“You arenotfine,” I say, choking back tears as I rip a strip from the bottom of my slip, to use as a crude bandage.
“Evi… don’t…” His hand curls around mine and holds tight. “You shouldn’t?—”
“I have to,” I interrupt softly, trying to sound confident even as my heart pounds. “I can’t leave you like this. Not after… after what they did.” My hands shake as I press them against the worst of the lacerations, trying to staunch the bleeding.
A sharp hiss rushes between Sandro’s teeth. Then he swallows thickly, eyes squeezed shut, jaw tight. “I’ll be fine. You need—” He stops as a cough racks him, then spits more blood.
Oh God, he’s definitely bleeding internally.
“Keep your clothes,” he insists when he can breathe.
Leaving his command unanswered, I grab the half-bottle of water Kenji tossed into the cell and hold it to his lips. His hand shoots up to push it away.
“No, Sunshine… you drink. I don’t?—”
“We can share it,” I insist, pressing it to his mouth. “Just sip.”
He protests half-heartedly but finally lets me tilt the bottle so he can swallow. I watch the life slowly return to his eyes as the cool water slides down his throat. His face is pale, lips cutand swollen, eyes glimmering with pain and exhaustion, but he’s alive. That alone makes my chest tighten with relief.
“Stay still,” I murmur, dabbing at the fresh abrasions, doing my best to clean the worst of the blood with the fabric. And when my first bandage is completely saturated, I tear a new strip from the back of his ruined sweater.
My fingers tremble with every touch, each jagged line on his skin a cruel reminder of Kenji’s cruelty. At least they didn’t chain him to the wall again, so I can keep his cuts clean. My heart aches in a way I’ve never known—because this is Sandro, the man who always protects everyone else, lying here in front of me, broken and helpless.
He groans, shifting slightly, and I grip his shoulders to steady him.
“You need rest,” I whisper. “I’ll… I’ll watch over you.”
“I can’t rest,” he murmurs, voice low, strained. “They’ll—” He swallows, wincing, and I catch the sharp intake of breath. “They’ll come back.”
I shake my head. “No one’s coming in here while I’m with you. I swear.”
Hours—or maybe minutes, I’ve lost track—pass as I press the damp, bloodied fabric to his wounds, carefully adjusting the pressure to slow the bleeding. My fingers are sticky, ice-cold, trembling, but I refuse to stop. Every movement, every touch, is a quiet act of defiance.
Finally, after what feels like an endless stretch of time, I’m satisfied that his cuts are done weeping. I let my hands fall into my lap, a wave of bone-deep exhaustion sweeping through me.In the stillness that follows, Sandro reaches out to take my hand, enveloping my fingers in warmth. He squeezes, once, twice, a reminder that he’s still here, still fighting.
I swallow hard, trying to dislodge the knot from my throat, and let my head fall back as I send a silent prayer up to the heavens, asking for mercy—deliverance.
A chill creeps through me, and I shiver, but I don’t want to curl up against Sandro and take any of his body heat. He needs it to survive. When my teeth start to chatter uncontrollably, however, he shifts, pulling me against him instinctively, wrapping what strength he has left around me. The warmth of his body seeps through me, grounding me against the cold stone.
“I can’t…” he mumbles, half-conscious, “can’t let you get hurt because of me.”
“I’m safe,” I promise softly, leaning closer, pressing my lips to his shoulder, feeling the heat of his skin despite the pain. “You’re the one who’s hurt.”
He mumbles my name, low and hoarse, and for a moment, I imagine that everything is alright, that we can survive this nightmare together. But the truth is impossible to ignore. The blood on his skin, the bruises blooming across his body, the echo of Kenji’s laughter in my ears—they are proof that we’re not safe.
The fear tightens in my chest when I think of the baby, of the life growing inside me. My fingers brush across my belly instinctively, and I imagine a faint, almost imperceptible movement. A wave of protectiveness crashes over me, harsher than the terror for my own safety. Sandro is here, yes, but if something happens to us, to him, to me… our child won’t have a chance.
“We’ll survive this,” I whisper, more firmly this time. “I promise. I won’t let them hurt us.”
Sandro groans, low and pained, but when his arm tightens around me, it feels like he believes me—or at least that he wants to. Biting my lip to hold back a sob, I let my tears fall silently and close my eyes against the fear that threatens to consume me whole.
He shudders against me, exhausted and raw—no doubt going into shock from all the abuse his body has endured, but he doesn’t retreat from me. Instead, he pulls me closer, molding my back to his broad, solid chest as he curls around me, protective, grounding, a shield I cling to desperately.
When sleep finally takes him, I let myself breathe a fraction easier, though the stone walls and the silence remind me that it’s only temporary. I stay pressed against him, whispering soft reassurances, running my fingers over the back of his hand.
Hours later, in the dead of night, I wake to find Sandro stirring. I shiver, teeth chattering, and he instinctively shifts to shield me with his body as I sit up.
With a groan, he peels off the last ragged scraps of his bloody sweater, draping it over me. “Here,” he murmurs, voice strained. “Take this. You need it more than I do.”
