Chapter 46
Chapter forty-six
Ava
It’s been almost two months since the kidnapping.
Two long months of trying to stitch myself back together. And if not for Elijah, Mia, and Sophia—who’ve done nearly the impossible just to keep me standing, I’m not sure where I’d be.
But the truth is, I’m still not okay.
I barely eat. I don’t sleep well. And when I do, I wake up gasping, tangled in sheets soaked with sweat and dread. My dreams drag me back to that cell, to those moments when I didn’t know if I’d live or die. When every second felt like a coin toss between hope and horror.
A part of me believed Elijah would find me. That he’d come. That he’d never stop.
But there was another part—a small, sharp voice that whispered louder than the rest—that maybe no one would.
That maybe everyone would be better off without me.
That voice still haunts me.
And the worst part? It’s winning.
Because even now, I’m not really living. I’m surviving, yes, but barely.
The progress I’d made with Elijah, our laughter, our stolen kisses, the way I started to believe I could be happy again—vanished in hours. Destroyed by fear. By memory. By what he did to me.
A few days ago, they tried an intervention. Mia cried. Sophia held my hand. Elijah didn’t say much, but his eyes said everything.
And still… I couldn’t speak.
I know I need to. I want to. But I’m not ready. Not yet.
Elijah
Frustration and guilt fight for first place in my mind—and honestly, it might end in a tie. Because no matter what anyone says, I’ll never forgive myself for not being there. For not stopping it. For failing her when she needed me most.
It’s been nearly two months since we got her back. Since I carried her out of that hellhole with her body trembling in my arms and her eyes barely able to hold mine. Two months since I swore I’d never let anything happen to her again.
And still, here we are.
Ava’s safe, technically. Physically. But whatever the hell "safe" is supposed to mean now, it doesn't apply to her mind.
Her sleep is shallow. Her smiles are rare. She flinches in her dreams and stares out windows like she’s waiting for someone worse than Henry or George to show up next.
Watching her suffer every day, silently drowning in the aftermath… It’s almost worse than the moment I realized she was gone.
Because back then, I had adrenaline. A mission. Now all I have is the wreckage—and the woman I love, breaking a little more every time she thinks I’m not looking.
I tried everything. Sophia checks on her daily. Mia practically moved in. I’ve offered space, silence, support, distraction—anything that might help her come back to me. To herself. But she’s still somewhere I can’t reach, and that’s the part that’s eating me alive.
She won’t talk about the dreams. Won’t look at me when she wakes up crying. And when I touch her, she tenses—just for a second.
But it’s enough. Enough to make me want to tear the walls down.
A few days ago, Sophia and Mia tried an intervention. Gentle. Thoughtful. It didn’t work.
Ava listened, nodded, said thank you—and then quietly folded into herself like paper.
I knew then that this isn’t something we can push. But not pushing it doesn’t mean the silence hurts any less.
There’s this part of me—this dark, vicious part—that wishes George was still alive just so I could kill him again. Slower this time. And maybe that makes me the monster he said I was, but I don’t care. I don’t care what I become, as long as it means she never has to feel like this again.
I just want her back. Her real laugh, the one that wrinkles her nose. Her sarcasm, her quick comebacks, her fire.
And if I can’t fix this—if all I can do is sit outside the storm while she weathers it alone—then I’ll stay right here. As long as it takes. Because I promised her there would be no more secrets. And the truth is, I need her just as much as she needs to heal.
God, I just want to see her smile again. A real one.
I press my hand to our bedroom door, she's been sitting behind for hours now. I don’t knock. I just lean there, forehead to wood, and say the only words I can:
“I’m still here, Ava. I’ll always be here. Take your time… just don’t forget I’m right on the other side.”
And I wait. Like I’ve been waiting. Because love isn’t always grand gestures and perfect timing. Sometimes it’s just showing up, day after day, when everything’s broken— And being willing to bleed beside her while she learns how to breathe again.
Ava
The silence inside this room feels safer than the world outside it.
Even after all this time since I came home—and I still don’t feel home. Not in this house. Not in this skin. Not even with Elijah, who would carry the world on his shoulders if it meant I could sleep through one night without waking up screaming.
I hear him sometimes, moving quietly through the house when I pretend to be asleep. He thinks I don’t notice, but I do. I feel the way he watches me, not like he’s waiting for something— But like he’s mourning something.
Me. Us.
That version of me that laughed easily, that looked at him with fire in her eyes instead of apology. The version that let herself believe she could be loved and safe at the same time. That girl feels gone now. And what’s left… I don’t even recognize her.
I want to talk. God, I do. I want to reach out, to crawl into his lap and let him hold all the broken pieces. But every time I try, my throat closes. Because what if I open my mouth and it all comes pouring out?
The shame. The fear. The worst of it—the tiny whisper inside me that still wonders if I deserved it. If I asked for it somehow by loving him too openly, too fearlessly.
That’s what George wanted, wasn’t it? To make me doubt everything good in my life. And I hate that he succeeded. I hate that I’m letting him win.
I hear Elijah’s footsteps outside the bedroom door.
Heavy. Slow. Hesitant, which is rare for him. He doesn’t knock.
Just rests his hand there, like he’s touching me. And then I hear his voice, low and tired and full of everything he can’t say out loud.
“I’m still here, Ava. I’ll always be here. Take your time… just don’t forget I’m right on the other side.”
The words break me open.
Because I don’t deserve him. Not really. Not after two months of pushing him away, of flinching from the man who would burn the world down to keep me warm. And yet there he is. Still on the other side of the storm.
Still waiting.
A sob escapes before I can stop it, and I press my hand to the door. He’s still there, I know it. I can feel his breath through the silence.
And I can’t say everything yet. Not tonight. But maybe… maybe I can start with this.
“Eli…” I whisper. My voice is shaky, like it's been asleep too long.
I hear him inhale sharply.
“I miss you.”
Three simple words. But they’re a beginning.
“Can I come in, baby girl? I just want to hold you.”
His voice is gentle—no pressure, no demand—just Elijah, standing on the other side of the door, waiting.
I hesitate for a heartbeat. But then my fingers wrap around the doorknob and turn.
The door opens.
He’s standing there, barefoot, wearing a T-shirt and sweats, he doesn’t sleep well either. His hair is a mess, his eyes bloodshot. But the moment he sees me, everything in him softens.
I don’t say a word. I just step back and let him in.
He walks slowly, like he’s afraid to startle me, even now. His arms open—wide, safe, familiar. And when I step into them, it’s like breathing for the first time in weeks.
I don’t cry. Not this time. I just melt.
He wraps himself around me like armor, pulling me into his chest, burying his face in my hair.
“I’ve got you, baby” he murmurs. “I’ve always got you.”
I nod into his chest, gripping his shirt like it’s the only thing anchoring me to the ground.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, barely audible.
He pulls back just enough to look at me. “You don’t ever apologize for healing in your own way. You hear me?”
I blink hard. “I’ve just… I’ve been so lost, Elijah.”
“I know.” He brushes his thumb across my cheek. “But you’re finding your way back. And I’m right here. Every step. Every breath.”
We stand there for a while, not speaking, just being. His hand moves gently up and down my back. I feel his heartbeat against my ear, steady and patient.
Eventually, he guides us toward the bed. I lie down first, and he slips in behind me, wrapping himself around me like a blanket. His hand finds mine, intertwining our fingers.
For the first time in weeks, I don’t feel alone. For the first time, sleep doesn’t scare me quite as much.
“Stay?” I whisper.
He kisses the back of my neck. “Always.”
And in that moment, in the silence that follows, I start to believe that maybe I really will be okay.