"Did you just insult my husband?"
Somewhere in my mind, whispers tell me it's enough. That I've vented my rage. That Vasili and the other soldiers can take over the torture. But then a voice from deep in my chest whispers that this man deserves to bleed until the last drop. Because he hurthim. Because, more than that, he dares to insult him in front of me.
I lunge at him, my palm snapping his head violently to the side.
"I dare you to call him that one more time."
His eyes widen when he sees me so unhinged, but I don't care, because the next second I slam the blade into his groin, letting the sound of agony and fear wash over me.
With the reddened blade still in hand, I ask one last time.
"WHO SENT YOU?" My scream makes him instinctively close his eyes.
"Warsaw." It's the only word he manages, and I nod.
I take a step back. I hear him exhale with relief. I walk to Vasili, hand him the blade, and head for the exit.
When I reach the bottom of the stairs, I turn to Damien's right-hand man.
"I want that blade burning hot, and make sure there isn't a patch of skin on his body that hasn't been pierced by it. THAT'S AN ORDER!"
Something like respect crosses Vasili's face, and all the soldiers nod curtly.
The bound man starts cursing at me, but I'm already at the top of the stairs.
When I emerge from the basement, a veil lifts from my eyes. I've never felt such rage, such desire to hurt someone, and as I wait for the guilt to come over me, I replay every second in that basement. And I wait. One minute. Two. But nothing but pure relief washes over me.
The two soldiers guarding our bedroom door step aside when I reach them.
Inside, Tirana holds a cold compress to my husband's forehead.
"I'll take over from here, Tirana."
She studies me from head to toe, and I know exactly how I look after this hellish day.
I give her a subtle nod to leave, and though I see she wants to protest, she retreats in silence.
I let my dress fall in a corner. I use Damien's bathroom for a quick shower, and though I have my own pajamas, I choose one of his plain white T-shirts. It smells like musk, like him, and I desperately need to feel him close.
After scrubbing every last trace of blood from my skin, I slip into bed beside him and turn the compress on his forehead.
I hear him mumbling something and let my fingers gently caress his cheek.
His eyes open slowly, and though they're still cloudy, I find myself smiling at the sight of them.
"Hey," I whisper.
"Am I dead?"
"How can you say that?" My voice cracks treacherously.
Why am I so affected? He'll be fine, the doctor promised he'll be fine.
"Because I'm convinced you're an angel, baby."
I roll my eyes because somehow, even after everything, he’s still joking.
"Your eyes are sad," he says hoarsely, and I hurry to give him water.
