Page 77 of Silence and Surrender

The first few weeks after the rescue passed in fragments.

Allegra kept detailed medical notes, tracking my recovery. Temperature readings every four hours. Fluid intake measurements. Notes about which foods I could keep down and which brought back memories of drugged water and stale bread.

I existed in a cloud of half-sleep and medication, surfacing occasionally to find Colton keeping watch. Sometimes he read legal briefs, other times he just watched me breathe. Always there. Always steady.

The nightmares came without warning. Sometimes I was back in the container, metal walls pressing closer. Sometimes I was in the cells, listening to other women scream. Sometimes I was on an auction block, naked and afraid while men bid on my life.

Colton learned my triggers quickly. No sudden movements. No unexpected touches. No darkness. The villa’s generator hummed constantly, keeping every room lit even at night. When the power flickered once during a storm, he had candles lit before I could start panicking.

“You’re safe,” he would murmur when I thrashed awake, not touching until I gave permission. “You’re in Tuscany. At the villa. It’s Tuesday. You’re safe.”

The specifics helped—date, time, location. Anchors in reality when memories threatened to drown me.

But there were other fears I couldn’t voice yet.

The nausea that came in waves, worse in the mornings. The fact that I hadn’t had a period since being taken. The growing terror about what might have happened during those drugged hours I couldn’t remember.

I kept track secretly, counting days between my last cycle and my capture. Between capture and rescue. Between now and then. The numbers danced in my head like shipping manifests, adding up to possibilities I wasn’t ready to face.

Allegra noticed, of course. She was far too observant to miss the signs. But she said nothing, just left crackers by my bed and ginger tea in the mornings. Understanding in her eyes when I couldn’t finish meals.

“When you’re ready to talk,” she said one morning, checking my healing wounds with gentle hands. “I’m here.”

I nodded, not trusting my voice. My injuries were healing, the infected sores from the restraints slowly closing, the bruises fading from purple to yellow.

But some wounds weren’t visible. Some fears couldn’t be charted in medical notes.

Colton brought me art books, beautiful leather-bound editions that Steele sent over from his own personal library in France.

Safe art. Landscapes and still lifes. Nothing that required authentication or provenance checking. Nothing that might trigger memories.

“My father had this edition,” I said once, running my fingers over gilded pages. “Before...”

“Before they killed him?” Colton’s voice was gentle but didn’t shy from truth.

“Yes.” I traced a Monet reproduction, remembering how Father’s hands had looked holding this same volume. “He knew too much. Asked too many questions.”

“Like you.”

“Like me.” My hand drifted to my stomach before I could stop it. Another secret. Another fear. “But he died alone. Thinking he’d failed.”

Colton moved closer, slow in his approach. When I nodded permission, he sat beside me on the bed. “You’re not alone.”

“No.” I leaned into his warmth slightly. Progress. “But I’m afraid.”

“Of what?”

Everything, I wanted to say. Of memories. Of nightmares. Of what they might have done to me in those blank hours. Of what might be growing inside me now.

Instead I just pressed closer, letting him wrap an arm around me. Another victory. Another step towards healing.

“We should train,” I said after a while, needing to change the subject. “I need to be stronger.”

“When you’re ready.” His thumb traced gentle circles on my shoulder. “Stryker is staying here in Italy, and he’s ready whenever you want to start.”

The thought of learning to fight made something unclench in my chest. No more helplessness. No more playing the victim.

But first I needed to know. Needed to be sure about what was happening to my body. Needed to face the terror growing alongside the nausea each morning.

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