The line goes dead.
The phone slips from my fingers and clatters against the tile, but the sound is muffled and distant. My knees buckle. I grab for the counter, miss, and hit the floor hard.
Cold tile slaps against my palms, and cabinets dig into my back. I can’t breathe.
The kitchen walls press in from every side. My chest constricts, and I try to inhale, but nothing gets through.
He’s coming. He’s going to take her. I can’t stop him.
I’m drowning on dry land, suffocating in my apartment while my daughter plays at a friend’s house, making friendship bracelets and eating cookies and laughing at things five-year-olds laugh at. Unaware that her father is coming to tear her away from me.
Hands clamp around my shoulders, and I flinch so hard that my head cracks against the cabinet behind me. But the hands don’tlet go. They’re large and calloused and impossibly steady against my shaking body.
Pyotr’s voice cuts through the static. “Look at me, Daria.”
I can’t see anything except the darkness closing in.
He takes my face in his hands and forces my chin up. Then, winter-gray eyes fill my vision, blocking out everything else.
His gaze flicks to the door, the window, the hallway—one fast sweep. Then he’s back on me—like the decision’s already made. This room is his territory.
“Breathe with me.” His voice is firm. Commanding. The voice of someone who expects to be obeyed. “In through your nose. Out through your mouth. Do it now.”
The air stutters in my throat and comes back out as a sob.
“Again.” He strokes his thumbs along my cheekbones as he adds, “Stay with me, golubka. In through your nose.”
Golubka. Little dove.
I tell myself to follow his rhythm. In through my nose. The air burns, but it makes it past my throat this time. Out through my mouth. A shuddering exhale.
“That’s it. Keep going. Eyes on me. Don’t look anywhere else.”
I focus on his gaze. Gray like frost on glass. I breathe when he breathes. In through my nose. Out through my mouth. Again. Again.
The vise around my chest loosens by degrees, and the darkness at the edges of my vision retreats.
“There you are. Stay with me.”
I realize I’m holding onto his wrists. My fingers are digging into his skin hard enough to leave marks. I should let go, apologize, and rebuild the walls between us.
But I don’t want to.
His hands on my face feel safe in a way nothing has in years. Not confining. Not controlling. Just steady, present, and real.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“Don’t apologize.”
“He’s coming.” My voice cracks. “He’s coming here, and he’s going to take her, and I can’t?—”
“No one is taking anyone. Not while I’m here.”
I feel him starting to pull away, and I grab his wrists harder.
“Don’t.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” He settles back, keeping his hands on my face. “I’m right here.”
