His hands reached for me—but instead of hesitation, there was urgency.
He pulled me into his arms.
Hard. Desperate.
Crushing.
One arm wrapped around my waist.
The other slid behind my head, cradling me as if I were something fragile that might shatter if he held too loosely.
I froze.
I was covered in blood.
Sweat.
Urine.
The remnants of violence.
I smelled like death.
I didn’t want him to touch me like this.
Not while I was filthy.
Not while I was broken.
But he didn’t let go.
He tightened his grip instead.
“Elena,” he whispered again, his voice cracking under the weight of everything unsaid. “I’m here. I’ve got you now.”
My arms felt numb—but slowly, instinct took over.
I couldn’t lift them fully.
I couldn’t hug him back properly.
So I grabbed his shirt with blood-crusted fingers and held on.
I pressed my face against his chest.
His heartbeat thundered beneath my ear.
Strong. Alive. Real.
The sound grounded me more than anything else had in days.
He was shaking.
I felt it.
His breath was uneven.
His hands tightened around me like he was afraid that if he relaxed for even a second, I would disappear again.
