Almost normal.
Then reality crashed back in.
Ruslan knelt in front of me.
Not standing over me.
Not commanding. Kneeling.
His posture shifted the power dynamic without words — lowering himself to meet me, to serve me, to care for me.
His hands moved toward the torn hem of my sundress.
They were steady.
Reverent.
He lifted the fabric slowly, carefully, sliding it over my head.
He made sure not to drag it across dried blood that had stiffened along my ribs.
The ruined dress fell to the floor in silence.
Next — my bra.
What remained of it.
His fingers unclasped it gently.
He slid the straps off my shoulders.
No discomfort.
He didn’t flinch at the bruises exposed beneath.
My underwear followed.
He removed it with the same calm precision — treating my body like something sacred rather than something damaged.
Every movement was deliberate.
He never rushed.
He never recoiled from the smell.
From the filth.
From the evidence of what had been done to me.
Then he gathered my hair.
It had once been glossy waves that fell down my back freely.
Now it was tangled.
Stiff with sweat and dried dirt.
He lifted it carefully from my neck and began loosening the knots at my nape with his fingers.
