Chapter 7 #2
She was so fucking beautiful it hurt to look at her.
Not magazine beautiful, not perfect features and flawless skin.
Beautiful in the way broken things were when they kept functioning anyway.
The shadows under her eyes like bruises.
The mess of dark hair escaping from what had probably started as a bun.
The way her whole body telegraphed exhaustion but she still held herself ready to fight.
The silence stretched between us, but it wasn't empty.
It was full of her ragged breathing slowly steadying, full of my presence saying things I couldn't put into words.
That she wasn't alone. That someone saw her falling apart and didn't run.
That it was okay to not be okay, even if neither of us really believed that.
Her thumb crept toward her mouth again, and she jerked it down, shame flooding her features even in the dim light.
"Don't," I said, the word coming out rougher than intended.
She froze, probably expecting judgment or disgust or whatever she'd been telling herself she deserved. Instead, I shifted slightly, then just smiled.
"Why are you here?" The question was soft, curious rather than accusatory.
"Saw your light on the monitors." No point lying. "Saw you pacing. Then saw you . . ." I gestured vaguely at her corner, at the way she'd made herself small.
"And you thought, what? That you'd come babysit the broken doctor?"
There was a bite to the words, but it was protective rather than aggressive. She was so used to being seen as weak, as something that needed fixing or managing. But that wasn't what I saw when I looked at her.
"I thought," I said slowly, "that being alone with that kind of pain makes it worse. That sometimes you need someone to sit with you. Not fix you. Not save you. Just . . . be there."
Something in her face cracked at that, and fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. Not the hysteria of panic, just the quiet grief of someone who'd been alone so long they'd forgotten what company felt like.
The tears kept coming, silent now except for the occasional hiccup that shook her whole body. I stayed exactly where I was, back against the wall, letting her cry without commentary or comfort that might feel like pressure.
She tried to stop—I could see her fighting it, pressing her palms against her eyes, holding her breath to cut off the sobs. Her whole body went rigid with the effort of containing what needed to escape.
"Don't," I said again, softer this time. "Let it happen. No one's watching. No one's judging. Just let it happen."
"I can't—" Her voice broke on the words. "If I start really crying, I might never stop."
"You will." I shifted slightly, not closer, just adjusting my position against the wall. "Body can't sustain that level of stress response indefinitely. Eventually the parasympathetic nervous system kicks in, forces a reset. You know this. You're a doctor."
A sound escaped her that might have been a laugh or another sob. "Always a doctor. Even when I'm falling apart in a corner."
"Especially then. It's who you are, not what you do."
She looked at me through her fingers, eyes red and swollen, and something in her posture eased fractionally.
Not trust exactly, but maybe the beginning of it.
Without seeming to realize it, she shifted slightly toward me, still in her corner but a few inches closer.
Her body seeking warmth or comfort or just the presence of another living thing who wasn't trying to kill her.
The crying slowed eventually, like she was running out of tears or energy or both. She wiped her face with the hem of the borrowed t-shirt, and I caught a glimpse of pale skin at her waist that made me look away. Not the time. Never the time with someone this broken, this vulnerable.
"How do you do it?" she asked suddenly, voice hoarse from crying.
"Do what?"
"Live with the death? The violence?" She pulled her knees tighter to her chest. "I've seen what you can do. What you did to those men. You didn't even hesitate. Just . . . destroyed them. How do you keep going after that? How do you sleep?"
The question hung between us, and I could have lied. Could have given her the standard tough-guy bullshit about not feeling anything, about being dead inside, about violence being just another tool. But there had been enough lies and deceit in her life.
"I don't know," I admitted. "I don't think I have a choice."
"Everyone has a choice."
"No." I shook my head, trying to find words for something I'd never really examined.
"Some of us are built for this. The violence, the blood, the necessary cruelty.
If I don't do it, someone else has to. Someone like my brother Nikolai, who's trying to be better than our history.
Someone like Sophie, who's too good for this world.
Someone like you, who saves lives instead of taking them. "
I sighed, the sound heavy in the quiet room.
"I keep going because of my responsibility to the people I love.
My family. They need someone who can do the terrible things so they don't have to.
Someone who can carry the weight of that without breaking.
Or at least," I amended, thinking of the sleepless nights and the kittens and the way I'd immediately come to check on her, "without breaking completely. "
She was studying me now with that focused attention she probably used for diagnosis. Reading symptoms and vitals and all the things bodies betrayed when words lied.
"That's lonely," she said quietly.
"Yes."
"And it's killing you slowly."
"Probably."
"But you won't stop."
"Can't stop." I corrected. "There's a difference."
Silence settled again, but it was different now. Fuller. Like we'd admitted things that couldn't be taken back. She was still shaking, but less violently. Still crying, but just tears now, not sobs.
An idea formed, sudden and possibly stupid, but sometimes stupid ideas were the right ones.
"Come with me," I said, pushing myself to standing. Every wound protested the movement, but I ignored them. "Want to show you something."
She looked up at me, confusion replacing grief for a moment. "What?"
"Something that’s been helping. When I can't sleep." I extended my hand to her, palm up, offering but not demanding. "Trust me. Just for a few minutes."
She stared at my hand like it might bite her. I could see her calculating risks, measuring threat levels, all that survival instinct screaming warnings. But then something in her face shifted—exhaustion maybe, or just being too tired to keep fighting alone—and she reached up.
Her hand was so small in mine. Cold too, like all her blood had retreated to vital organs, leaving her extremities to fend for themselves.
I pulled her up carefully, aware of how fragile she felt, how easy it would be to break her without meaning to.
She swayed slightly, probably from low blood pressure after sitting so long, and I steadied her with my other hand on her elbow.
"Where are we going?" she asked, but she was already following as I led her to the door.
"My room."
She tensed immediately, hand trying to pull back, and I squeezed gently.
"Not for that," I said, meeting her eyes so she could see I meant it. "I want to show you something. Something good."
The hallway was empty—Igor hadn't returned to his post, probably figured I'd dismissed him for the night.
Good. The fewer people who saw this, the better.
Not because anything inappropriate was happening, but because Maya looked like she'd been crying for hours and I looked like a man about to do something stupid for a woman who wasn't mine to care about.
My room was on the same floor, other end of the compound. We walked in silence, her hand still in mine because she hadn't pulled away and I wasn't ready to let go. Her fingers had warmed slightly, or maybe mine had just gotten used to their cold.
I opened my door and drew her inside, closing it behind us with my free hand. The room was dark except for moonlight through the windows, but I didn't turn on the lights. Somehow darkness felt safer for whatever this was.
"This way," I said, leading her toward the utility room.
The door opened on silent hinges, and at first she just looked confused. It was small, meant for storage, with shelves of cleaning supplies and a hot water heater that hummed in the corner. Not the kind of place you brought someone to show them something important.
Then she heard it—a tiny mew, high and demanding.
Her whole body changed. The exhaustion didn't disappear, but something else lit up behind it, something alive and immediate. She moved past me without hesitation, drawn to the cardboard box in the corner like it was magnetic north and she was a compass needle.
"You have kittens." Not a question. A statement of wonder, like I'd just revealed I kept unicorns in my utility closet.
She dropped to her knees beside the box, and I watched her transform. The broken woman who'd been sobbing in a corner five minutes ago disappeared, replaced by someone whose hands moved with careful purpose, whose eyes sparked with something that wasn't fear or grief or shame.
The question caught me off guard, even though I'd brought her here specifically to see them. Something about the way she said it—like it was the last thing she'd ever expect from someone like me.
"Found them in the alley," I said, moving to crouch beside her. Our shoulders almost touched, and I could smell her again—that vanilla scent stronger now, mixed with salt from tears. "Someone left them in a trash bag to freeze."
"How long ago?"
"Four days. Maybe five." I reached into the box, scooping up Zmeya, who immediately started complaining about being woken. "This one tried to bite me when I picked him up. Barely had teeth, maybe three weeks old, but still tried to fight."
"Survivor," she murmured, holding out her hands.