As if on cue, he’s already set a smaller plate aside, plainer, gentler. He thinks about things before I say them. That shouldn’t feel comforting. Somehow, it does.
I sit, almost reluctantly, and take the first spoonful. It’s good. Too good. My body reacts before my mind does, tension easing just a fraction.
Aleksander doesn’t hover. He sits across from me, quiet, watching without watching, letting me eat in peace. When my daughter stirs, he’s up instantly, moving with that same careful ease, bringing her a glass of water, coaxing her back to sleep with a softness that makes my heart ache again.
I hate how much that affects me.
When I look back down at my plate, I realize my hands have stopped shaking. For the first time since the plane, I feel something dangerously close to human again.
While Aleksander’s still in the other room, his phone vibrates on the table. I glance down at the messages that are popping up on the screen.
S:contact says questions are coming, but not yet.
S:Need to know how you want to proceed tonight.
My stomach drops.
Another message appears, slower this time, like whoever’s typing is choosing their words carefully.
S:Woman and child are with you, yes?
I pick up the phone before I even realize I’m moving. It isn’t locked. Or maybe he never expected me to touch it.
One more message comes through.
S:Say the word if you want them relocated before morning.
Relocated.
My hands start to shake. This isn’t a misunderstanding. This isn’t paranoia. This is planning. Quiet, efficient, terrifying planning.
Behind me, I hear footsteps.
“Here,” Aleksander says casually, “they didn’t have the exact—” He stops.
I turn slowly, his phone still in my hand, my heart pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears. His expression changes in an instant. Not anger. Not surprise.
Calculation.
I swallow. “What does this mean?”
The silence stretches. He doesn’t reach for the phone. Doesn’t lie right away. That somehow scares me more.
“Aleksander,” I whisper, my voice shaking now, “what did I just read?”
For the first time since we left the plane, I see it clearly.
Whatever he is, whatever world he lives in, I am standing much closer to the edge of it than I ever realized.
I glance up at him, my voice barely steady. “Who is this S? Who keeps texting you?”
He holds my gaze, calm on the surface, but something flickers in his eyes—guilt, maybe, or a warning. “It’s not important, Bella.”
But I can’t let it go. I can’t just swallow all the warnings in my head, all the threads that suddenly don’t make sense.
S can’t be the guy who came in with us. He knows where I am, and besides, Aleksander called him Nikolai.
Whoever this S is, it’s someone else. Someone I haven’t met. Someone who knows about “the woman and child.” Knows about me and my daughter.
