Chapter 94 Part 94

Chapter 94 Part 94
Merit

Sunlight filtered through the open curtains, pale and warm, and a slight breeze made the fabric move in slow, lazy waves. Curtains? The thought surfaced sluggishly, disconnected. She blinked, lashes sticking together, and shifted on the bed. The mattress dipped softly beneath her weight, unfamiliar but comfortable. The room was painted a light yellow, not the sterile white she half-expected, and the sheet draped over her was soft cotton, worn thin in a way that suggested use rather than neglect. The pillows beneath her head were plump and forgiving, cradling her neck instead of forcing it into stiffness. Her chest tightened as awareness crept in.
“Don’t try to sit up too fast,” a voice said.
Her head snapped to the side on instinct, panic flaring white-hot. She scrambled to her knees, heart racing, and the room spun violently. Her hand flew to her head as dizziness overtook her, nausea rolling through her stomach in a sickening wave. Gentle hands caught her shoulders, steady but not restraining, grounding her before she could collapse. Only then did she realize she was gasping for breath, short, shallow pulls of air scraping painfully through her lungs.
“Easy, Merit,” he said. “Take deep breaths.”
She blinked again, forcing her eyes to focus. The spinning slowed, though it didn’t stop completely. She found his face through the haze. He looked familiar—unsettlingly so—though she couldn’t place him at first. His black hair was cut short, practical, no wasted movement. His blue eyes were intense but not sharp, watching her closely, assessing rather than judging. He wasn’t handsome in a polished way, not like the men who smiled too easily. He had rugged good looks, the kind carved by weather and time rather than mirrors. His arms were thick with muscle, cords and lines that spoke of labor, not vanity.
“Who are you?” Her voice came out hoarse, fragile.
“You met me as Paul,” he said quietly. “I drove you to Charlton.”
The memory slammed into her without warning. Her breath hitched violently as she scrambled out of his arms, stumbling back, panic clawing up her throat again.
“You… you—”
“I went back for you, Merit,” he said quickly. “You’re safe here. I promise. Nobody’s going to hurt you.”
His voice was gentle, steady, but her heart hammered so hard she could feel it in her ears. The last time she had trusted someone, she’d ended up underground, breathing dirt and despair. Her hand went instinctively to her stomach, fingers curling into the fabric of the oversized shirt she wore. She looked down, dread pooling deep in her gut.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “You had a miscarriage.”
The words landed with a hollow thud, as though they’d been waiting for her. Tears welled up immediately, burning her eyes. Her hand clenched the shirt tighter as memories flooded back—the pain, the blood, the emptiness afterward. She remembered losing her baby. Remembered the hunger that gnawed constantly, the way she spoke to herself just to hear a voice. Remembered lying still and waiting for death because it felt easier than hoping.
“Where am I?” she whispered.
“In Williamsburg,” he replied. “This is where I live.”
She searched his face again, more carefully this time. If he’d wanted to hurt her, he could have. He’d gone back for her. He’d carried her out. He’d saved her. The realization unsettled her just as much as it comforted her. Her mind was racing, tangled with Weston’s voice, his threats, his cruelty. Her head snapped up again, eyes locking onto his.
“Did you kill him?”
“No.” He shook his head slowly and leaned back into the chair, deliberately creating space between them. “But I was ready to.”
Her lower lip trembled. Her gaze darted around the room, cataloguing exits, shadows, threats. “He wanted me dead,” she said. “He’ll find me.”
“No, Merit,” he said firmly. “He’s dead. Someone killed him. I don’t know who. But I promise you, he’s dead. And you’re alive. You’re safe.”
The word safe felt foreign, fragile. “The last time I trusted someone…” Her voice cracked. “You know what happened to me.”
“I’m sorry for my part in that,” he said quietly. “You’ll never know how sorry I am.” He hesitated before adding, “Your phone is dead. But if you want to call someone, anyone, to let them know you’re okay, you can use mine.”
“There’s nobody to call,” she whispered. The truth tasted bitter. “I don’t have anyone. I don’t think I’m even me anymore.”
“You have me,” he said, and reached for her hand. His grip was firm but not possessive, grounding rather than claiming.
“I don’t even know you,” she said, fear sharpening her words. “For all I know, you’re just letting me think I’m okay.”
“My name is Riker Walberg,” he said evenly. “You’re free to walk out of this house any moment you choose. Nobody will stop you. But if you leave now, I’ll disappear. And I don’t want to. I want to help you.”
She frowned, studying him, searching for deception. “Why?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I just feel like I have to.”
She was still weak, her body slow to obey her, but Riker looked after her. He left the door open whenever he stepped out of the room. He carried her downstairs when her legs trembled too much to hold her. The living room was warm and lived-in, sunlight pooling across the floor, and the deck in the backyard smelled of pine and fresh air. They talked as the days sped by—cautiously at first, then more freely—and she slowly regained her strength.
He bought her a new phone, but she never turned it on. The world beyond his house felt distant, threatening. She felt insane for trusting him, yet she did. And somewhere along the way, she realized she liked him.
When she was finally back to her old self—or perhaps a new version of herself—she packed her suitcases and waited for Riker to return from the store. Two months had passed. Two months of laughter, quiet mornings, walks, movies. He had never hurt her. Never raised his voice. Never threatened her. She felt different now—steadier, stronger.
The moment she looked into his eyes, she knew he understood. The light in his gaze dimmed slightly as he set the bags down and closed the door behind him.
“You want to leave,” he said softly.
“You’ve been very kind to me, Riker,” she said. “But it feels like I’m overstaying my welcome.”
“You could stay,” he said, stepping closer. “You could stay with me.”
Her heart tightened. “I can’t be a burden forever.”
“You’re not,” he said quickly. “You never were. It’s nice coming home knowing you’re here.” His voice faltered. “You’ve made me want to be better. You made me feel again.”
“I don’t want to be Merit, the victim, anymore,” she said, closing the distance between them.
He took her hand, fingers interlacing. “Then we’ll give you a new name. You can be whoever you want. We can start over.”
“You’ve already done so much for me.”
“I don’t want you to go,” he said. “We can be different people together.”
The honesty in his voice unraveled something inside her. She leaned forward and cupped his face. His eyes closed at her touch before his mouth met hers, careful at first, reverent. Their bodies pressed together, his arms wrapping around her as if anchoring her. His back met the wall, and when they finally pulled apart, Merit smiled softly.
“Let’s stay here,” she said, and kissed him again.