I curled onto my side, facing away from him.
Fear coiled low in my stomach.
Not just about the failed coffee. Not just about his accusation.
But about what came next.
About what a man who believed I had tried to kill him might do in the quiet of the night.
He hadn’t touched me in eight nights.
Not once. But that had been before.
Before suspicion.
Before betrayal—real or perceived.
Before I crossed a line he could justify reacting to.
Belief changed men like him. Belief turned restraint into permission.
Into punishment. Into retribution.
I pressed my lips together, forcing my breathing to slow.
I knew he would find a way to clean the mess of coffee on the floor.
I was too exhausted to say anything.
Sleep came slowly, dragging me down.
And when it finally claimed me, it was anything but gentle.
I was back in the bunker.
Concrete walls loomed close, damp and cold, the air thick with the metallic tang of blood and fear.
Amy. My best friend. Ruslan Baranov’s younger sister. Chained to a chair.
Her breathing ragged, eyes wide, pleading.
Her lips moved—but no words reached me, or maybe I didn’t want to hear them.
My hand lifted before I could stop it.
My fist moved toward her face, and suddenly I was striking—again, and again.
Each punch tore a piece of me apart, and with every hit, I hated myself more than I could bear.
Every nerve screamed to stop, but my body had already betrayed me.
Her face blossomed red and black, a brutal mosaic of blood and bone.
My knuckles throbbed from the impact, the warmth of her blood smearing across my wrists, my shirt, my skin.
And still... something inside me fractured further with every strike.
Pieces of myself shattered, never to be whole again.
