Men in dark suits fill the foyer, their faces grim as they watch us pass. I recognize some of them from before, soldiers who were at the church, who've been guarding this estate. They nod respectfully to Dimitri, but their eyes linger on me with something that might be concern or curiosity.
"The doctor's waiting in the east wing," someone says.
Dimitri doesn't respond, just carries me up the grand staircase. My body feels heavy, disconnected, like I'm watching all of thishappen to someone else. The adrenaline that kept me alert in the cabin has drained away, leaving only exhaustion and a bone-deep numbness.
He sets me down gently on a leather examination table in what looks like a private medical suite. The room is sterile and white, filled with equipment that wouldn't look out of place in a hospital. Of course Dimitri has his own medical facility. Men in his world can't exactly show up at emergency rooms with gunshot wounds.
The doctor is an older man with kind eyes and steady hands. He speaks to me in accented English, his voice soothing as he checks my vitals, examines the cuts on my wrists where the zip ties bit into flesh, and shines a light in my eyes to check for concussion.
"You're very lucky," he says, applying antiseptic to my wrists. The sting barely registers. "No serious injuries. Some bruising, minor lacerations. The head wound from the van, where you were tossed inside, will heal on its own."
Lucky. The word feels absurd. I was drugged by my own father, then he arranged for me to be kidnapped and handed over to men who planned to kill me. I watched Dimitri shoot a man in the head from five feet away, the man’s blood splattering all over me.
But I'm alive. So maybe that counts as lucky.
Dimitri stands against the wall, his arms crossed, watching every move the doctor makes. His face is hard, expressionless, but I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenches when the doctor touches the bruise on my cheek where the scarred man hit me.
"She needs rest," the doctor says, packing up his supplies. "And fluids. The chloroform can cause dehydration. I'll leave some pain medication, but she should avoid anything too strong for the next twenty-four hours."
"Thank you, Doctor," Dimitri says, his voice flat.
The doctor nods and leaves, closing the door softly behind him. The silence that follows is thick and heavy.
I look down at my hands, at the white bandages wrapped around my wrists. They look like bracelets, delicate and decorative, hiding the raw wounds beneath.
My father’s betrayal should hurt more, should make me cry or scream or break down. But I just feel empty, hollowed out, like someone scooped out everything inside me and left only a shell.
"Alina." Dimitri's voice pulls me from my thoughts. He's moved closer, standing in front of me now. "Look at me."
I force my eyes up to meet his, those green eyes that have haunted me since the church, that have seen me at my weakest and my strongest. Right now, they're filled with something I can't quite name. Concern, maybe. Or guilt.
"I need to take care of some things," he says. "But I want you to shower, get clean. There are clothes in the bedroom next door. Take your time."
I nod, not trusting my voice.
He reaches out and cups my face, his thumb brushing across my uninjured cheek. The gesture is surprisingly gentle for a man who just killed half a dozen people to get to me. "You're safe now. No one will hurt you again."
It's a promise and a threat all at once.
He leaves, and I'm alone with the antiseptic smell and the fluorescent lights. I slide off the examination table, my legs shaky but functional, and make my way to the bedroom he mentioned.
It's not the room I stayed in before. This one is smaller, more intimate, with a king-sized bed and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the gardens. The attached bathroom is all marble and chrome, with a shower that could fit four people.
I catch sight of myself in the mirror and barely recognize the woman staring back. My red hair is matted with blood and dirt. My face is pale except for the angry bruise blooming across my left cheek. My clothes are torn and stained, ruined beyond repair.
But it's my eyes that shock me most. They look dead. Hollow. Like something vital has been extinguished.
I turn away from my reflection and start the shower, making the water as hot as I can stand. Steam fills the bathroom as I strip off my ruined clothes, leaving them in a heap on the floor. I step under the spray and let the heat wash over me.
The water runs red at first, swirling down the drain in pink rivulets. Pyotr's blood. The man Dimitri killed to save me. I scrub at my skin with a washcloth, trying to remove every trace of the cabin, of the kidnapping, of my father's betrayal.
But no amount of soap can wash away what happened. No amount of hot water can make me feel clean.
I scrub harder, my movements becoming frantic. My skin turns red under the rough cloth, but I can't stop. I need to get it off,need to remove every molecule of that place, those men, that nightmare.
"Alina."
I gasp and spin around. Dimitri stands in the bathroom doorway, still fully clothed, his face etched with concern. I didn't even hear him come in.
