It clung to the air.
It clung to me.
Inside the bedroom, I heard Petros shouting commands in rapid Greek.
“Pressure! Get pressure on it!”
“Bring gauze — now!”
“Call the doctor!”
Metal clattered.
Drawers slammed open.
The sound of fabric being ripped.
Then —
Ruslan’s breathing.
Hoarse.
Pain-strangled.
A low sound escaped him — something between a growl and a suppressed scream.
It wasn’t theatrical.
It was raw survival.
My throat tightened again.
I pressed my forehead to my knees and let the tears come.
They weren’t rage now.
Not entirely.
The anger that had fueled me for years felt hollow after witnessing what he had done.
He had taken my demand and turned it into punishment.
Into sacrifice.
Into something irreversible.
Why?
Why would anyone do that?
My mind replayed the moment over and over.
He could have resisted.
He could have argued.
He could have told me no.
