing. Her voice is bright. Controlled. She stirs sugar into her coffee with practiced precision.
“Didn’t mean to wake you,” she adds. “You should’ve slept in.”
“Ava…”
She waves it off, still not looking at me.
“I’m fine. Just a stupid dream. They don’t mean anything.”
There’s a pause. It hangs there, heavy and sour in the air between us.
They don’t mean anything.
That’s what he taught her to believe, isn’t it? That her fear isn’t valid. That her feelings aren’t real. That even when she’s shaking and screaming and falling apart, it’s not enough to matter.
Fuck that.
I cross the room slowly, giving her time to back away if she wants. She doesn’t—but she stiffens when I reach out. I don’t touch her yet. I just set my hand on the edge of the counter, close enough to let her know I’m there. Still hers.
“Don’t do that,” I say quietly.
She blinks. “Do what?”
“Pretend it didn’t happen.”
Her lips pressed together. She drops the spoon into the sink with a soft clatter and finally looks at me.
Her eyes are tired. Not just from lack of sleep—but from carrying something she won’t let herself name.
“It was just a nightmare,” she says, but there’s no conviction in it. “It’s over.”
I nod slowly.
“Yeah. It is. But it happened. And you don’t have to pretend you’re okay just to make me feel better.”
She exhales through her nose, looks down. Her fingers curl around the mug tighter, knuckles pale.
“I hate that it still gets to me,” she whispers. “It was just a few hours, Elijah. That’s all. Just two hours. And sometimes it feels like I never got out.”
My chest tightens. I step closer and gently take the mug from her hands, setting it on the counter. Then I wrap my arms around her from behind, resting my chin on her shoulder.
“Because it wasn’t just for a few hours. It was being trapped, being lied to, being broken down by someone who knew exactly where to hit. Don’t shrink it just because it doesn’t leave bruises.”
She doesn’t respond, but her hands come to rest on my arms, holding me there.
“You’re allowed to still be healing,” I murmur. “You don’t have to rush to be okay. Not for me. Not for anyone.”
She nods slowly. I feel her take a breath—deep and real, not the shallow kind she’s been using to survive.
And then she turns in my arms and buries her face in my chest again. No sobbing this time. Just the quiet, exhausted kind of closeness you only crave after holding everything in for too long.
I hold her. I don’t say anything else.
Because she doesn’t need solutions right now.
She just needs to not be alone in the silence.