I am not staying here.
My fingers trembled from weakness, but the message was clear.
Ethan exhaled heavily before translating. “She says she’s not staying.”
No one looked surprised.
They had watched me fight this battle in the parking lot until my body shut down.
Dr. Markov stepped forward slowly, raising a syringe filled with clear liquid.
“I need to lower your fever,” he said carefully. “You are septic-adjacent. There is significant infection. If we do not treat it immediately, it can spread to your bloodstream.”
His tone never rose.
But the warning was unmistakable.
My inner thighs still burned like live coals. Every subtle shift of my hips sent stabbing pain through muscle and torn skin.
My bent fingers throbbed in rhythm with my pulse. My legs felt detached from my body—weak, unreliable.
I shook my head again.
Stubbornness was the only thing I had left that felt like mine.
I signed slower this time.
I just want to leave this place.
Then I mouthed it too, exaggerating every syllable.
Leave.
Here.
The air inside this mansion felt heavy with memory. With betrayal. With ghosts of a woman who had once believed this house was home.
I would choose the street.
I would choose freezing pavement and open sky.
I would choose hell itself before willingly sleeping under Ruslan Baranov’s roof.
Before anyone could respond—
The double doors at the far end of the room slammed open.
The sound echoed violently off marble and glass.
Every muscle in my body seized.
Ruslan.
He looked like war.
Dark hair disheveled, strands plastered to his damp forehead.
His white dress shirt was torn at the shoulder, sleeves shoved to his elbows.
