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She doesn’t answer for a long moment, and I don’t add anything else. I’m not good at putting my thoughts into words. I don’t know how to explain to her a truth I’ve seen proven over and over again in my life—that not everyone would have done what she did.
Some people would’ve given up. Some people would’ve curled into a ball and let the world kick the shit out of them without ever fighting back.
And maybe those people, if they survived till the end, would feel pure. Maybe they wouldn’t feel conflicted like she does now for the things she’s done.
Survival is messy. It isn’t pretty.
There’s no pride in it.
No dignity.
It’s all shades of gray and dark splotches of red. It’s driven by the single most primal instinct we have. To exist. To stay alive.
And she did. She’s here.
She survived to fight another day, to keep clawing her way to a place where the world makes sense again, where she’s in control once more.
And even though she may think she lost too much of herself in the process, that she’ll never find who she was again, I can still see it in her—the thing that’s so hard to hold on to when you’re fighting for your life.
Grace.
I should probably tell her all of that. But I’m shit with words, and I know if I tried to say it out loud, it wouldn’t come out right.
So I just hold her under the water, arms wrapped tightly around her and fingers tangling in the ends of her hair as her heartbeat slowly calms against mine.
24
Grace
I stare at the ceiling, unable to sleep.
It scares me how similar this situation is to less than forty-eight hours ago, yet my feelings are completely different. I don’t know where I belong anymore. I feel like my heart should be tugging me in one direction or the other, but I’m stuck on a razor’s edge.
Conflicted.
It’s clear things are different now. When the men rescued me, something changed between myself and all of them—first with Hale’s apology and then later with Ciro in the bathroom. I don’t know what on earth possessed him to step into the shower at that moment, but I didn’t even realize how much I needed his comfort until I allowed myself to accept it.
I know he doesn’t trust easily, doesn’t like physical contact, and it means something that he gave that part of himself to me.
It means a lot.
It has to be near dawn by now. I should be exhausted, but sleep won’t come.
The house is completely silent, leaving me alone with my thoughts. No voices or sounds of movement penetrate the silence, and I’m not sure what to make of it. I’m not tied up or restrained. No one is sitting by my bed or outside of my room, watching me, waiting for me to try to run again.
Out of habit, I glance toward the bedroom door, daring myself to make an escape. Willing myself to. Forcing myself to sit up, I wait until my head stops spinning to move.
Do I even want to leave?
The second my feet hit the floor, I stop. Over and over again, I ask myself that same question, wanting a different answer. Wishing the right answer would come easier.
I know if I ran right now, they would find me. Bring me back. I’d be foolish to think I could get farther than I did last time, especially now that I’m on my own.
But if I don’t truly want to leave… what does that mean? Am I even a captive?
“Fuck this,” I whisper into the darkness, getting out of the bed. “Fuck all of this.”
I hate that this is so hard.
