The gentle rocking of the safehouse boat did little to soothe Roselyn's mind. The waves lapped rhythmically against the hull, and the low hum of the engine vibrated beneath her hands, but her thoughts were far from the sea. She closed her eyes, letting the memories surge forward—memories she had spent years trying to bury.
It had started as the perfect summer.
She had been studying overseas in Canada, excelling in her courses, enjoying the rare freedom from her family's watchful eyes. For once, the world felt open, vast, and hers to explore. Her friends had planned a summer tour through Europe, promising laughter, adventure, and a taste of independence she had only dreamed of. Roselyn had been thrilled, her heart lighter than it had been in years.
But freedom had been a fragile illusion.
The first sign of danger had been almost invisible: a friendly hand, a casual detour down a quiet street during a sightseeing trip. In that moment, everything shifted. The laughter of friends faded into the hum of distant traffic, replaced by the cold, calculated gaze of a man who had been waiting. Rambo. Calm. Precise. Ruthless.
"Roselyn," he had said softly, the words almost seductive in their simplicity, "you're going to help me change the world."
Her protests had meant nothing. Struggles had been useless. Pleas had been dismissed with a casual flick of his wrist. And her friends… her so-called companions… had disappeared into the crowd, leaving her behind without a glance, without a whisper.
Months followed in a haze of isolation. No contact with family. No hope, only the cold precision of captivity, experiments, and fear. She had been invisible to the world, unseen by the people who should have protected her, abandoned in the shadow of her own life. Each day bled into the next: a monotonous rhythm of confinement, manipulation, and terror.
The betrayal had cut deeper than any physical pain. She had learned that survival required vigilance, calculation, and complete control over her own heart. Trust was dangerous. Vulnerability, even more so.
And yet… somehow, she had endured.
The image of Rowan beside her on the boat brought her back to the present. His presence was calm, steady, commanding without a word, as if he had anticipated the chaos around them and made it his duty to shield her from it. Yet even in that safety, her mind refused to rest. She could feel the ghost of Rambo's control lingering at the edges of her thoughts—the fear, the paranoia, the unshakable sense of being hunted.
She had promised herself, in the cold confines of her captivity, that no one would ever see her broken. Not her family, not anyone. That promise had kept her alive. It had made her strong.
And now, months later, she clung to it like a lifeline. The world remained dangerous, and Rambo remained out there, his ambitions unchecked. But Roselyn was no longer the frightened girl he had trapped. She had learned, she had endured, and she had survived.
The boat cut steadily through the waves, leaving the remnants of the fiery ship behind, but the horizon offered no illusions of safety. She knew the threat was never gone—only postponed. And yet, for the first time, she felt something tentative: control. She could think, plan, and act. For the first time in months, she was not entirely at the mercy of others.
Her gaze drifted toward Rowan again. He had been silent most of the journey, but his presence was unyielding, a steady anchor in the storm of her thoughts. She realized then that she could trust him, cautiously, selectively, as she might a sharp blade: useful, protective, but capable of cutting if mishandled. And for now, she needed that trust.
The team moved quietly around them, shadows in the dim light, each carrying out their roles with a precision that spoke of countless missions and unseen dangers. Mika monitored communications; Eli scanned the horizon; Jax and Vera checked gear; Tara kept a discreet eye on Roselyn, ready to intervene if the memories became too much. Every movement was deliberate, efficient—a silent promise that they would protect her as she had to protect herself.
Roselyn hugged her knees, feeling the tremors of exhaustion and fear finally easing. She let herself remember more than just the terror. She remembered her own strength: the courage that had carried her through months of captivity, the cunning that had allowed her to endure experiments she never should have survived, the resilience that had refused to let Rambo break her completely.
And she remembered the moments when she had fought back. Even small victories, stolen glimpses of defiance, had reminded her that she was still alive, still capable, still herself.
Rowan's voice cut softly through the hum of the engine. "Roselyn," he said. She startled slightly, then nodded, listening. "You're quiet."
"Just… thinking," she admitted, her voice low.
He nodded, understanding in the silence between words. "It's okay. You need time. Take it. We'll get you somewhere safe, and then you'll decide the next steps. Together."
The word "together" lingered in the air, strange but not unpleasant. Roselyn pressed her lips together, resisting the pull of vulnerability. She wasn't ready to rely on anyone—not fully. But she could allow herself to believe, just a little, that she wasn't entirely alone.
The waves stretched endlessly before them, dark and relentless, mirroring the memories she carried, but also reflecting the faint glimmer of her resolve. I will survive. I will reclaim my life. On my own terms. No one will control me again.
The night wore on, and the boat carried them steadily toward safety, cutting through the shadows. Rambo's presence lingered in her mind, a distant threat, a reminder that she had to remain vigilant. Yet, within that vigilance, she allowed herself something rare: hope.
Hope that she could endure.
Hope that she could reclaim what was hers.
Hope that, for the first time in months, she might no longer be completely alone.