I glare at the nurse. “She stays with me till she says otherwise.”
They back off and get her on a gurney. I stay right beside it, hand on her ankle so she knows I’m there. Doctors swarm. IVs.Questions in soft voices. She answers in whispers. Russian first, then broken English when they switch.
Malnourished. Dehydrated. Bruises in different stages. Old scars on her thighs and back. My jaw locks so hard I taste blood.
They clean her wrists. Wrap them. Give her a hospital gown. She won’t let go of my hoodie. Keeps it clutched to her chest like armor.
When they finally clear her to a room, I follow. Sit in the chair beside the bed. She watches me the whole time. Eyes huge. Waiting for the catch.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. But you’re not going back there. Not ever. Club’s got a safe house. You stay as long as you need. Or longer. Your call.”
She swallows. Voice barely there. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why help me?”
I look at her. Really look. The way she’s curled on her side, knees to chest, hoodie drowning her. The way she’s still shaking even under blankets. The way she trusts no one but still hasn’t told me to leave.
“Because I know what it feels like to think nobody’s coming,” I say. “And because you deserve better than chains and dark rooms.”
Her eyes fill. One tear slips down her cheek. She doesn’t wipe it away. I reach over slowly. Give her time to pull back. Shedoesn’t. I brush the tear off with my thumb. “You’re safe, Anya. I swear it on my patch.”
She nods once. Small. Then closes her eyes. Exhausted. Spent.
I stay in the chair all night. Back aching. Eyes burning. Watching her sleep. Watching her chest rise and fall. Making sure no one comes through that door who isn’t supposed to.
I look at Anya again. Sleeping. Safe. For the first time in who knows how long. I lean back in the chair, cross my arms.
ONE
ANASTASIYA “ANYA” DRAGUNOV
I hearthe gunshots before the door explodes open. Sharp cracks that echo through the building, followed by shouting and the heavy thud of bodies hitting concrete. Men yelling in voices I recognize and voices I do not. Fighting. Screaming. The sounds crash over me in waves, and I curl in on myself as much as the chains allow, heart slamming so hard it hurts.
Then the door splinters. Wood bursts inward and heavy boots pound across the floor. My body locks up on instinct, fear crawling up my spine and settling in my throat. I force my eyes up, expecting another monster sent to drag me back into the nightmare.
Instead I see him. He fills the doorway, dressed in all black, a solid wall of muscle and shadow. Tall. Broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his shirt. He looks strong in a way that feels unreal to me, like a man built to survive violence. The sounds of fighting still echo behind him, but he stands steady, controlled in the middle of the chaos.
His hair is dark brown, shaved on the sides with the length on top pulled back into a tight knot. It keeps his face clear,showing a strong jaw and a neatly trimmed beard. His brown eyes find mine instantly. They are sharp and focused, sweeping the room before locking on me. I brace for cruelty. For hunger. For that familiar look that always comes before the pain.
It never comes. He stands there for a second, perfectly still, and something in his expression shifts. His shoulders stay tense, ready, but his gaze softens in a way I do not understand. He looks at me like I am a person. Not a thing. Not a body.
My breath stutters in my chest. I do not trust it. I do not trust him. Men have walked through doors like this before, and every time it ended the same way. My wrists burn against the restraints as I shrink back as far as I can go, waiting for the inevitable.
But he does not rush me. He does not smile. He just watches me with those steady brown eyes while the last echoes of gunfire fade, and for the first time in longer than I can remember, the fear inside me hesitates, confused by the absence of what should come next.
Back to the present
The room smells like antiseptic and clean sheets. It has for days now. I have learned the rhythm of this place. The quiet hum of machines. The distant voices in the hall. The way the light shifts across the floor as the hours pass.
Riot sits in the chair beside my bed like he always does, his big body folded into a space too small for him. When he is not watching me, he has a computer open on his lap, fingers moving over the keys with quiet focus. He is always working. Even here. Even with one eye on me. I have woken in the middle of thenight to the soft glow of the screen lighting his face while he types.
And sometimes I catch him sleeping.
The computer slips to the side, balanced against his thigh. His head tips back against the wall, eyes closed, his features softened in a way I never see when he is awake. The hard lines of his face ease. His mouth relaxes. He looks younger like that. Peaceful. My chest tightens every time I see it. He is so handsome when he sleeps it almost hurts to look at him, like I am seeing a version of him the rest of the world does not get.
He has been there every time I wake up. Every time the nightmares drag me under and spit me back out shaking. He is always there.
