Page 116 of Silenced

Why I didn’t get out before the going got really rough, never mind tough.

I wish I had an answer but I don’t.

“It isn’t my fault,” I whisper to the flowers who can’t talk back to me. “I didn’t deserve to be treated that way.”

My thoughts mar the deliciously warm winter’s day, so I force myself to shift focus.

Harvey is my past.

Nikolai will see to that.

I have faith in him that he’ll follow through with his promise, which is more faith than I’ve had in anyone other than Savannah O’Donnelly since the early days of my miserable marriage.

When the undeniable scent of Medovik cake drifts from the kitchen as I zoom in on a hummingbird that’s sniffing at some petunias, I’m not shocked when my two shadows, older guys in their fifties, wander inside for some of the sweet treat.

My mom used to make the cake for my dad when it was his birthday. I always hated it—sweetened sour cream isn’t my thing. But it was a staple for a lot of people during the Soviet era and nostalgia made it popular with their children.

With the goons gone, it’s instinctive for me to glance at the garden to see if there’s a way out or a means of escape, but I know there isn’t.

Not only are we in the middle of the freakin’ Everglades, and for a captor, Nikolai was bemusingly thorough in his guided tour,but…

I’m not unhappy here.

In a book, this would be where the heroine would dash into the great beyond, uncaring that the danger from the alligators and cottonmouths was more urgent than an orgasm-obsessed captor.

But I’m no romance book heroine.

I’m just a fat chick from Jersey who has a Russian mobster sniffing at her heels like a psychopathic Prince Charming with an orgasm fetish and a breeding kink.

“Maybe I’m just weak?” I mutter, cringing as I spin around in a cluster of early larkspurs. “I didn’t leave Harvey when I should’ve and I’m not—” I pause. “Nikolai isn’t…”

Because there is no way to finish that sentence without seeming certifiable, I duck down and photograph the delicate fronds of the larkspurs as a gust of wind tugs at them and brings them to life.

The scent is far nicer than the Medovik cake, that’s for sure.

Allowing the peace of the backyard to fill me, I stare into the distance, spying the acres of orange trees that only amplify how beautiful Nikolai’s home is.

“Is it wrong to be rather happy here?” I ask the wind, but, like the flowers, it doesn’t answer me either.

I’m not going to bed with an empty stomach. I don’t have to worry about where I’m sleeping. I’m not wondering where Harvey is or how far away or close he might be to gaining ground on my location.

I’m safe.

That’s a luxury I haven’t been afforded in too long and it’s as addictive as Nikolai’s heavy-lidded glances and lingering touches.

With a sigh, I stroke one of the delicate petals of a crocus, its pollen lingering on my fingertips, decorating them with gold.

I love flowers and adore spending time in gardens in general.

The house I grew up in had a massive backyard and my mom always used to tend to it.

Come rain or shine, spring or summer or fall, she never stopped puttering in ours.

I wonder if she still enjoys the chore?

Does she bake on Thursdays though Papa and I aren’t around to eat her treats?

Would she be happy to see me if I managed to show up at her door one day?

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