SAVING LEONATA

Chapter Seven

The higher they went, the more snow fell. From a sky the colour of bruised steel, thick, fat flakes floated down, blanketing the surrounding area in pure white. All around them, pines towered as silent ancient sentinels guarding long-buried secrets. Occasionally, when the wind whispered through the forest, their branches would drop tiny avalanches as they drooped under the weight of the accumulated snow.

The reason he had picked this spot was because the roads hadn't been ploughed in days or even weeks. Safety was synonymous with isolation—for a while, at least.

Sitting next to him, Lila remained quiet for most of the journey. Not for warmth but for protection, she had her arms folded tightly across her chest—from the external environment, from herself. She had a nervous habit of occasionally rubbing her fingers against the concealed holster at her side, which revealed a lot about her mental state. Her jaw was clenched in that fierce manner that Regan had learned to identify as her battle stance against vulnerability, and her face was pale in the dashboard light. But once Regan had caught her in the rearview mirror— her eyes glistening with tears, she had suppressed. She was still physically burdened by the weight of everything.

Regan reduced the speed of the car to a crawl as the road curved sharply around a rock outcrop. Miles ago, the GPS lost signal, but he didn't need it. He was familiar with the routes leading to safe harbour and these mountains.

After they had been silent for almost an hour, he broke the silence, saying, “Almost there”.

Lila gave a nod but said nothing. Her mind was elsewhere.

The silence was broken when she said, “This was yours?”. Her voice sounded as if it had been dragged over shattered glass, and it was rough due to exhaustion.

He responded, “It’s a safehouse”, while avoiding a fallen tree branch. “Years ago, I destroyed the name off the books.”

She didn’t bother to ask why. Between them, the fact that he didn't trust many people hung heavy.

Through the trees, the cabin emerged—a timber and stone building with a slanted roof partially covered in snow and foggy windows. The place was already warm thanks to the automated systems he had remotely set up, and smoke was curling languidly from the chimney. The structure itself had a surprisingly rustic appearance. It seemed to be just an old hunting cabin from the outside, worn down by many years of severe mountain winters—ideal for concealing what was inside.

Lila paused before stepping out. Her breath appeared in dense white plumes in front of her face as she stepped outside. She wriggled a little as the movement stretched the wound on her back and tightened her coat around her slender frame. Reagan acted like he didn’t notice because he realised that she didn't seem to care, especially about injuries she thought were minor.

She said, “Is it secure?” as the size of the surrounding forest almost drowned out her voice.

Regan gave a nod. “There are motion sensors set up at the perimeter, firm windows and doors, two escape paths”. After a brief pause, he added, “No digital footprints”.

She smiled a ghost of a smile and said, “You don't trust anyone, do you?”.

He shrugged his shoulders and said, “I let you in my car, didn’t I?”— while twitching the corner of his mouth upward.

To get to the cabin door, they trudged through the snow. With a gentle mechanical whir, the lock opened after Regan entered a complicated series on the keypad concealed beneath a weathered panel. The warmth inside was a blessing. Lila's cheeks flushed instantly at the contrast between the heated interior and the icy mountain air. A modest kitchen with polished stone countertops, a fireplace with fresh wood neatly stacked next to it, and a couch that had seen better days but promised comfort were all visible when he flipped the generator switch, and the lights flickered on dim but sufficient.

Uncertain of her right to be here, Lila entered like a ghost. As though anticipating alarms or traps, she moved with caution. Her involuntary security checks, a result of years of training and recent trauma, made her eyes search every possible hiding place. Reagan observed her movements. Her every move was an exclamation of restraint, as though she were terrified that even silence would turn on her.

He pointed to a door in the hallway that was slightly open and said, “There's a med kit in the bathroom, the linen closet has clean towels, and the hot water should function”. “I'll heat something up”, he said after pausing.

With a nod, she vanished down the hallway, her footsteps on the wooden floor almost imperceptible.

Practising efficiency, Regan moved around the kitchen. The supplies he had scheduled for monthly delivery, including canned goods, pasta, freeze-dried meals, and bottled water, were examined. As a pot of canned stew was placed on the gas burner, the tiny room gradually filled with the heady scent of beef and vegetables. He laid out bread that was still surprisingly fresh and filled glasses with bottled water. Even though there wasn't much, it was comfort, warmth, and food—basic things that kept you going when everything else seemed to be crumbling.

He kept an ear out for sounds coming from the restroom while he worked. The shower is on. A cabinet that opens and closes. Typical noises. Human noises.

He had left one of the thermal shirts on the bed, and she was wearing it when she came back. Sleeves dangling past her hands, it engulfed her, but it was dry. At the nape of her neck, her damp curls were secured in a low knot after being towel-dried. Her pale skin was now tinged with blue and purple bruising along her temple, which had grown darker. He didn't say anything but simply gave her a spoon.

Given everything they had experienced over the previous 72 hours—the infiltration, the pursuit, and the last-ditch escape across state lines—the banal domesticity of it all seemed unreal.

It wasn't until her bowl was almost empty that she turned to face him. She broke the silence with a quiet statement, “I haven't slept in a real bed in weeks”. The admission contained something vulnerable—a unique look behind her well-built barriers.

“You will tonight”, he said in a steady, low voice. She retorted, “I probably won't sleep” as she pushed the remaining stew around her bowl with her spoon. “There are too many dreams”.

At that moment, he glanced at her thoroughly. Observed the darkness beneath her eyes, the constriction around her mouth, and the slight shaking of her hands due to exhaustion and the drop in adrenaline.

“You will”, he said in a harsh yet quiet voice. “I'll be there if you wake up yelling”.

She froze. As if his words had opened a door she couldn't quite open, she then gave a single nod and dropped her gaze back to the table.

Once the dishes were cleaned, Regan went to the bathroom and got the first aid kit. Armed with supplies that extended far beyond basic first aid, it was of military quality. He turned to her after setting it on the kitchen counter.

He said, “Let me check your back”, but it was obvious from his tone that this was not a request.

Her entire body went rigid as she tensed up.

“I'm all right.”

“Lila, you're bleeding through the shirt.”

A pause.

Seeking something, her gaze locked with his. Was it Trust? Patience? Understanding? She must have found whatever she was looking for because she slowly turned her back to him and lifted the shirt hem until the bruised ridges of her spine were visible. Against her pale skin, a thin gash slashed across her shoulder blade. It required appropriate cleaning and dressing, but it wasn't deep enough for stitches.

Holding gauze and disinfectant, he knelt behind her. They didn't talk while he was working.

The alcohol hit Lila's wound, causing her to clench her teeth and release a soft hiss. Perhaps comforting, he whispered something incomprehensible while his fingers brushed her skin with excruciating tenderness. It was a surprisingly gentle touch for a man whose hands had dealt with death more times than he cared to recall.

She said, “Are you always this careful?” in a low voice that was nearly drowned out by the fires crackling.

He concentrated on applying the antibiotic ointment in slow, deliberate strokes without looking up.

“Only when it counts.”

There was silence.

He sat back on his heels when he was done. She pulled down the shirt and turned to face him. Her eyes were raw in some way. Something more brittle, not fear. It appeared as though hope was attempting to pierce through the hurt and mistrust.

She muttered, “I don't know how to do this.” The words lingered in the pause between them.

Regan didn't inquire about what she meant. The burden of everything seemed unbearably heavy—survival, trust, letting someone this close after everything she had been through, the constant watchfulness.

He knew.

His voice was soft as he said, “You don't have to know right now. Just take a deep breath.”

She did—shakily, but she did. The edges of her defences began to blur a little, and something softened in her expression.

For a while, neither of them spoke. Instead of being tense as it had been during their journey, the silence between them was now relaxed. It was the silence of two people who had witnessed too much, who bore visible and invisible wounds, and who realised that sometimes words alone were not enough.

Her breathing eventually became slower. Her eyes twitched. She didn’t resist the pull of sleep for once. The mug in her hands tilted, which would have caused tea to spill.

That was how she fell asleep—mug balanced on her stomach, firelight gentle on her face, wrapped in warmth. For the first time in a long time, something other than fear took control of her body. Finally, fatigue replaced the hyperawareness and unwavering attention to detail that had kept her alive over the previous few months.

Quietly, Regan moved the mug out of her hands and set it on the side table. After a moment of observing this woman who had been burned, pursued, and deceived, he saw that she was not a ghost but rather someone attempting to resurrect herself. A person battling against insurmountable odds. He was beginning to care about someone in ways that complicated everything.

After adjusting the blanket around her shoulders, he went back to his window-post position. All that was visible on the security monitors was snow and darkness. At least now, they were safe. There will be new risks and challenges tomorrow, but there will be some rest tonight.

A scream ripped through the cabin at some point during the night.

She was screaming in her sleep.

“Stop—NO—NO—!!!”

He holstered his weapon and grabbed her shoulders firmly. “Get up, Lila. You're safe.”

Her eyes popped open—wild, unfocused. Her hand was automatically reaching for a weapon that wasn't there, and for a moment, she didn't recognise him.

He said, “It's me”, in a steady, low voice. “Just breathe, you’re safe.”

Her eyes gradually came to recognise Regan. His chest heaved with ragged breaths as she clutched his shirt like a lifeline. Pulling her against him, he sat on the edge of the bed. She didn't object.

She buried her head in his shoulder and pressed her shaking hands into his chest. Her heart beat quickly, and he could feel it.

With her voice muffled against his shirt, she choked. “ I saw the fire again." The voice of my father. My brothers...”

He said softly, “I know,” as he moved one hand to hold the back of her head.

“I just stood still, watching everything happen. I couldn’t move. The explosion, screams, and then...” She trembled. “My brother’s face. However, he wasn't who I remembered.”

Regan wrapped her in his embrace—sturdy and constant—a bulwark in her nightmare storm.

“You did move. You made it through. You're retaliating now.”

Finally, she retreated. Not a long way. Only enough to glance at him. Her eyes were dry with a red rim. Even during the worst of night terrors, Lila Lancaster did not cry easily.

She asked, “You always show up like this?” Half a whisper, half an attempt at humour was how she spoke. A valiant attempt to restore some degree of normalcy.

A small smile came to his face. “ Only when it counts."

She looked into his eyes. They were less defensive now, and their tension changed. Something had changed, but it was still risky and uncertain. There were cracks in the walls they had both erected after years of betrayal and loss. She slowly leaned forward.

Regan had no response yet.

“Go to sleep," he said, softly tucking a curl behind her ear.

She did. She relaxed her body against the pillows and evened out her breathing. At least for the time being, the nightmares have relaxed. Reagan didn’t close his eyes when he went back to the chair next to her bed. All he did was watch her. It was hours before dawn. However, he would be present when the time came.