“There’s activity in Chicago,” Elias said.“Trafficking ring trying to reconstitute.Different faces.Same patterns.”
“I’ll get online later,” Nikolai replied.“See what I can disrupt from here.”
“Appreciated,” Elias said.“Riley’s ...curious.But she’s not ready yet.”
“I understand,” Nikolai said without hesitation.
The call ended.He set the phone down and looked back at her.“We’ll head into town shortly.Just for a bit.Pick up what’s waiting for us.”
She nodded, wrapping her hands around her mug.
There was a lot to think about.
About how silence could be a choice instead of a weapon.About the way safety didn’t announce itself loudly, but arrived in small, careful decisions.About the man beside her who spoke gently into violence and didn’t demand her voice in return.
When they stood and headed toward the dock, the sun already climbing higher, Eliza followed without hesitation.
She was still quiet.
But she was no longer waiting.
****
The boat cut cleanlythrough the water, engine low and steady, the late-morning sun already heavy on his shoulders.Kol adjusted their course by instinct, eyes scanning the channel markers while his awareness stayed tuned to the quiet presence beside him.
Silence sat easily between them.
That hadn’t always been true—for him, or for anyone.Silence could be weaponized, used to intimidate or isolate.He’d learned that early.But this silence was different.It wasn’t sharp or demanding.It simply existed, unforced, and Eliza seemed as comfortable with it as he was.She sat facing forward, hair pulled back loosely, the oversized clothes still swallowing her frame, gaze fixed on the horizon.
They were almost at the dock.
As the marina came into view, Kol eased the throttle and brought the boat in smooth and slow.The place was modest and unassuming—weathered planks, sun-bleached signs, a handful of boats tied up like they’d been there forever.Nothing about it advertised importance, which was exactly why he used it.
He secured the boat and hopped onto the dock, tying them off before turning back to help her out.She took his hand without hesitation, her grip light but sure.He noticed the faint tremor she masked well and adjusted, steadying her without comment.
The parcels were waiting where he’d arranged for them to be delivered—stacked neatly in the shade.Clothes.Dry goods.Medical supplies and a surprise for Eliza, which he hadn’t mentioned.He loaded them quickly, efficiently, checking each item off mentally before stowing them securely in the boat.
When he finished, he glanced at her.“There’s a place nearby.Local and pretty rustic, but the food is good if you’re hungry.”
She nodded.
The restaurant was small and open-air, tucked back from the water beneath a loose canopy of palms and faded sailcloth.Weathered wooden tables were scattered across a deck that had clearly been rebuilt more than once, boards smooth from years of salt, sun, and bare feet.Ceiling fans turned lazily overhead, their soft whirring barely cutting through the heat, pushing air scented with citrus, brine, sunscreen, and frying fish.
Somewhere nearby, music played—old, tinny speakers carrying a rhythm that felt more like background texture than performance.Laughter drifted easily from a table of locals, sunburned and relaxed, drinks sweating in their hands.Cutlery clinked against plates.Ice rattled in glasses.Life carried on at an unhurried pace that felt almost foreign.
No one gave them more than a passing glance.They weren’t remarkable here.Just another pair stepping in out of the heat.
Kol chose a table in the shade, positioned with his back to a support beam and her facing outward toward the dock and the water beyond.He waited until she was seated before taking his own chair, angling it slightly so he wasn’t directly across from her—close enough to talk, far enough not to crowd.
When the menu arrived, he didn’t slide it across the table and leave her to navigate it alone.He picked his up and talked her through it quietly, line by line, voice low and steady.He explained what was fresh that day, what was local, what was heavy, and what was light.He told her which dishes were meant to be shared and which were best eaten slowly, fingers messy, expectations low.
“This one’s conch fritters,” he said, tapping the page gently.“Light batter.Salty.Good texture.”
Her lips twitched, the smallest movement, but it felt like a victory.
“And this—grilled snapper,” he continued.“They do it simple.Lime, herbs.Hard to mess up.”
He paused, watching her eyes track the page, reading not just the words but his tone.When she nodded, he ordered for them both, keeping it uncomplicated.
