Chapter 68 It's better to be cautious and wrong than naive and dead

Chapter 68 It's better to be cautious and wrong than naive and dead
Chelsea

✦

The following week crawls by in a state of high-alert limbo. Every creak of the floorboards in the lodge, every distant shout from the training yard, sends a jolt of adrenaline through me. But the heightened security has become a strange kind of comfort. The new cameras follow our every move, and the guards at the gate are a constant, imposing presence. We are sealed in, but we are also safe.

The waiting is the hardest part. Waiting for word from Sam's tracker. Waiting for the other shoe to drop.

It comes on a rainy Thursday afternoon. Sam summons Liv and me to his office again, but this time, the atmosphere is different. There's no frantic energy, just a quiet gravity.

He sits behind his desk, a single sheet of paper in front of him. "We have an update," he says, getting straight to the point. "Our asset made contact. They've been observing Kyler and Alex for the last few days."

My heart hammers against my ribs. Liv reaches over and grabs my hand, her grip tight.

"It's exactly as you'd expect," Sam continues, his eyes scanning the report. "Kyler and Alex meet every morning, usually for coffee. Alex rides with him in the passenger seat of his cruiser. They discuss the case, go over leads, or the lack thereof. At the end of the day, if there's nothing, Kyler drops Alex back off at his apartment."

A wave of relief so potent it makes me dizzy washes over me. Alex is safe. He's with Kyler, but he's not a prisoner. He's working. He's looking for me.

"There's an official missing person alert out on you both," Sam adds, confirming what I already suspected. "The department issued it standard procedure when you first disappeared. So far, that's all it is. A standard, cold case."

He looks up from the paper, his gaze settling on Liv. "The tracker reports nothing odd. Kyler is by all appearances a dedicated detective working a tough case. He's following protocol, meeting with his partner, chasing down dead-end tips. There's no secret meetings, no unexplained cash, no contact with known criminals. Nothing."

I look at Liv. The tension that has been her constant companion for the last week seems to drain out of her all at once. Her shoulders slump, and she lets out a shuddering breath. A single tear escapes and traces a path down her cheek, but it's not a tear of sadness. It's pure, unadulterated relief.

"Maybe he's not one of them," she whispers, the words barely audible. "Maybe I was just... scared. Seeing monsters everywhere."

"Trauma does that," Sam says gently. "It makes you question everything. You weren't wrong to be suspicious, Livia. It's better to be cautious and wrong than naive and dead."

I'm relieved for her, for us, but a new ache settles in my chest. Alex is out there, thinking I'm in danger, wasting his life chasing ghosts. If only I could tell him. I could send a message, an anonymous tip. I could tell him I'm safe, that Liv is safe, that we're being looked after. But the words catch in my throat. How could I risk it? How could I risk him knowing where I am, and that information somehow falling into the wrong hands? I can't risk my safety, or Liv's. I can't risk this place. The thought of the traffickers finding the compound is a nightmare I can't entertain.

So I'll let him search. I'll let him worry. Because the alternative, the possibility of him leading them right to our doorstep, is a price I'm not willing to pay, no matter how much it hurts. For now, knowing he's safe is enough. It has to be.

We thank Sam, the words feeling inadequate for the immense relief he's just given us. As we step out of his office and into the hallway, I almost walk right into him.

K is standing there, a silent, imposing figure leaning against the wall. He's in his usual gear—black combat boots, tactical cargo pants, and a tight, short-sleeved compression shirt that does little to hide the sculpted muscles of his arms and chest. Over it, he's wearing a bulletproof vest, strapped tight. His mask is in place, making him an unreadable shadow. His arms are crossed over his chest, a clear signal of impatience.

I stop short, and Liv bumps into me from behind. I look up at him, my heart doing a stupid little flutter that I immediately try to stamp out. "What do you want?" I ask, my voice coming out more defensively than I intended.

His head tilts slightly, the dark eyes of his mask fixed on me. "You."

A hot blush creeps up my neck, and I'm grateful for the dim hallway lighting. I try to ignore the way my stomach flips at the single, possessive word. Liv's gaze darts between us, a knowing, almost amused look in her eyes before she wisely decides to make herself scarce. "I'm, uh, gonna go... check on the vegetables," she mumbles, backing away and disappearing around the corner.

Now it's just us. The air feels thick, charged.

"Follow me," K says, his voice a low command. He pushes off the wall and turns toward the exit that leads to the training yard.

"No," I say, the word popping out before I can stop it. I'm tired of being ordered around, of being dragged into his intensity.

He stops, his back still to me. He doesn't turn, but I can feel the shift in the air, the dangerous stillness that precedes a storm. "I won't ask again."

I straighten my shoulders, a surge of defiance rising in me. "And I won't say no again."

It's the wrong thing to say. In a blur of motion, he spins around, closes the distance between us, and in one fluid, impossibly strong movement, heaves me over his shoulder. I let out a shocked yelp as the world flips upside down. I'm dangling against his back, the hard muscles of his shoulders and shoulder blades pressing into my stomach. I pound my fists against his back, but it's like hitting a brick wall. "Put me down, you brute!" I gasp.

He ignores me completely, his stride long and purposeful as he carries me out into the bright afternoon light of the training yard. He walks to the center of the packed dirt circle before unceremoniously setting me down on my feet.

I stumble back a step, smoothing down my shirt and huffing with indignation. "What is wrong with you?"

"We need to do more training," he says, his voice flat, ignoring my question completely. "Your little test with the knife and bow was one thing. That was about control under pressure. Now, we need to prepare for a real fight."

He gestures around the yard. "Hand-to-hand combat. Defense. And this time, we're adding guns and knives to the mix. You need to be able to kill someone up close, Chelsea. Not just from a distance." He looks at me, his masked face giving nothing away, but his voice is dead serious. "Because if they get past the fence, if they get to you, that's what it's going to take to survive."

My initial surge of indignation fizzles out, replaced by a cold, sobering reality that washes over me like the evening tide. He's right. The thought of an intruder getting past the new security, past the armed guards, and cornering me in a dimly lit hallway is a terror that makes my blood run cold. A knife thrown from a distance won't help me then. A bow is useless in close quarters. I need more. I need to be the last line of my own defense, a final, brutal barrier between me and the hell I escaped.

"Okay," I say, my voice quiet but firm, cutting through the tension. "Let's train."

The word seems to shift the very atmosphere between us. The charged, confrontational energy melts away, replaced by a focused, professional intensity that is somehow even more potent. He doesn't smile or offer a word of hollow encouragement. He simply nods, a sharp, curt gesture of acknowledgment, and the lesson begins.

The rest of the day dissolves into a blur of sweat, strain, and a surprising, growing sense of power that unfurls deep within my chest. We start with hand-to-hand combat, and I quickly discover that K is an unforgiving, meticulous teacher. He demonstrates a move—a simple joint lock designed to break a grip, a way to use an attacker's momentum against them, a precise, disabling strike to the throat—with a fluid, brutal efficiency that is terrifying to witness. There is no wasted motion, no flourish. It is pure, distilled function.

Then he makes me perform it on him, over and over, until my muscles scream in protest and the motion is burned into my very DNA. He is an unyielding partner. At first, I'm hesitant, my movements clumsy and weak. "Stop holding back," he commands, his voice a low growl that vibrates through me. "An attacker won't care if you're tired. They won't care if you're scared. They will only see weakness. Do not show them weakness."

"Again," he'd command, after I'd fumbled a disarm for the tenth time, the practice knife clattering uselessly to the dirt.

He'd stand there, a solid wall of muscle and resistance, forcing me to use my body weight, my leverage, anything but the brute strength I didn't possess. I had to learn to be smart, to be cunning. When I finally got it right, twisting his arm just so and sending the knife flying, he didn't praise me. He just reset his stance, his masked face impassive. "Faster this time," he'd say. "And lower your center of gravity. You're fighting like you're on ice."

But beneath the harsh, unrelenting professionalism, there was something else. A current that ran hot between us, a dangerous underlying chemistry that hummed in the space between our bodies. When he'd correct my stance, his hands would linger on my hips a fraction of a second too long, his gloved fingers pressing firmly into the curve of my waist, sending a jolt of awareness straight through me that had nothing to do with fear. It was a proprietary touch, a silent claim that was both infuriating and deeply thrilling.

When he'd demonstrate a takedown, our bodies would collide in a controlled, powerful impact. His chest was a hard, unyielding wall against mine, the scent of clean sweat and something uniquely him—leather and cold air—filling my senses, making my head spin. He'd hold me there for a moment, my body pinned to his, my heart hammering against my ribs, before he'd release me. It was intimate in a way that was far more potent than any simple touch. It was the language of survival, and he was teaching me to speak it fluently, our bodies the only vocabulary we needed.

We moved on to knife training as the sun climbed higher in the sky. The feel of the weighted blade in my hand was different now. It wasn't just a projectile to be thrown from a distance; it was an extension of my will, a tooth of the wolf I was learning to become. He taught me how to hold it in a reverse grip for close-quarters fighting, how to move with it, how to turn an opponent's momentum against them, how to slash instead of stab, to create openings and disable rather than just kill.

We practiced with dull-edged training knives, the rhythmic thwack of rubber against the protective pads he wore a steady, hypnotic beat. I learned to watch his eyes, not his hands, to anticipate his next move from the subtle shift of his weight. I learned to be smart, not just strong, to use my smaller size to my advantage, to slip under his guard, to be fast and elusive. He was relentless, pushing me until my lungs burned and my vision swam with exhaustion. But I didn't quit. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

By late afternoon, as the sun began to dip toward the tree line, I was a symphony of aches I didn't know existed. My muscles trembled with fatigue, and my skin was slick with sweat. But I was also... exhilarated. A deep, profound relief was settling in my bones. With every new technique I mastered, with every successful block and counter, I was carving out a piece of myself back from the fear. The helplessness that had clung to me like a shroud since I was taken was starting to feel less like a permanent state and more like a bad memory I was actively learning to overcome.

We finished with guns. The weight of the cold, compact pistol in my hand was terrifying at first. It felt so final, so inherently violent. He showed me how to strip it, clean it, and reassemble it with blindfolding speed, my fingers fumbling until he'd place his over mine, guiding them. "Feel the parts. Know them. This is your life now," he'd murmured.

Then, at the range, he stood behind me, his chest almost flush against my back, his arms bracketing mine as he guided my hands into the correct position on the grip. His body heat seeped into me, a stark contrast to the cool metal of the weapon. I could feel the steady, reassuring rhythm of his heart beating against my shoulder blades.

"Breathe out as you squeeze," his voice was a low murmur right next to my ear, the vibration of it traveling down my spine like an electric shock. "Don't anticipate the recoil. Become it. Let it move through you."

I fired. The kick was sharper than I expected, the sound deafening, but the bullet hit the center of the target. And then again. And again. A tight, satisfied smile spread across my face. I was getting good. I was getting smart.

As the last rays of sunlight painted the sky in hues of orange and purple, he finally called a halt. He gathered the weapons with practiced, economical movements, his silence a familiar presence. He didn't say I'd done well. He didn't offer a single word of praise. But as he turned to walk away, he paused. He looked back at me, his masked face unreadable in the fading light.

"Same time tomorrow," he said. It wasn't a question.

I just nodded, my breath coming in steady, even pants. As he disappeared into the growing darkness, I was left standing alone in the yard, my body thrumming with exhaustion and a raw, powerful energy. I felt more alive, more in control, than I had in weeks. And I knew, with a certainty that both thrilled and terrified me, that I couldn't wait for tomorrow.