Chapter 5
ELENA
The Mercedes-Benz Sprinter came to a smooth, almost silent stop.
The tires whispered against the asphalt. The tinted windows swallowed all light, giving the impression we had pulled up somewhere outside of reality—some abandoned stretch where no one ever came back, where echoes of life didn’t reach.
My pulse thundered in my ears, a drumbeat louder than the van’s purr, louder than my own ragged breathing, filling every inch of space inside me.
Every shadow seemed poised to move. Every sound—distant dog, fluttering tarp—set my nerves alight.
The rear door hissed open, the soft hydraulic sound cutting through the night like a blade.
Moonlight spilled across the threshold, outlining Ruslan in sharp, lethal relief.
He had changed. The blood-stained dress shirt from earlier was gone, replaced with a simple white cotton shirt, sleeves rolled to mid-forearm, revealing corded muscles and faint scars—etched reminders of past fights and old knife wounds.
His skin glowed faintly under the moon, pale and luminous, almost unnatural.
Even after the chaos of the day, even after fear and adrenaline, I couldn’t breathe properly.
He stole the air in the space between us.
At the altar, he’d been terrifying—an untouchable force of wrath and authority.
In the dimly lit Labyrinth, he had been a shadow, a phantom to be feared.
But here, under clean moonlight, he seemed sculpted from marble and rage, perfect and deadly, a force of nature wrapped in human skin.
My throat ached to speak, my body trembled, and still I could not tear my eyes away.
“Don’t kill me,” I blurted before I could stop myself.
The words ripped across my raw, spasming vocal cords. Pain lanced through my chest with each syllable, but they came out—hoarse, broken, but audible.
The long silence in the van had given my throat a fragile reprieve; I could speak now, just barely.
His eyes flicked to me—flat, unreadable, nothing human behind the storm-gray depths. No reaction, no sign of mercy or threat, only calm judgment.
“Step down,” he said, voice low, precise.
My heart slammed so hard it felt as though it might burst from my chest.
Legs trembling, knees weak, I obeyed, lowering myself to the pavement with meticulous caution.
He stepped back the instant I touched the ground, giving me space. It was a gesture masquerading as civility, but I felt the underlying warning: one wrong move, and this merciful distance could vanish in a heartbeat.
I stood there, exposed, vulnerable, every muscle coiled for flight, like an animal trapped with a predator.
My eyes darted to the building ahead—a low, modern structure with clean floodlights and a discreet sign: Pacific Crest Private Clinic.
Relief crashed into me, sudden and sharp, nearly sending my knees buckling. A hospital. Not some hidden labyrinth of blood and vengeance.
We stood in the night air, silence stretching taut between us. Minutes passed. He didn’t move. I didn’t dare breathe too loudly.
My fingers were clenched, white at the knuckles, hanging uselessly at my sides.
The soft chirp of insects and distant traffic became deafening in the stillness. Then movement drew my gaze.
A woman approached, emerging from the shadows with the quiet confidence of someone entirely at home in this controlled space.
Mid-thirties, petite, dark hair pulled into a perfect bun, pristine white lab coat over navy scrubs.
She walked toward us like she knew exactly what was happening, her eyes scanning me with clinical precision—yet there was kindness there, a softness that contrasted sharply with Ruslan’s oppressive presence.
“Ruslan,” she called softly, voice careful, respectful.
Her eyes flicked to me, observing without judgment.
“You said when she tries to speak, she coughs blood?”
“That’s correct,” he answered, clipped, precise.
His eyes didn’t leave me, but there was a thread of wariness now, tension barely restrained behind the perfect composure.
She hummed, thoughtful, closing the distance. “You don’t have to speak. Just nod for yes, shake your head for no. Understood?”
I nodded, slow, deliberate.
“Do you have chronic dysphonia—difficulty producing voice?”
Nod.
“Does phonation trigger hemoptysis—coughing blood—every time you attempt it?”
Shake.
“Good. We can manage that.” She glanced at Ruslan. “The clinic is fully booked tonight. Bring her back tomorrow evening—five o’clock. I’ll make sure she’s seen immediately. Full laryngoscopy, vocal cord assessment, possibly biopsy if needed.”
Ruslan gave a single, sharp nod. No words. No expression. Just acknowledgment.
“She can come alone,” the doctor added gently, as though reading both our tension. “You don’t have to escort her. I’ll handle everything.”
Ruslan inclined his head, a subtle, nearly imperceptible acknowledgment. Nothing more. No relief. No thanks. Only a careful assessment of the situation.
I exhaled slowly, almost imperceptibly, but my chest still ached with every heartbeat.
For the first time that night, I allowed myself a flicker of hope. The hospital wasn’t a trap. Maybe, just maybe, I could finally have a moment to prove the truth.
But even as that thought flared, Ruslan’s storm-gray gaze never left me.
We turned to leave.
“Ruslan.”
He paused mid-step.
The doctor stood a few feet behind us, hands folded in the pockets of her coat, expression professional but weighted with something personal.
The floodlights washed her face pale, drawing soft shadows beneath her eyes.
“I’ll send over a starter course of anti-inflammatory medication and a topical anesthetic spray tonight,” she said. “It should stabilize her enough to speak more comfortably by morning.”
Another nod. Sharp. Final.
She hesitated, clearly debating whether to say what pressed at the edge of her mouth.
“You’ve been avoiding me.”
The air shifted.
Ruslan didn’t turn around at first. His shoulders went rigid, as if someone had driven steel rods through his spine.
“Not now.”
“So when?” Her voice softened, the clinical edge falling away. Old hurt bled through, unmistakable. “You can’t keep avoiding me forever. Your mother—”
“Shut it.”
He moved so fast I barely registered it—two long strides and suddenly he was towering over her, close enough that I instinctively recoiled.
Rage rolled off him in visible waves.
His fists clenched at his sides, knuckles whitening. The cords in his neck stood out like cables under strain, jaw locked so tight I thought his teeth might crack.
“I have one family,” he said, voice low and vibrating with violence.
“Amy. She’s dead.” His eyes burned, wild and merciless.
“Everyone else—including you—holds zero value to me. None of you were there when it mattered. Not one of you.” He leaned closer, every word sharpened to a blade. “So shut your mouth. Or I’ll make you.”
For one terrible second, I thought he might actually hurt her.
But the woman didn’t flinch. She didn’t step back. She simply lowered her gaze, accepting the blow with a quiet dignity that twisted something deep in my chest.
“Understood,” she said calmly. “Medication will be delivered tonight. Bring her at five tomorrow. I’ll personally see her.”
She lifted her eyes one last time, sadness flickering through them like a dying flame.
“See you when you decide you’re ready,” she added softly. “...brother.”
Then she turned and walked away, heels clicking lightly against the pavement until the darkness swallowed her whole.
The silence that followed felt like a held breath—thick, suffocating.
Ruslan stood motionless for several long seconds.
His chest rose and fell slowly, deliberately, as though he were wrestling something monstrous back into its cage.
Moonlight caught in his hair, along the sharp planes of his face, turning him into a statue carved from fury.
Then he turned to me.
“Get in the car,” he said flatly. “We’re not done.”
Panic flared hot in my gut.
I opened my mouth—tried to ask where, tried to plead, to explain—but he cut me off without looking back.
“You’re mute, not deaf,” he said coldly. “You heard the doctor. No more forcing words until she examines you tomorrow.”
The reprimand stung. But beneath it—buried deep—was something else. Not kindness. Something sharper. Something almost like... concern.
I swallowed. My throat burned, but the pain was less now. Dull instead of blinding. Manageable.
“A... actually...” I forced out, voice cracking like glass under pressure. “I... I’m... d-deaf too.”
He stopped.
Turned.
Stared at me as if I’d just spoken in another language.
For a heartbeat, there was no rage. Just disbelief.
“My son made me marry a beautiful deaf-and-mute woman,” he muttered, more to himself than to me. His brow furrowed as if the sheer absurdity of it had only just landed. “Unbelievable.”
I took a breath—shallow, careful—and pushed again, each word scraping raw flesh.
“Di... vorce me.”
The word tasted like blood and fear.
His lips curved—not in a smile, but something colder. Humorless.
“No.”
He clenched his fist at his side and looked up at the moon instead of at me, as though my request offended the universe itself.
“The only thing that will separate you from me,” he said quietly, “is death.”
My stomach dropped.
“I... n-need...” I pressed two fingers lightly to my throat, willing it to hold together. “I need... to be married to Harris... b-before I can claim... my-my-my inheritance.”
That got his attention.
“You forgot that when you pointed at me on the altar?” His gaze snapped back to mine—fierce, blazing, an electric blue lit from within by fury. “You chose this.”
“I wasn’t... thinking.”
Pain speared through my throat without warning. I winced, breath hitching, fingers digging into the side of my neck as if I could physically hold myself together.
He stepped closer.
Too close.
“You seem perfectly capable of speaking now,” he said softly, dangerously. “My beautiful deaf-and-mute wife.”