Chapter 5
Eva
The dream dissolved like sugar in water, leaving behind a taste I didn't want to name.
Something about rough hands and Russian accents, about being held down in ways that had nothing to do with violence and everything to do with—no.
I forced my eyes open, desperate to escape wherever my unconscious mind had wandered while I slept.
Nothing looked right.
The ceiling above me was smooth white plaster, not water-stained tiles or rusty pipes. No sirens screaming past. No drunk shouting in the hallway. Just silence thick as wool, broken only by soft breathing that wasn't mine.
I sat up too fast, and the world didn't spin.
That was wrong too. Every morning for the past two years, I'd woken dizzy from hunger, from sleeping on concrete, from whatever infection was currently winning the war against my immune system.
But now I felt . . . stable. Present. Like my body actually belonged to me instead of being something I was trapped in.
The sheets beneath me were clean. Actually clean, not shelter-clean where you tried not to think about who'd bled or pissed or died on them before. They smelled like lavender fabric softener, the expensive kind I used to steal sometimes.
The room came into focus as my brain caught up with my body.
Beautiful and wrong, like a museum display of "normal bedroom" that no actual person would inhabit.
A mahogany dresser that just screamed mid-century modern.
An upholstered chair in the corner that looked soft enough to sleep in.
Matching nightstands with crystal lamps that threw prisms when the light hit them.
All of it arranged too perfectly, like someone had ordered "elegant bedroom set" and had it delivered whole. No personal touches. No lived-in chaos. Just expensive furniture arranged to look homey while being anything but.
The windows had bars. Decorative bars, worked into an elegant pattern that almost looked like art until you realized they were welded to the frame.
The curtains were beautiful too—heavy silk in deep blue—but they were clearly meant to hide those bars from the inside, make the prisoner forget what they couldn't see.
The door had no handle on the inside. Just smooth wood where the knob should be, polished to a shine that reflected my face when I stumbled over to confirm what I already knew.
Locked in. Trapped. But trapped somewhere that smelled like furniture polish and clean laundry instead of piss and desperation.
A soft whimper made me spin around. There, in the corner I hadn't checked, was a small pen.
Not a cage—an actual veterinary recovery pen with soft blankets and a heating pad.
Bear lay curled in the center, an IV port taped to his tiny front leg with cartoon bandages.
Paw Patrol. Someone had put Paw Patrol bandages on a sick puppy.
His breathing was steady, even. His eye—the good one—was closed in real sleep, not the fitful unconsciousness of an animal shutting down.
The swelling around his injured eye had gone down, the wound cleaned and treated with something that looked professional.
Antibiotics, probably. Maybe pain medication from the way his little body was actually relaxed instead of rigid with hurt.
A piece of paper sat on top of the pen, covered in Cyrillic I couldn't read. Next to it, a line of pill bottles and syringes, each labeled with times and dosages in the same handwriting. Someone had left detailed medical instructions for a puppy I'd found in garbage.
The memory hit in fragments, like scenes from a movie I'd watched through a fever.
An older man with gentle hands and tired eyes, speaking Russian to Dmitry while examining me like I was fascinating and tragic in equal measure. The sting of a needle I was too exhausted to fight. Cool antiseptic on my palm making me hiss through clenched teeth.
"She's not a stray dog, Yankov," Dmitry's voice, rougher than usual. "She's a person."
"Could have fooled me with these injuries.
" The older man—Yankov—had switched to accented English, probably for my benefit even though I was barely conscious.
"This one's infected, something nasty from the look of it.
These look like defensive wounds, at least six months old, never properly treated.
These bruises are in different stages—someone's been hitting her regularly for weeks, maybe months. "
He'd cataloged my damage like evidence, each observation clinical and damning.
"When did she last eat a real meal?" he'd asked.
Dmitry's silence had been answer enough.
"Malnutrition, dehydration. Three different infections I can identify without blood work. She's been living rough for at least a year, probably more."
"Can you fix it?"
"The physical damage? Most of it. The rest . . ." Yankov had paused, and I'd felt his fingers on my wrist, taking my pulse with practiced ease. "The rest is not my department."
They'd discussed me like I wasn't there, which I suppose I wasn't really.
Last night, consciousness had been a sometimes thing, flickering in and out like a broken bulb.
But I remembered Dmitry's hand on my forehead at some point, checking for fever with a gentleness that didn't match anything else about him.
Now I stood in this perfect prison, clean and medicated and cared for like I mattered, and somehow that was more terrifying than violence would have been. Violence I understood. Violence had rules. You fought or you ran or you endured, but you always knew where you stood.
This—this comfort with bars, this medical care from a man who'd zip-tied me to a chair—this I didn't know how to fight.
Bear made another small sound, and I went to him, kneeling beside the pen.
He looked so much better already. Still tiny, still fragile, but like an actual puppy instead of a breathing tragedy.
Someone had cared for him. Actually cared, with real medicine and proper treatment, not just good intentions and prayer.
The same someone who'd got me medical care last night.
I mean, sure, it had been from a veterinarian, but it was still more than I’d had for years.
So I sat beside Bear's pen, watching him breathe steadily in his medicated sleep, and tried not to think about the dream that I’d woken from.
About rough hands that hadn't hurt, about being held down by someone who knew exactly how much pressure to apply, about the way Dmitry's voice had sounded when he'd told Yankov I was a person.
Like it mattered.
Like I mattered.
The lock turned with a soft click that sent me scrambling away from Bear's pen like I'd been caught stealing. Which was stupid—I wasn't doing anything wrong, just watching a sick puppy breathe—but my body didn't care about logic.
Dmitry entered carrying a tray that made my stomach cramp so hard I almost doubled over.
Eggs, scrambled and steaming. Bacon, crispy enough that I could hear it sizzle.
Toast, golden brown with butter melting into the surface.
Orange juice in an actual glass, not gulped straight from a stolen bottle.
The smell almost floored me. My mouth flooded with saliva so fast I had to swallow hard to keep from drooling. When had I last eaten actual home-cooked food? Not scavenged, not stolen, not pulled from trash. Food someone had prepared on purpose, with care.
"Morning," he said, like this was normal.
Like he hadn't kidnapped me, treated me, imprisoned me in a room that cost more than I'd ever see in my lifetime.
He set the tray on the nightstand, movements efficient and practiced.
"Bear's responding well to treatment. Yankov says he'll make a full recovery. "
The words should have made me happy. I was grateful that Bear would be okay. I should have said thank you. Should have shown some kind of gratitude for the veterinary care that had saved him.
Instead, I grabbed the plate and hurled it at his head.
My aim was good—street fighting had taught me that much. The plate flew straight and true, would have connected with his temple if he hadn't stepped aside at the last second. Casual, like avoiding flying crockery was part of his morning routine.
The plate exploded against the wall behind him. Eggs splattered across exposed brick, leaving yellow streaks that would stain if not cleaned quickly. Bacon scattered across the hardwood floor. The toast landed butter-side down, because of course it did.
"Feel better?" he asked. No anger in his voice, no surprise, just mild curiosity like he actually wanted to know if destroying breakfast had improved my mood.
"Fuck you."
"That's not an answer." He studied the mess on the wall with the same detachment. "Though I suppose the action itself is answer enough."
"I'm not eating your food."
"Then you'll be hungry, Brat." He pulled the upholstered chair from the corner, positioned it between me and Bear's pen, and sat down. "Clean it up."
The order was so simple, so matter-of-fact, that it took me a second to process. "What?"
"You threw it, you clean it. There are towels in the bathroom, cleaning supplies under the sink."
"Clean it yourself."
"No." He pulled out his phone, started scrolling through something that looked like spreadsheets. "I didn't make the mess."
"You kidnapped me!"
"And you destroyed property." He didn't even look up from his phone.
I stared at him, waiting for the real response. The backhand, the grabbed wrist, the violence that would make sense in this situation. But he just sat there, thumb moving across his screen, occasionally typing something with one hand.
"I'm not your fucking maid."
"No," he agreed. "If you were my maid I could fire you. No, no. You're someone who threw a plate of food at my head and now needs to deal with the consequences. Very simple cause and effect."
The calm logic of it made me want to scream.
"And if I don't?"