When Michael said not to get the door, the natural instinct I had was to get the door. I guessed it might have been Jon or god forbid my mother. I thought it might even be Michael playing a trick on me. I was wrong

Peter fucking Lukas. Surely, surely he isn't bringing me to my mother. He can't. He wouldn't. They hate each other. I am so cold, and there isn't enough space. I can't feel my fingers. My feet are asleep. It is so cramped. It's dark. I'm scared. The shock of Peter Lukas stealing me from my home lingers.

As the minutes drag on, the cramped quarters intensify the feeling of helplessness, and the gravity of the situation settles in. Lukas, my ally-turned-captor, can't be the harbinger of my mother's presence. The bitter history between them lingers like a stale taste, and the very idea of collusion feels like a perversion of their animosity.

The cold claws into me, seeping through the cracks of the trunk and sinking into my skin. The space is too small. The darkness presses in against me. Cramped and shivering, I feel a stinging in my eyes. I don't want to cry. Please. Please, I am not afraid. I am not.

My shoulder hurts from bearing so much weight for so long, so I try to worm my way into a new position. I struggle into some twisted position that is more comfortable, but still incredibly inconvenient. I am on my back, my legs contorting to the side, my hands at my back. The rope bites into the skin of my wrists. I hate this. I can feel the tears escaping from me. My breath catches in the back of my throat, and my shoulders rattle. Fuck.

Above the sound of my own blood rushing as I try to catch my breath between sobs, I hear two sets of muffled footsteps. There is a quick and light step to one set. I could almost imagine the person to be agitated.

"Peter, really?" His unmistakable drawl is a slap to the face.

"I was thinking fast, okay."

"She's going to have a panic attack in there." I guess I should be happy he's concerned. Elias is a walking contradiction. I hate him.

"Renee is trying to take her. You'd do best to keep them away for now, Elias." Oh. So this is some poor attempt to keep me from her. Michael had mentioned she asked him for help. Who else did she ask to intervene? Has she gone and made me into some sort of prize?

The mention of my mother's name hangs in the air. The puzzle pieces of my predicament fell into place, yet the full picture remains out of reach, leaving me in the dark, shivering and tear-stained, entangled in a web of unknown horrors. He didn't take me for my mother, so why did he do it? The air is thick with tension, a silent battleground where alliances and motivations remain veiled.

"You did not have to tie her up and put her in the trunk of a car."

"We didn't have a lot of time," Lukas's voice, calm and detached, rings in my ears alongside the rushing blood. The words carry a veneer of justification, yet the underlying urgency hints at a deeper layer.

I hear the sound of knuckles rapping lightly against the car, "Helen, I am going to untie you, do not freak out on me." The trunk swings open, and I am struck with Elias's gaze. He motions for me to adjust, and I struggle to sit up. His fingers pry at the knots until they fall away. He brushes a finger over my reddened wrists, "You could have at least been more gentle."

I go to get up, and he grabs my shoulder and presses me back down. "No. Stay. I will be back." The trunk slams shut, and I am once again alone. I strain to make out their hushed exchange as their footsteps grow farther and farther away. What the fuck.
And whose side was the Spiral on? It hadn't wanted me to get the door? Or maybe they had, and that's why he told me not to. Did he want me to get taken by Peter or whatever was supposedly close behind him.

Time passes slowly, but not as slowly as it could have. The sound of a car pulling up nearby and gravel rolling beneath its tires. A door clicks open, and the trunk opens again. This time it is just Elias, Lukas has surely faded back into the Loneliness somewhere. He offers me a hand, and I cannot read the look on his face, "Come along." I let him lead me away from the car, thoughts rattling around in my brain. He helps me into a familiar passenger seat I have been in a couple times.I clench my jaw, staring ahead. He settles down in the driver's seat and I can feel him burning holes into me. "Are you going to buckle, or do I have to do that for you too?" I continue to stare blankly ahead, but I reach for the buckle and click myself in.

Questions bubble beneath the surface, threatening to spill over, but I hold them back, uncertain of the consequences of pushing too hard. Instead I say nothing, I turn to look out the window, and he moves his attention to driving. I can still feel a twinkle of his attention, but I am unexplainably hurt. I do not know what to say to him. Is he taking me home?

We pass by my street, and I feel a pang of longing for the familiar sight of my apartment building. No, apparently we're not going there. "Helen, you will be safer with me," Elias says.

I glance at him and then turn away again, feeling a mix of curiosity, resentment, and fear. The hum of the engine is the only constant sound, a stark contrast to the chaotic whirlwind inside my mind. I wonder where he's taking me, and what he wants from me. "Are you going to lock me in a car trunk again?" I ask, unable to keep my voice from turning bitter.

He sighs, sounding annoyed. "I did not put you in a trunk to begin with. Lukas did. I was trying to protect you from him."

"But you closed it," I counter, the feeling of breathlessness catches at me every now and then, my heart stammers its complaints.

"No. I won't. Happy?" Tell me why I can follow the sounds his lips make as he speaks. I have to focus on something, and he won't allow me to be distracted by radio noise.

"No." What else do I even say at this point?

"You're being difficult," he says, as if that's a bad thing. I think I'm charmingly asinine actually.

"I am always difficult. It's kind of my thing." He doesn't even smile. Oh come on. That was funny. I'm funny.

"Look, sometimes things require unconventional strategies," he says, as he pauses the car at a stop. His eyes burn into me again, and I feel a shiver run down my spine. "And I still wouldn't trust Peter if I were you, just because he helped you this time doesn't mean he did it out of the goodness of his heart. He doesn't have one." I know that. I'm not stupid. What does that say about you though? I wonder, but I don't say it out loud. I don't know if I actually want to confront that at this point or well, ever.

"I thought maybe you asked him to," I say instead, hoping to get some answers from him. Why did Peter help me? Why did Elias let him? What is their relationship? What is mine?

"He acted on his own," he offers a shrug alongside his response.

"No trunk?" I watch him from the corner of my eyes. I watch as he switches gears.

"No more trunks." He rests his hand against the island. I almost could. I could maybe. I don't know. What if I am wrong about all this?

"Okay. I forgive you." My generosity amuses me, surprises me even. Is it because I actually care? I do not know how to feel about all this. I lay my hand on top of his, but his lies dead beneath mine. He does not even react.

"I do not remember apologizing." He moves his hand back to the wheel for a turn. I think I did something wrong. I thought maybe. I don't know. I am not used to all this. Of course, he wouldn't. I wouldn't either now that I think about it.

"Yeah, your pride is too big for apologies, but mine isn't, so consider yourself forgiven," my ordinary bitterness I play into my jokes tastes so much more sour than usual. What do I want? I pull my hand back, folding it into my lap.

"You're just going to forgive me even though I locked you in a trunk?" I shouldn't. It's not just that. Why can't I articulate anything the way I want to?

"I thought we were past this." I click my tongue against the roof of my mouth.

"Are we?" His fingers tap impatiently against the wheel. My head spins. The air is so thick.

My patience wearing thin, I snap, "Don't be sassy with me, Elias." I quiet for a moment, and he returns the silence to me. "I don't have clothes."

"You can wear something of mine." I loathe you.

"What about work?" As much as I may be frustrated right now, I do like what I do. It is fun.

"I can't have you going to work at the moment," his voice is quieter than it has been. Is this some semblance of performed care, or maybe. No, don't be a fool. You just like to watch me suffer!

"So what," I swallow hard, " you're going to lock me in some room at your place?"

"I wasn't going to lock it. Helen, you aren't my captive." I don't exactly have any of my own things or a toothbrush even, forgive me for feeling trapped. I should feel trapped, but what scares me more than anything is the idea of being alone again. If this is what it takes, I suppose I can live like this.

"That's too bad," I chew on my lip, "I was hoping to develop Stockholm." The lights of a car passing by blind me for a moment, and I tear my gaze in the direction of the passenger window once more.

"I'll make you tea," he says in that softish tone.

That almost got me. Almost. "For how long?"

"I have a lot of things I am managing right now, Helen. Can you please just trust me." Please? Again. He is so insufferable, and I bathe in every moment of it. He knows so much, and I don't. He will only tell me so much, and it drives me crazy.

"That's the second time." I watch his likeness in the rearview mirror. I am always so drawn to the hue of eyes, as cutting as his gaze is.

"Hm?" He knows I am watching. He has to. Look at me. Look at me, you stupid, stupid, monster.

"You have said please twice. You don't say please." The sun is setting outside, but the air doesn't follow it to rest. I am so warm.

His voice lowers once more, "Helen, please," and his eyes flash into mine. They burn more than the sun, but I cannot choose its brightness as a reprieve. I cannot follow where it goes, but can I follow his light? Fucking hell, what are we?

I peek at him out of the corner of my eyes instead of through the mirror, "You'll make it how I like?"

He pries my hand out of my lap and clasps it resting against the middle island. "Of course." Our breath fogs the windows at the edges, and he switches on the defogger with a click. I could believe for a moment that he cares. I would look away again, but my gaze is focused on him and all else I can manage to see is blurs and colors. Shapeless uninteresting things. Why look away when I have you?