The man’s body jerked once.
Twice.
Then it went slack.
Ruslan released him.
The corpse sank beneath the surface for a moment—pulled down by its own weight—then floated back up, face-up, empty eyes staring into the rain-choked sky as the grave continued to fill around him.
I hugged myself tighter, teeth chattering uncontrollably, my whole body trembling so hard I could barely stay upright.
And beneath the horror—beneath the cold and the fear—something else bloomed.
Dark. Quiet. Satisfying.
Justice.
Not clean. Not lawful.
But real.
For the first time since I was eighteen, since my voice failed me and the world decided I was expendable, someone had paid a price.
Now I could die.
Almost peacefully.
Almost.
Because even as the rain battered down, soaking us to the bone, and the graves around us overflowed with mud and water, another face burned behind my eyes—one I had tried so hard to forget. My aunt’s husband. The man who had haunted my nights, whose hands had twisted my body, whose blows had stolen my hearing and my voice.
He was alive. Untouched. Somewhere warm, dry, sheltered from the storms I had to endure, untouched by the chaos, untouched by the consequences of what he had done. Probably smiling at some new victim, some other soul he believed he had the right to ruin. His hunger for control, for cruelty, still alive in him, as if desire alone gave him ownership over another human life.
The cold clawed deeper.
It wasn’t just cold anymore—it was invasive, predatory.
It crept into my bones, into my lungs, into my blood.
My body shook violently, teeth clashing so hard my jaw ached. Feverish heat burned behind my eyes even as my fingers went numb.
My vision blurred at the edges, the world tilting, darkening.
I swayed.
Ruslan pushed off the grave wall and hauled himself out, muscles straining as he climbed through slick mud and rising water. He moved with brutal grace, like gravity bent around him.
When he stood again before me, rain streaming down his bare arms, I barely recognized the man who had promised to bury me alive.
“I’ll die...” I whispered, the words barely surviving the storm. “But thank you.”
He shook his head once—sharp, decisive.
“No.”
Before I could react, he stripped the soaked white shirt over his head and draped it around my shoulders. The fabric was heavy with rain and heat, smelling of him—clean, metallic, alive. Then he pulled me into his arms.
I stiffened instantly.
