Why—
One unsteady breath fills my ear, then another.
It’s shallow and fragile, but it’s there.
He’salive.
A sound tears from my throat. I don’t know what it is—relief, rage, grief—maybe all three. My lips are trembling as I gather him in my arms as carefully as I can. He lets out a barely audible moan, his head lolling against my shoulder. His blood seeps through my shirt, feeling hot and sticky.
But that means he’s here. He’s alive.
A crushing feeling of guilt and anguish tears through my skin. I shouldn’t have let him go last night. If I hadn’t, if I hadn’t been too stuck in my own head to listen to him, I wouldn’t be collecting his barely alive body.
“I’m sorry, baby,” I whisper against his hair, stroking it softly because he always loves it when I do that. “Stay with me, all right? I’ll get you out of here.”
I shift, hoisting him onto my back and grabbing his wrists. He’s heavier than usual, almost dead weight. My spine screams as I rise, but I don’t care. I’d carry the world if it meant getting him out of this place.
“I’ve got you,” I murmur even though he doesn’t hear me. “I’ll always get you.”
We managedto escape without sustaining any injuries.
Then I flew Yulian all the way to Russia to my uncles’ private estate in Ust-Koksa, located deep in the Altai Mountains of Southern Siberia.
Keeping him in the States was simply not safe, neither for him nor for my parents. Taking him to New York was out of the question, as that’s where Yaroslav would look first. Russia, however, is ironically safer.
Especially at my uncles’ residence that’s tucked away from watchful eyes and isn’t marked on any map, swallowed entirely by pine forests with mountain air sharp enough to cut through bone.
Guess Yulian and I have come full circle—back to a mountain.
I smile as I hold Yulian’s hand while he sleeps in the room my uncles provided for him.
It’s been two days since we came here, and he still hasn’t woken up.
Uncle Anton’s private doctor said Yulian is fine, considering everything.
According to him and the doctor we had on board on the private jet, Yulian sustained serious trauma. Two fractured ribs—one clean, one hairline—along with severe bruising along the chest wall. They’ve stabilized the ribs, but he’ll need to avoid any hard impact or strain for at least four to six weeks.
There are shallow lacerations across his back and torso, none deep enough to damage internal organs, but a few required sutures. He’s got a mild concussion, a split lip, one swollen-shut eye, and dehydration from blood loss. His vitals are stable. They’ve rehydrated him and put himon antibiotics, saying that he’ll recover from the physical damage with time and rest.
But what about the mental damage?
How about dealing with the reality that his own dad beat him half to death just because he didn’t approve of his sexual preferences?
Why do we live in a world where that’s athing?
“I’m sorry I was late.” I bring his hand to my face, laying his palm flat against my cheek. “And I don’t mean just two days ago, but all of it, baby. I’m sorry it took me four years to save you from that man.”
I should’ve taken him away after I saw him beating him up that first time. When I was kicked out of the hospital, I shouldn’t have left alone.
Like now, I should’ve just kidnapped him and hid him away from the world.
Maybe then I wouldn’t have felt as if my heart was being ripped out of my chest at seeing him so broken.
And in pain.
Maybe we would’ve been together if I weren’t such a coward who watched from afar and kept myself squarely in denial.
If I didn’t put distance when I should’ve gotten close. When I didn’t reply to his videos even though I saved them to my phone and watched them religiously.
