Chapter 16 Ayla
Ayla
Three days with Gabriel is hell.
Training.
More fucking training.
“If you’re going to stomach Korsakov,” Gabriel says, “you need to learn how to stomach worse.”
I’m staring at the floor. The wooden floors Baba use to glide me on when we danced, now stained dark in places I don’t want to think about.
“If you would have stayed here, you would have never lost that strength.”
The backhand comes fast.
My head snaps to the side. White sparks burst behind my eyes. I taste blood and keep my mouth closed. Don’t touch it. Don’t react. Reacting makes it worse.
There are rules to training.
I fight his men. I train with them. If they hurt me, I hurt them back. That’s allowed. Encouraged, even.
Gabriel is different.
Fighting him back isn’t training.
It’s suicide.
“Eyes up,”
He gestures toward the man hanging from the rafters, rope biting into wrists, shoulders dislocated, head slumped forward like a broken doll. He’s been there all day. Maybe longer.
“Gut him,” Gabriel says, pressing a blade into my palm.
The handle is slick. My fingers hesitate anyway.
Big mistake.
Gabriel’s hand clamps down on my shoulder. The pressure is almost gentle; right before his knee drives into my stomach.
I fold.
The floor rushes up. Air explodes out of my lungs. I gag, gasping for oxygen that won’t come fast enough.
“Get up.”
I stay down half a second too long.
Another mistake.
I force myself upright—knees first, then feet, every movement sharp and wrong. My hands are shaking. I hate that most of all.
The man is dead. I know it the moment I step closer. The way his weight pulls downward. The slackness. The smell.
This isn’t about killing.
It’s about doing what I’m told without needing to be told twice.
I press the blade to his abdomen.
Cold skin.
No resistance.
I drag the knife across.
The sound is wet. Heavy. My stomach flips, but I don’t stop. I don’t look away. I don’t rush.
Gabriel likes control. Sloppy makes him angry.
When I’m finished, he hums softly. Approval.
“Good,” he says. “Now clean it up.”
***
Walking home feels endless.
My body is done.
Three days of apples and faucet water sit heavy and useless in my stomach. My legs shake with every step. Bruises bloom under my clothes, tender and deep, each one announcing itself now that the adrenaline is gone.
Every breath hurts.
I keep my head down. Count cracks in the sidewalk. Don’t draw attention. Don’t look like prey.
By the time my building comes into view, my hands are numb and my jaw aches from holding my teeth together.
Home.
Home is supposed to mean safety. Right now it just means quiet. I fumble with my keys, hands clumsy, vision blurring at the edges.
Almost there. Key in, turn.
It’s already unlocked.
Fuck.
I can’t handle this right now.
I’m in Emir’s borrowed hoodie, and the moth bitten leggings from the old room. My boots aren’t even laced up. I don’t have the strength to fight off Maksim Korsakov right now.
I push the door open anyway.
The apartment is dark except for the pale light bleeding through my window. It catches on his hair first.
Red?
He changed it.
Then those eyes.
Maksim sits on my couch like he’s been there for hours. Maybe he has.
His jacket is off. Sleeves rolled up. Tattoos stark against pale skin even in the dim light. He doesn’t move when I enter. Just watches me with that predator stillness that makes my spine lock up.
“You look like shit,” he says.
My hand tightens on the doorknob. “Get out.”
“No.”
Of course not.
I close the door behind me. Lock it out of habit even though it’s pointless. He’s already inside.
“How long have you been here?” I ask.
“Long enough.”
My legs threaten to give out, but I force them to hold. Can’t show weakness. Not now.
“I want my brass knuckles back,” he says.
I almost laugh. Almost. “Don’t know where they are.”
“Thief.”
“Consider it payment for emotional distress.”
His mouth curves. Just barely. “You punched me in the face and stole my car, Beda. That’s more than emotional distress.”
“You chased me through the woods and tried to—” I stop. Swallow. “We’re even.”
“We’re not even close to even.”
He stands.
I take a step back before I can stop myself.
“Where were you?” His voice is too calm. Too controlled.
“Out.”
“For three days?”
“Yes.”
He moves closer. One step. Two. I’m already backed against the door.
“Try again,” he says quietly closing in.
My pulse hammers in my throat. I can feel it beating against skin, loud and obvious and betraying.
He flicks the light on. My eyes burn from it. I squint.
He frowns, his eyes dark.
“What the fuck happened to your face?”
“Nothing.”
“Liar.”
His hand comes up, fingers brushing my jaw. Gentle. Too gentle. I flinch anyway.
His eyes go cold.
“Who touched you?”
“No one—”
“Ayla.” My name is a warning. “Who. Touched. You.”
I keep my breathing shallow, trying not to wince as my ribs protest
I can’t... I can’t handle him right now. I’m barely standing. Everything hurts and Maksim is looking at me like he wants to murder someone.
There’s something in his eyes... something I haven’t seen in a long time—from anyone.
“Beda?” his voice is softer than I’ve ever heard it.
My eyes meet his.
“I need to rest.”
“You need a doctor.”
I shake my head. “No hospitals.”
He snickers and nods. “Yeah, we don’t do those.”
I try to push past him, but he doesn’t budge.
“Come with me.”
My shoulders drop. “Maksim please—”
“Come to my place, I have a doctor I know, you’ll be safe from whoever you’re running from.”
Safe.
I could laugh if it didn’t sting.
Safety and Maksim are not synonymous.
“Move,” I say.
“No.”
I shove at him. Weak. I hate that it’s weak. My palms slide uselessly against muscle and leather.
He looks down at my hands like he’s taking inventory.
“You’re shaking,” he states low.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
I push again, harder this time. Pain flares up my arms, sharp and immediate. My breath stutters.
That’s when he moves.