Chapter 5
Chapter Five
ELENA
Idon’t sleep much. Every time my eyes close, I see Grant standing in that bridal suite, his hand around my jaw, his smile polished and empty. If you run today, I’ll find you. My body believes him even when my mind tries not to. Turns out the suv we heard was not Grant, this time.
The cabin is quiet except for the rain tapping against the windows and the occasional creak of old wood settling.
Ryder sits in the chair near the door, one arm resting on his knee, gun within reach, boots still on.
He hasn’t slept either. I know because every time I stir, his eyes shift to me.
Not annoyed, impatient, just watchful. Like I’m something worth guarding. That thought makes my chest hurt.
“You need sleep,” I whisper.
“So do you.”
“I’m trying.”
His mouth twitches slightly. “Same.”
It’s the closest thing to a smile I’ve seen from him.
I pull the blanket tighter around myself.
His clothes swallow me whole, but they’re warm.
They smell like smoke, leather, and something clean underneath.
Ryder. I shouldn’t find comfort in a stranger.
Especially not one with tattoos on his throat and a gun on the table.
But I do. And maybe that says something about how bad my life became before today.
My gaze drifts to the ruined wedding dress lying in a heap near the bathroom door. I should throw it away. Burn it, maybe even bury it. Instead, I stare at it like it might lunge for me. Ryder notices. Of course he does.
“You want it gone?”
I blink. “What?”
“The dress.”
My throat tightens. “Yes.”
He stands slowly, giving me time to react, then picks up the gown without ceremony. Mud flakes onto the floor. Lace trails behind him like something dead. He takes it outside. I push myself up from the couch and limp to the window.
Ryder stands in the rain beside an old metal barrel.
He shoves the dress inside, pours something over it, then strikes a match.
Flames catch quickly. White lace curls black.
Pearls melt. The dress that was supposed to become my cage turns to smoke under a storm-dark sky.
I press a hand to my mouth as tears blur my vision.
Ryder looks back through the window. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t look proud. He just nods once, like he understands something I can’t say aloud. When he comes back inside, rain clings to his hair and shoulders.
“It’s gone,” he says.
I nod, but my voice breaks anyway. “Thank you.”
His eyes soften for half a second before he looks away.
“Don’t thank me for burning a nightmare.”
The tears fall then. Quietly at first. Then harder.
I hate crying. Grant always made me feel pathetic for it.
Weak. Dramatic. But Ryder doesn’t move toward me.
He doesn’t tell me to stop. He just stays.
And somehow that makes me cry harder. Eventually, he crosses the room and crouches in front of me.
“Can I touch you?”
The question nearly destroys me. I nod. His hand closes gently over mine. Rough fingers. Warm palm. Careful pressure. No ownership. No force. Just there.
“I was supposed to say vows today,” I whisper.
Ryder says nothing.
“I was supposed to promise to obey a man who’s spent years teaching me fear.”
His jaw tightens. “I almost did it.”
“But you didn’t.”
“I nearly did.”
His thumb moves once over my knuckles.
“Nearly doesn’t count.”
I look at him through wet lashes.
“You really believe that?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“Because you ran barefoot through a storm instead.”
Something inside me shivers. Not from cold. From being seen. Really seen. Ryder stands and moves away before the moment becomes too much. He goes to the small kitchen and fills a glass with water.
“Drink.”
This time the command doesn’t frighten me. Maybe because he places the glass on the table instead of forcing it into my hand, his roughness has edges, but none of them point at me. I drink. Then he brings me two pills.
“Painkillers. Basic stuff.”
I eye them automatically. He notices.
“Sealed bottle’s on the counter.”
My cheeks burn. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. Smart to check.”
Grant would have punished me for suspicion. Ryder respects it. The difference keeps knocking me sideways. After I take the pills, Ryder digs through a cupboard and pulls out a dusty tin of soup.
“Dinner.”
“That looks expired.”
He checks the date. “Only by two months.”
I stare at him. He stares back. Then, unexpectedly, I laugh. It slips out before I can stop it. Small, broken, but real. Ryder goes very still.
“What?” I ask self-consciously.
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring.”
“Been a while since I heard something good.”
My smile fades softly. “Oh.”
He turns away quickly, like he regrets saying it. But the words stay with me. Later, after we eat questionable soup and toast, Ryder checks the windows again.
“You were military,” I say.
His shoulders pause. “Yeah.”
“Special forces?”
He turns slowly. “What makes you say that?”
“You move like you expect the walls to attack.”
That almost-smile returns. “Something like that.”
“What was your special skill?”
“Tracking. Counter-surveillance. Recon.”
“Which means?”
“I know when someone’s following before they think I do.”
My skin chills. “Is someone following us?”
“Not right now.”
“But they will.”
His silence answers. I look down at my bandaged feet.
“I’m scared.”
“I know.”
“You don’t tell me not to be.”
His gaze sharpens. “Fear’s useful. Shame isn’t.”
The words settle somewhere deep. I think about them long after he turns the lamp low and returns to his chair.
Fear is useful. Shame isn’t. For the first time in years, I wonder how much of what I’ve carried was never mine to begin with.
Sometime before dawn, my eyes finally close.
And when the nightmares come, Ryder’s voice cuts through them.
“Cabin. Tennessee. Ryder. You’re safe.”
I wake gasping. His hand is on the edge of the couch. Not touching me. Waiting. I reach for him. His fingers close around mine. And I sleep again.