And now it wasn’t just personal —
It was institutional.
I swallowed hard.
Honestly, if Ruslan hadn’t spoken up outside — if he hadn’t claimed he didn’t do it to her — I would’ve pulled the trigger without hesitation.
I would’ve shot him in the head.
No second thoughts.
No negotiation. No doubt.
But now?
Now uncertainty twisted inside me.
Not trust. Never trust. But doubt.
He had denied responsibility for her condition.
He had admitted hatred — admitted punishment — but not direct torture.
And that small distinction complicated everything.
I sat in his living room.
Gun still warm against my spine.
Waiting for the man I wanted dead to recover enough strength to take me to my sister.
The irony made bile rise in my throat.
I hated every second that I needed him alive.
The mansion remained unnervingly quiet.
Too quiet.
Only the faint hum of the pool filtration system vibrated through the walls.
I pressed my palms against my eyes, trying to force the tears back.
But they slipped through anyway.
Hot.
Uncontrolled.
I leaned forward, elbows resting on my knees, head falling into my hands.
“Come on, Elena,” I whispered under my breath.
Her name echoed in my skull like a desperate prayer.
“Stay alive.”
My fingers curled tightly against my scalp. “Just stay alive.”
