The highway unrolls in front of us like a promise, asphalt ribbon leading away from nightmare and toward something that feels almost like normal.
Almost.
I pull Elias’s hoodie tighter around myself, drowning in soft cotton that smells like his cologne—cedar and something clean, something entirely him. The scent wraps around me like a security blanket, grounding me in the here and now instead of the stone chambers and candlelit horror I left behind. My fingers find the drawstring, rolling the soft fabric between them like a rosary.
I’m alive.
The thought keeps circling back, simple and profound. Ten days ago, I walked into that compound thinking I was in control, thinking I understood the game I was playing. Ten days of hell later, I’m sitting in the passenger seat of Elias’s car, wearing his clothes, breathing free air, and trying to reconcile the woman who walked into that compound with the one who barely escaped it.
Alive. Somehow, impossibly alive.
The dashboard clock reads 4:47 AM. We’ve been driving for over an hour since leaving the local sheriff’s station, where Captain Everett had to coordinate with Sheriff Martinez to get us released for the night instead of keeping us for extended debriefing. Professional courtesy between law enforcement agencies, plus the fact that we were clearly victims rather than suspects. Still, there were forms to sign, statements to give, medical examinations to endure.
I flex my wrists, feeling the raw marks where the rope burned my skin during my escape. The paramedic cleaned and bandaged them, pronounced me dehydrated but otherwise unharmed. Physically, anyway.
“You’re thinking too loud,” Elias says, glancing over at me. His hands are steady on the wheel, but I can see the exhaustion in the set of his shoulders, the way his jaw still carries tension from everything we’ve been through. Dark circles shadow his eyes, and I realize he probably hasn’t slept properly since I disappeared.
“Just processing.” I sink deeper into his hoodie, letting the familiar scent calm my racing thoughts. “It’s surreal, you know? Being in a normal car, on a normal highway, wearing normal clothes.”
His knuckles whiten on the steering wheel, but his voice stays steady. “Tell me about Wren. You said she’s safe?”
And there it is—the question that matters most. My throat tightens with gratitude and grief in equal measure.
“Ruth saved her.” The words come out thick with emotion. “Ruth Quinn.”
I close my eyes, seeing her face again.
“She knew what it would cost her,” I continue. “And she did it anyway. For a child she barely knew, because it was the right thing to do. Because someone had to.”
Elias reaches over, his hand finding mine in the darkness. His palm is warm, callused from years of defensive tactics training, and I hold on like he’s the only thing keeping me tethered to the world.
For the next hour, I fill him in on everything else. Vale’s twisted psychology and how he used scripture and philosophy to justify horrors that would make seasoned detectives lose sleep. Raina’s fanatical devotion, the way she’d transformed from suburban soccer mom into something cold and predatory.
I tell him about the preparation chamber, about the surgical instruments and the stone table with channels carved for drainage.
Elias processes this in silence for several miles. When he finally speaks, his voice is carefully controlled. “How close did they come?”
“To finishing the ritual?” I consider the question, remembering Raina’s preparations, the way she’d arranged her instruments with sacramental care. “Hours, maybe. If I hadn’t escaped when I did…”
I don’t finish the sentence. Don’t need to.
By the time I finish explaining everything we’re pulling into his apartment complex. A modest building in a quiet neighbourhood that feels like paradise after where I’ve been.
“Come on,” Elias says, killing the engine. “Let’s get you home.”
Home. The word settles in my chest like a warm coal. Not some anonymous safe house or hotel room. His home. Our home, maybe, if I’m brave enough to want that.
The elevator is broken, so we climb three flights of stairs. My legs are shakier than I expected, ten days of poor nutrition and stress taking their toll. Elias notices, staying close enough to catch me if I stumble but far enough away to let me maintain my independence. It’s a perfect metaphor for how we have always been as partners—present when I need him, respectful of my space when I don’t.
His apartment is exactly what I expected and nothing like I imagined at the same time. One bedroom, kitchenette flowing into the living room, a small office tucked into what was probably meant to be a dining nook. Spacious but not huge, modern but comfortable. Lived-in without being cluttered.
The walls are painted a warm gray that somehow manages to feel both sophisticated and welcoming. Dark hardwood floors that look original to the building but well-maintained. Large windows that probably let in beautiful natural light during the day, though right now they just show the darkness we’ve driven through to get here.
What I didn’t expect are all the little details that make it purely Elias. A collection of vintage detective novels on the bookshelf—some modern authors I don’t recognize. A coffee mug shaped like a police badge that’s clearly been used so often the paint is wearing off the handle. Framed photos scattered on surfaces: him with other cops at what looks like a retirement party, family gatherings where everyone shares his blonde hair and serious eyes, candid shots that speak of a life fully lived.
There’s also a guitar in the corner, acoustic, with a capo clipped to the headstock. Sheet music scattered on a small table beside it, handwritten notes in the margins. I had no idea he played.
“It’s so… you,” I tell him, and mean it completely.
He looks around like he’s seeing it through my eyes, taking inventory of his own life. “Modest but functional?”
“Homey. Comfortable. Safe.” I run my fingers along the back of his couch, soft leather worn smooth in places.
Something in his expression softens at that last word, and I realize he understands exactly what I mean. After ten days in a place designed to strip away identity and comfort, his apartment feels like a fortress against the darkness.
“There’s food in the fridge if you’re hungry,” he says. “Nothing fancy, but—”
“I’m fine.” My stomach is still adjusting to the idea of eating regularly again. “Just tired. And probably in desperate need of a shower.”
“Bathroom’s down the hall. I’ll find you something clean to wear.”
The bathroom is small but immaculate, decorated in simple blues and whites. The shower has excellent water pressure and gets hot enough to melt the last ten days from my skin, steam rising around me like prayers of gratitude.
I stand under the spray longer than necessary, letting the heat penetrate muscles that have been tense for so long I’d forgotten what relaxation felt like. The soap smells like him and I use his shampoo too, washing away the smell of incense and fear that’s been clinging to my hair.
When I finally emerge, there are clothes waiting on a chair just outside the bathroom door—one of his gray t-shirts, soft from repeated washing, and a pair of navy boxer shorts that will be big on me but infinitely more comfortable than anything I’ve worn recently. The t-shirt hangs to my thighs, but they’re clean and they’re his and they make me feel human again.
I catch my reflection in the bathroom mirror and barely recognize myself. Ten days of stress have sharpened my cheekbones, put hollows under my eyes that will take time to fill back in.
I find Elias sprawled on the living room couch when I emerge. His eyes are closed, head tilted back against the cushions, and he looks like he could sleep for a week. The lines around his eyes speak of worry that went deeper than professional concern, and I’m struck by how much this cost him too.
“Your boxers are surprisingly comfortable,” I announce, tugging at the elastic waistband.
He cracks one eye open and grins, the expression transforming his tired face completely. “Good to know my underwear meets your standards.”
“Considering the alternatives I’ve had recently.” I settle into the armchair across from him, tucking my legs under me. “Rough cotton robes aren’t exactly known for their comfort factor.”
That sobers him slightly, but I wave off his concern before it can fully form. I’m done being the victim of this story, done letting what happened to me be the only thing that defines me.
“Your turn,” I tell him, gesturing toward the bathroom. “You look like you’re about to pass out sitting up.”
He hauls himself off the couch with a groan that makes me think we’re both going to feel every bruise and scrape tomorrow. “Try not to reorganize my entire apartment while I’m gone.”
“No promises. I’ve always been curious about how you live.”
“Now you know. Organized chaos with a guitar habit.”
“I had no idea you played.”
He pauses in the doorway, something self-conscious flickering across his features. “Not well. Stress relief, mostly. Something to do with my hands when cases get complicated.”
“Will you play for me sometime?”
The question comes out softer than I intended, more vulnerable. It’s not really about the music—it’s about sharing pieces of ourselves we’ve kept hidden, about building something real in the aftermath of something terrible.
“Yeah,” he says, and his voice is equally soft. “I’d like that.”
While the shower runs, I wander his apartment more thoroughly, taking in details I missed on first inspection. His refrigerator is covered with takeout menus and grocery lists written in precise handwriting, but also polaroids—fellow detectives, a group picture from some kind of police charity event, a shot of him and a golden retriever that makes me smile.
His bookshelf reveals more personality. The detective novels I expected, but also philosophy texts, psychology studies, even some poetry.
But it’s his office that draws me like a magnet. The space is cramped but organized, desk covered with case files and reports, walls lined with commendations and certificates. It’s the personal touches that make my chest tight with affection. More photos pinned among the work materials like reminders of why the job matters.
A young Elias in military dress uniform, serious-faced and impossibly young, standing at attention with a gravity that suggests he understood the weight of what he was signing up for. Him with an older couple who must be his parents—his father has the same eyes and stubborn jaw, his mother the same smile. A group shot of what looks like his police academy graduating class, everyone trying to look professional and mostly failing, their youth and optimism shining through despite their best efforts.
These glimpses into his life before me, before us, fill in pieces of the puzzle I’ve been trying to solve since we started working together. He’s not just the competent detective I know professionally—he’s someone’s son, someone who plays guitar badly and reads philosophy and keeps photos of friends like talismans against the darkness we deal with every day.
“Find anything interesting?”
I turn, words dying on my lips.
He’s standing in the doorway, blonde hair dark and damp from the shower, wearing nothing but a pair of black boxer shorts that sit low on his hips. Water droplets cling to his chest and shoulders, catching the light from his desk lamp, and suddenly the modest office feels about three sizes too small.
I’ve seen him in various states of undress before—changing clothes in locker rooms, rolling up sleeves during long cases—but this is different. This is intimate. This is him in his space, comfortable, and the sight of him like this makes my mouth go dry.
“I—” I clear my throat, heat flooding my cheeks like I’m some teenager with her first crush. “Just looking at your photos.”
His grin is pure trouble, the kind of expression that probably got him into all sorts of mischief as a kid. “Have you never seen a man in his underwear before?”
The teasing tone snaps me out of my momentary stupor, and I rally my defenses. “Actually, I took you for the type who sleeps naked.”
His eyebrows lift in surprise, then amusement, and I can see him recalibrating his approach. “Did you now?”
“Mmm.” I try to match his casual tone, but my voice comes out slightly breathless. The office suddenly feels charged, like the air before a thunderstorm. “Just the vibe you give off. The type who doesn’t see the point in unnecessary barriers.”
He takes a step closer, and then another, until he’s close enough that I can smell his soap, can see the way his pupils have dilated slightly.
“Well,” he says, voice dropping to something low and intimate that makes my stomach flip, “I’d do anything for you. So if sleeping naked is what you prefer…”
My hand lifts almost without conscious thought, fingertips brushing his cheek. His skin is warm, still slightly damp from the shower, and when he leans into the touch, my heart does something complicated in my chest.
“Elias,” I whisper, like I can’t quite believe he is here.
His hands find my waist, gentle but sure, pulling me against him until there’s no space left between us. I can feel his heartbeat, can feel the careful control he’s exercising in the way his touch stays respectful despite the heat in his eyes.
“ When you disappeared, when we couldn’t find any trace of where they’d taken you,” he says, voice rough with emotion. “I’ve never been that scared in my life.”
“I’m here,” I tell him, my free hand coming up to rest against his chest. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Promise me.” His forehead comes down to rest against mine, and I can see every emotion he’s been holding back flickering in his ocean eyes. “Promise me you won’t disappear on me again.”
“I promise.” And I mean it, more than I’ve meant anything in my life. “No more undercover operations without backup. No more thinking I can handle everything alone.”
“Good,” he says, and then his voice drops even lower, becomes something almost vulnerable. “Because I can’t do this job without you. Can’t do any of this without you.”
I tilt my face up to meet his eyes, and what I see there—love and relief and absolute devotion—makes my breath catch. This isn’t just attraction or convenience or two people seeking comfort after trauma. This is something deeper, something that’s been building between us and has finally found its moment to be acknowledged.
“I love you,” he says, the words soft but certain, like he’s been carrying them for so long that saying them out loud is relief. “I love you, and I can’t—”
I stop him with a kiss, gentle but sure, pouring everything I can’t say into the press of my lips against his. He tastes like mint toothpaste and something uniquely him, and when his arms tighten around me, I feel like I’m finally home.
ns216.73.216.251da2
