Chapter 52Echoes of a Dying Soul
Echoes of a Dying Soul
Isabella
The gun stays trained on Dominik’s skull, cocked and trembling in Aslanov’s hand, but his eyes, those black, bottomless, godless eyes, are locked on me now.
They don’t soften.
They don’t recognize.
They devour .
I can’t speak. My throat tightens, clogged with breath I forgot how to take.
My limbs feel detached, like my body’s trying to protect me by keeping me somewhere far away from this moment, from the nightmare unfurling in front of me.
But I’m here. I’m here . I can smell the blood in the air.
I can see the raw terror twisting Aslanov’s face.
I can feel the weight of something ancient and broken humming in the floorboards, as if this motel room is the only thing holding back whatever hell he just crawled out of.
And he is here, right in front of me.
“Aslanov,” I whisper, my voice shaking so badly it barely survives the air between us. His name tastes foreign on my tongue. Like it belongs to someone who’s already dead.
He doesn’t respond, just stares. That stare is too sharp, too empty, too wide.
Like he’s seeing a thousand things at once: my face, the past, the men who held him down, the chains, the cold floor, the screaming.
Maybe all of it is layered over this room, projected onto the walls in blood.
His eyes twitch. A muscle jumps in his cheek.
And in that moment, I realize:
He doesn’t see me.
Not yet. Not really.
But he doesn’t shoot either. The gun shakes. His grip is tight, knuckles white and straining, but there’s a flicker in his posture now, a fracture in the storm of violence. He’s looking through me, searching for something that might anchor him. I lift my hands, palms exposed.
“It’s me,” I say. “Isabella.”
A tremor jolts through him. His head twitches, as though the name claws at something buried deep. Recognition crawls behind his eyes, slow, unsure, like it’s dragging itself up from a pit. For a second, just a breath of time, I swear he sees me. Really sees me.
Dominik, bleeding, dazed, still conscious beneath him, makes a noise. A groan.
His arm tenses again, the gun tipping back toward Dominik’s skull.
He lunges down again, grabbing Dominik’s collar with his one bloodied hand.
His strength—God, his strength—is terrifying.
Despite the fresh wounds carved across his chest and arms, despite the raw, dark bruises circling his wrists, marks from restraints so tight they look burned in, he moves with explosive violence.
His muscles coil and snap like someone who’s forgotten what restraint means.
But I can’t move. I can’t breathe.
Because he’s alive.
My knees buckle, but I stay standing. Barely.
My eyes blur, tears rising too fast to stop, slipping down my cheeks like they’ve been waiting for this moment just as long as I have.
They carve through the dirt and dried sweat on my face, dragging salt into the pale skin that hasn’t seen sunlight in weeks.
My freckles, muted now from cold and hunger and grief, are wet and trembling under the weight of it all.
He’s alive.
Not whole. Not sane. Not the man I lost.
But alive .
“Aslanov,” I whisper again, louder this time, choked and shaking. “Stop.”
No response. His fist rises again, ready to strike. The veins in his arms bulge from the tension. His entire body is violence in motion.
“I said stop!”
The scream rips out of me. A sob crashes after it, and I stumble forward. My hands shake. I drop to my knees right beside them, unable to care anymore if I get between the fist and the impact.
“Please—please ! Stop! It’s me!” I sob, grabbing his arm. “Aslanov, please—it’s me, it’s Isabella, I’m right here, I’m right here! ”
The moment I touch him, his body jolts like lightning hit it.
I don’t see Dominik move, I feel it.
One moment, Aslanov’s fist is rising again, and the next, there’s a crack, sharp and violent, as Dominik smashes the gun from his hand, sending it skittering across the floor. My breath catches in my throat. Everything inside me seizes, too stunned to scream.
Then Dominik launches upward, slamming into Aslanov with everything he has left.
They crash to the ground harder this time, limbs tangled in rage and desperation.
I scramble back, instinct taking over, but my eyes don’t leave them, not for a second.
Dominik is bloodied, dazed, but his movements are pure muscle memory, pure will.
He fights with what’s left of a soldier who refuses to die.
And Aslanov—God—he’s still trying to get up, still wild. His body thrashes under Dominik’s grip, but he’s slower now. Weaker. The adrenaline is leaving his body.
That’s when Dominik reaches into his vest and pulls out a syringe.
My breath hitches.
“No—wait—” I whisper, but I already know it has to happen.
He doesn’t even flinch. With practiced precision, he jams the needle into Aslanov’s neck, pressing the plunger down hard.
The effect is instant. Aslanov’s body goes taut, like a cable stretched to its breaking point—then collapses, every muscle suddenly unstrung.
He crumples to the floor with a sickening thud, limp and twitching, the sedative dragging him under fast and hard.
I rush to him, falling to my knees so hard they scrape open on the cracked linoleum. I cradle his head in my lap, brushing the wet, bloodied hair away from his forehead.
“You’re safe now,” I whisper, tears spilling from my eyes onto his skin. “You’re safe, Aslanov. We got you. Do you hear me?”
Dominik is beside me, breathing hard, one hand pressed to his temple where Aslanov has attacked him. He’s already pulling out gauze and bandages from the med pack, already scanning Aslanov’s wounds.
“He’s bleeding out,” I say, my voice cracking. “Dehydrated. He’s burning up. He needs fluids, stitches, everything. ”
Dominik groans. We both know a hospital isn’t an option; he has to stay under the radar. He has to stay dead, he has to live up to the illusion.
“There’s one place,” I say. “The clinic where I work. Ada and Sawyer work there, too, and a couple of volunteers. It’s a clinic under the radar. It’s the long drive back, but… they’ll help. Everything we need is there, I can treat him.”
Dominik’s eyes narrow. He feels Aslanov’s pulse, he’s doubting whether it’s too far.
I look down at Aslanov, at the way his chest rises slowly. His skin is pale, blood streaked across the cut on his face, his wrists looking like they were chewed open by steel.
“If we don’t try… he might not make it.”
Dominik nods.
He won’t die before he has felt real love.
Mine.