I take off the black dress. Pull on an old t-shirt and shorts. Crawl under the covers without washing my face or brushing my teeth because I simply don't have the energy.
I lie in the dark and replay it. The way he listened without interrupting. The way his expression didn't change when I told him about the photos. He didn’t show any shock, or disgust. I don’t know what I expected, maybe a lecture about what kind of girl sends pictures like that. He just sat there, steady, absorbing it all without judgement.
Because you're going to be my wife. And nobody touches what's mine.
I press my face into the pillow and cry quietly, the way I've learned to do it. The way you cry when your bedroom shares a wall with your little sister's and the walls in this house aren't thick enough for honesty.
I fall asleep with my phone still in my purse and Rafferty's voice in my head, and I sleep deeper than I have in months.
I wake up to sunlight.
That's the first thing I notice. Actual sunlight, warm across my face, which means I've slept past my alarm. I grab my phone from my purse on the floor and check the time. Nine fourteen. I haven't slept past seven in over a year.
No new messages from Kyle.
I stare at the screen. Refresh my texts. Check my email. Nothing. The silence where his threats should be feels too loud.
I sit up slowly. My head is clearer than it's been in days. My hands are still shaking, but it's softer now, a murmur instead of a shout. The toast from last night is still sitting in my stomach like a small act of disobedience.
The house is quiet. A note on the kitchen counter in my mother's handwriting:Dad and I are at the Lenkov's for brunch. Back by 2. Timofey is at Misha's. Darya is at work. There's food in the fridge. Please eat, sweetheart.
Please eat. Everyone keeps telling me to eat. I pour a glass of orange juice and drink it standing at the counter, staring out the kitchen window at the driveway. My car is where I left it last night. The space beside it, where Rafferty's car was parked, is empty.
I think about calling him. I don't have his number. I realize with a strange jolt that I told this man everything and I don't even have a way to reach him.
I shower. Wash the ruined makeup off my face. Pull on jeans and a sweater and tie my hair back. I have a shift at Rosa's at noon and I need to leave by eleven thirty. A normal day. A routine I can follow.
I'm standing in the bathroom brushing my teeth when the doorbell rings.
My stomach drops. Kyle. The thought comes fast and irrational, because Kyle has never come to the house, but the fear response doesn't care about logic. It fires the same way it always does, full voltage, instant.
I rinse my mouth and walk downstairs on legs that feel unreliable. Through the hallway. Past the kitchen. I can see a shape through the frosted glass of the front door.
Tall. Dark jacket. Still.
I open the door.
Rafferty is standing on my porch in the late morning light. He looks like he hasn't slept. His jaw is tight and there's a shadow of stubble across it that wasn't there last night. His dark hair is pushed back and slightly disheveled, like he's been running his hands through it. The first, and somewhat irrational, thought that crosses my mind is how beautiful he looks with the sun behind him. Like a fallen angel.
His knuckles on both hands are split. The skin across his right hand is swollen and darkening around the joints, and there's a cut across the left that's crusty with dark, dried blood.
There's a bruise forming along the edge of his jaw. Fresh. Blue at the center, purple at the edges.
He looks at me with eyes that are calm and certain and completely at odds with the damage on his hands.
"It's done," he says.
I grip the doorframe. "What?"
"Every photo. Every device. Every copy. Every backup. Gone. All of it." He holds my gaze. "He will never contact you again. Do you understand? It's over, Nadia."
I can't breathe. I'm standing in my parents' and this man, this man I've known for less than a day, is standing on my porch with blood on his knuckles telling me that the nightmare I've lived inside for three years is finished.
"How do you—" My voice breaks. "How do you know he won't—"
"Because I made sure." His voice is quiet and absolute. "He understands what happens if your name ever crosses his mind again. He believes me. Trust me when I tell you, he believes me."
A sound comes out of me. Something between a gasp and a sob, caught halfway in my throat. My knees buckle and I grab the doorframe harder just to try and stay upright. Rafferty stepsforward and catches my elbow. His grip is gentle and totally at odds with the state of his hands.
