Silence
When I was a kid, my dad would train me until I vomited.
Then, he’d tell me to keep going. He was relentless, driven by paranoia that he never fully explained, insistent that he was preparing me for the day I’d have to fight for my life.
I was a kid when my training started, and it only stopped when I came home one day and found my father bleeding out on the kitchen floor.
The worst training was on my sixteenth birthday.
My father filled a cloth sack with rocks and woke me by beating me with it, claiming I had to defend myself against any weapon at any time.
Unable to even get out of bed, one swing hit my head.
I passed out, and I truly think the only reason my dad took me to the hospital was because I was getting blood on the sheets.
I told the doctor I slipped and fell, and they believed me. I had a serious concussion, to the point where I could hardly open my eyes and lay in a dark room for weeks.
The pain in my head right now is almost as bad as back then.
The throb starts in my temple, pulsing into my teeth, across my forehead and behind my eyes. I’m too scared to open them, because there’s every chance—
Too late.
I lean forward and vomit.
Everything I’ve eaten, although it isn’t much, comes surging up my throat and nose. It makes my head ache more, and I sob as I lie back.
Once my head stops spinning, I feel around myself. I think I’m on a couch and hopefully spewed on the floor. The smell is disgusting, but at least I’m not rolling in it.
A soothing voice penetrates the pain. A hand runs through my hair.
Fingertips stroke my aching head. They ask if I’m okay.
I can’t speak, too afraid to vomit or if the sound of my own voice will worsen the pain.
Pills are pressed into my hand, and I’ve held enough in my time to guess that they’re probably pain relief.
I can’t be sure, but I also can’t fight it when they open my mouth, taking the tablets from me and putting them on my tongue.
A water bottle is held to my lips, and I swallow greedily.
Pain.
Tears.
And then more darkness.
My eyes are closed, but I know I’m not in my bed. The covers smell like lilies; the pillow is too soft. This isn’t home, but there’s something familiar about it.
Someone kisses my cheek, and I smile. He stayed. For the first time ever, he stayed.
“It’s morning,” he whispers, and through the dregs of sleep, I cling to the lightness in my heart.
“You stayed.”
He nuzzles my neck, cuddling into my back. “Just this once, Rose.”
The name brings tears to my eyes, and I shuffle back into him, our bodies flush and warm under lily-scented bedding.
“I always miss you when you go,” I say, despite the pain it causes to speak. I need him to know, because I have a feeling this is a dream, and at any moment, he’ll disappear. “I really do love you.”
It hits me then … that this is real.
It isn’t a dream, or a memory of a dream … I’m here, and so is he. I blink fast, taking in my surroundings. An expensive room, a glowing fireplace, and his arms still around me.
“What happened?” I whisper.
“A lot between now and when I last saw you,” he says quietly. “I tried so hard to find you, Rose.”
He sighs into my neck, and then I realize … I can’t feel the wool of his mask. His voice isn’t muffled behind the thick material.
Opening my eyes, I turn to see him for the first time ever.
The boy who climbed through my window.
The boy who always wore a mask and never told me his name.
The boy I fell in love with.
I gaze up at him, forcing my eyes to stay open so I can take in as much as I can.
“How—”
He shakes his head. “Not now. You need to rest.”
Sleep. Rest. But how can I? He’s here after so long, and I don’t understand why or how or—
“My head hurts,” I whisper.
“Then sleep, Rose.”
And with that, Ryker kisses me, and I do.
Time has no meaning. It could be hours, or days, maybe even longer since I woke in Ryker’s arms—my stalker’s arms. All I know is sometimes, someone wakes me, gives me medication, and lets me sleep.
At one point, I was given soup, my eyes still closed against the pain.
Eventually, I’m given a sleeping mask, and it helps.
I’m guided to the bathroom, shuffling my feet against soft carpet.
Whoever takes me never comments on seeing me pee, and I’m too exhausted to be embarrassed.
When a cold nose is pressed to my cheek, I smile. “Hey, Bullet.” Bullet whines softly and climbs onto the bed, snuggling into me. I hold onto him, burying my face in his fur, and when I next wake up, he’s snuggled in my arms, snoring.
And for the first time in God knows how long, I pull off the sleeping mask.
My head still hurts, but I think I took pain relief not too long ago, so I’m able to open my eyes fully and take in my surroundings.
The room is lit by a single floor lamp in the corner, the light a muted amber.
The room itself is pretty. I’m in a four-poster bed, bundled up in covers.
A corner bookcase is stacked with reading material, and in front of it is a heavily stuffed chair with a footstool, a blanket folded over it.
Balcony doors are framed by duck-egg blue drapes, the tassels gold.
“Where are we, Bullet?” I ask, sitting up. My head spins, so I wait a few seconds before standing.
I’m in soft, blush pink, matching pajamas, and pink slippers are sitting neatly by the double doors.
What do I remember?
The apartment.
Yale …
“I love you, too.”
Where’s Yale? Xavier?
Oh God.
Zayden.
A high-pitched noise sounds in my right ear, and I groan, pressing my hand to it gently. A few seconds pass and it eases, but I definitely have a severe concussion.
“One step at a time,” I whisper to Bullet, stroking his head before I stand.
I shuffle over to the other door, pushing it open to a bathroom that matches the bedroom.
It’s clearly old but maintained well, the faucets squeaking gently when I turn them.
The water heats quickly, and I wash my face, finding supplies to brush my hair and teeth.
“Plenty of years and sex.”
A soft laugh. “Shut up.”
I look in the mirror. A bruise is purpling under my eye, and another is at my temple, along with a neatly stitched cut.
“A safe house,” I whisper. “This must be another safe house, right?”
Bullet sits at the door, tail wagging.
Yes. Whatever happened, we must be at another property.
“Come on, let’s go find your daddies,” I say, leaving the bathroom with more confidence.
I step into the slippers and open one of the doors.
I’m greeted by a large, grand hallway, the carpets rich reds and golds, the ceilings high and curved.
Soft piano music drifts over to me, and I follow the sound until I find a set of wide stairs that leads to a bottom floor.
Bullet is on my heels, claws tapping against the polished floors as we continue to follow the music.
“Yale?” I call out quietly, and pause at a large, open archway that leads into a sitting room, a grand piano set against the far wall.
The man playing turns.
Ryker.
He stands quickly. “Rose, you should be resting.” He approaches, but I’m swallowed by memories of his voice on the phone and what followed.
Heat. Pain. The world exploding. Whispered promises.
My brain feels like it swells against my skull, and I whimper, closing my eyes as I step back, losing my footing. Someone catches me, cradling me in their arms, whispering, whispering, whispering—
“I’m here, Rose. I’m here.” Tears burn my eyes, because I don’t understand. The year, the place, the people … Bullet is here, and he’s from now, but the nickname, the man— “I’m sorry,” Ryker whispers. “I should’ve told you, but I was scared.”
I lift my head, my eyes meeting his.
Eyes I know.
Ryker touches my cheek, tears of his own shining in his eyes.
“It’s …” I pull in sharp breaths. “It’s you.”
He gently presses his forehead to mine. “Yes, it’s me. It’s always been me.”