She wakes screaming every night, and every night I'm there. Holding her. Whispering promises I never thought I'd make.You're safe. I've got you. I'm not going anywhere.
The second morning, I notice she's still wearing my shirt. The same one from the first night. She has nothing else—no clothes, no belongings, nothing but what the traffickers dressed her in for auction.
I make a call before I leave for work.
When I come home that evening, there are shopping bags on the bed. Clothes in her size—soft sweaters, comfortable pants, underwear, pajamas. Nothing ostentatious. Just... things she needs.
She's standing in the doorway of the bedroom, staring at the bags like they might bite her.
"I don't understand," she says.
"You needed clothes."
"But this is—" She touches one of the sweaters, pulls her hand back like it burned her. "This is too much. I can't accept—"
"You have nothing." I keep my voice matter-of-fact. "Now you have this."
"Leonid—"
"It's not a gift. It's a necessity." I move past her, start unpacking the bags, putting things in the empty dresser I've never used. "You can't wear my shirts forever."
She's quiet for a long moment. Then, softly: "No one's ever... bought me things before. Not like this. Not because they noticed I needed them."
Something twists in my chest. "Get used to it."
She doesn't argue. Just watches me fill the dresser with her new things, tears tracking silently down her cheeks.
That night, she wears the new pajamas to bed. Soft cotton, pale blue. She looks younger in them. Softer.
But the next morning, I find her in the kitchen wearing one of my shirts again. Making coffee.
She catches me looking. Blushes. "The pajamas are nice. But your shirts are... they smell like you. They make me feel safe."
I don't have words for what that does to me.
During the days, I work. Handle the cleanup from the senator's death. Field questions from Dimitri about why I executed a sitting U.S. senator in my own penthouse.
"He was trafficking children," I tell him.
Dimitri studies me across his desk. "And the girl?"
"What about her?"
"You kept her."
"She had nowhere to go."
He doesn't push. Dimitri understands possession. Understands that some things, once claimed, can't be unclaimed.
I come home each evening to find small changes. One night, she's made soup—simple, from whatever she found in my neglected kitchen. The smell hits me when I walk through the door, and something in my chest cracks open.
"You cooked," I say.
She whirls around, startled. Then relaxes when she sees it's me. "I needed something to do. I hope that's okay."
"It's okay."
"I'm not great at it," she admits, fidgeting with her hands. "But I can do basic things. Mrs. Henderson made me cook for them, so I learned."
