Chapter 6 #3
The stool scraped violently across the damp concrete as his boot struck it—sent it flying into the darkness where it hit metal with a hollow, echoing clang.
“It was your sister,” he said, his voice dropping low, dangerous, almost a growl, “who killed my sister... with a hundred and fifteen punches. And she didn’t even stop when it was clear she was dead.”
His hands curled into fists so tight the knuckles turned bone-white. Veins stood out along his forearms like cords pulled too tight.
“Amy.”
The name came out raw. Exposed. Like a wound he never let breathe.
“That’s correct,” I whispered.
The words barely carried through the rising wind.
I looked at him the way a woman already standing at the edge of the grave looks at the man holding the shovel—without illusion. Without hope.
“But I didn’t kill your wife,” I continued, forcing myself to stay upright, to stay present. “And what my sister did to yours... has nothing to do with me. I’ve done nothing to you, Ruslan.”
It wasn’t a miracle that words tore out of me—clear and sharp.
Something inside me had snapped, overriding fear, pain, habit.
The silence that followed was worse than a scream.
Then he laughed.
Once.
Short. Sharp. Empty of humor.
“You’ve done nothing to me?” He repeated it slowly, tasting the words like something rotten.
“Your sister beat mine to death—one hundred and fifteen punches. One hundred and fifteen.” His voice rose just enough for the number to land like a blow.
“You butchered my pregnant wife and the child inside her. Your ex-fiancé—Harris—kidnapped my son and slaughtered two of my men.”
He took a step toward me.
Then another.
“And you stand there,” he said, eyes burning, “covered in dirt, surrounded by graves, and dare tell me you’re innocent?”
Before I could answer, the sky spoke for him.
Thunder rolled overhead—deep, violent, shaking the ground beneath our feet. The air turned heavy, charged. The first drops of rain struck my face, cold and sudden, splattering against my skin, my hair, the scattered ash at my feet.
I tilted my head back.
The clouds had thickened into a solid mass of black, swallowing the moon. California rain—rare, unforgiving—never arrived gently. When it came, it came like punishment.
Ruslan followed my gaze skyward.
He didn’t flinch.
The rain came harder—fat drops turning into a steady, brutal downpour. It soaked the earth, darkened the open graves, turned ash to mud.
I dragged air into my lungs and forced the words out.
“D-Divorce me... please... let me go,” I stammered, voice raw, trembling like it could shatter at any moment.
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink.
“No,” he said, low and steady, a weight pressing into my chest with each syllable. Not a hint of mercy. Not a trace of hesitation.
The word was absolute.
Then, almost thoughtfully, he added, “Actually... you will meet your end right here.”
“Then shoot me,” I shouted back, rain stinging my eyes, blood burning my lips. My voice cracked—but it didn’t break. “J-just d-do it. E-end it.” I swallowed hard, breath shaking. “I... I kn-know y-you have a g-gun. In y-your pocket.”
For a long moment, he only watched me struggle to speak.
His mouth curved into a slow, chilling smile.
“No.” He shook his head once. “That would be mercy.”
He gestured to the graves, to the rain, to the night itself.
“I’m not going to kill you,” he said calmly. Too calmly. “I’m going to watch you suffer.”
The wind howled around us.
“I’ll stand here and watch this storm break you. Watch your body shake until it can’t anymore.” His gaze dropped, slow, deliberate, taking in every tremor. “You’ll beg for warmth. You won’t find any.”
He gestured lazily toward the open ground. The graves.
“You’ll either freeze where you stand,” he continued, voice almost bored, “or you’ll crawl into one of those holes yourself and let the earth do what I won’t.”
A pause. Then, softer—deadlier:
“Either way, Tonight is when the consequences begin.”
The rain slammed down in sheets.
It soaked through my borrowed black top in seconds, plastered fabric to skin, stole heat from my bones.
Water streamed down my face, mixed with tears, blood, dirt—washed nothing clean.
Ruslan stood unmoving, rain sliding off him like it couldn’t touch him.
I wrapped my arms around myself, knees shaking, refusing to collapse. Refusing to beg.
“Will my de-death finally he-heal you?” I screamed through the downpour, throat tearing open again. Blood flecked my lips. “Will it bring your sis-sis-sister back? Your wife? Your child?”
Thunder answered again—closer this time.
Ruslan said nothing.
The rain intensified.
What had been heavy drops became sheets—thick, relentless curtains driven sideways by violent wind.
It struck my skin like needles.
The shivering started subtly, then took over completely—violent tremors rattling my teeth, locking my jaw. My fingers went numb. My lungs tightened, familiar and terrifying.
Cold had always done this to me. Hives. Wheezing. Asthma clawing at my chest like an animal desperate to escape.
Tonight it felt deliberate. As if the night itself had chosen me.
“Ruslan... it-it-it... hurts!”
The scream ripped out of me, unrecognizable—raw, shredded by rain and pain. My throat burned instantly, blood blooming warm against the cold.
“P-P-Please,” I sobbed, voice collapsing. “Please... save me...”
The word ‘save’ tasted foolish the moment it left my mouth. But desperation didn’t care about dignity.
My legs buckled. I staggered blindly toward the nearest edge of the circle, feet slipping in mud. One more step and I’d tumble into the open grave—into darkness, into earth, into anything but this freezing torment.
I didn’t care anymore.
Then—movement.
A shadow tore through the rain.
Someone was running—hard, reckless, slipping and catching himself as he burst into the circle of graves like a man chased by his own guilt.
I recognized him instantly.
My stomach dropped.
Dr. Marcus Hale.
My therapist.
Mid-forties. Thinning hair plastered to his scalp. Trench coat soaked through, clinging to his frame. The same man who had stand in a corner eight years ago, chewing his nails, eyes averted—while my aunt’s husband forced himself on me.
“Oh my God—” He skidded to a stop, breathless, panic etched across his face. “Elena?”
His gaze flicked over me—mud-smeared, shaking, barely upright.
“Did this man put you here?”
For a moment I couldn’t speak. I just stared at him through the rain, disbelief crashing into something darker, uglier.
He turned to Ruslan, hands lifting in a placating gesture.
“Mr. Baranov,” Marcus said quickly, voice shaking. “I know the police can’t touch you, but please—this is going too far. Let her go. Punish her another way. Anything. She’ll die out here.”
Ruslan didn’t raise his voice.
“Leave.”
The word was soft. Absolute.
Marcus hesitated.
Something in me snapped.
“Leave!” I screamed, the sound tearing my throat open anew. “Don’t pretend you care now!”
Marcus flinched as if struck.
The last of my strength gave out. I collapsed to my knees in the mud, sobbing so violently my body convulsed. Water pooled beneath my palms. Cold seeped into my skin.
“You made it happen,” I cried, words spilling without restraint. “You betrayed me. You sold me out.”
My hands clawed at my chest as if I could rip the memory free, tear it out like a tumor.
“You stood there,” I screamed. “You watched him violate me. You let it happen.”
The trauma surged like a tidal wave—no warning, no mercy. I folded forward, forehead pressing into the mud, rocking back and forth. My nails dug into my scalp, pulling, grounding me in pain because the memories were worse.
“I trusted you,” I sobbed. “I trusted you.”
Marcus staggered backward, horror and shame battling across his face.
Then Ruslan moved.
He crossed the distance in two strides.
One moment Marcus was standing—next he was airborne. Ruslan grabbed him by the collar and slammed him into the ground with bone-jarring force.
Mud splashed.
Marcus gasped, the breath punched from his lungs.
“What did you do to my wife?”
Ruslan’s voice was low. Deadly. Each word precise.
Marcus choked, rain streaming down his face as he clawed at Ruslan’s wrist.
I lifted my head, mud streaking my cheeks, and screamed through the storm:
“He betrayed me! He let my aunt’s husband violate me!”
Ruslan froze.
His head snapped toward me.
Then back to Marcus.
The grip tightened. Marcus whimpered, terror finally naked.
Ruslan looked at me again—really looked.
For the first time since the altar, something shifted.
Not pity.
Not mercy.
Recognition.
A man recognizing the shape of truth because it matched too closely with his own scars.
Then he kicked him into one of the open graves.
The body hit the earth with a dull, final thud.
And without hesitation, he followed—dropping down after him, landing in the pit like a predator closing the distance at last.
Not rushed. Not wild.
Like a monster who had hunted this prey for years... and was finally ready to finish it.
The water surged around them, icy and black, sloshing up to their waists. Mud sucked at their legs, dragging them down.
The therapist scrambled backward, slipping in the mud, eyes wide and animal with fear.
The rain had become a living thing.
It roared across the open grave like a wild animal unleashed, hammering the earth until the ground surrendered completely.
What had once been dirt was now a churning, ankle-deep swamp. Water poured into the open graves in relentless sheets, rising fast—black, cold, merciless.
The therapist coughed.
A wet, broken sound.
“Mr. Ruslan...” The man’s voice cracked, thin and pleading, barely audible over the rain.
He struggled to keep his head above the rising water. “There seems to be a misunderstanding. I can explain—”
Ruslan didn’t let him finish.
He stepped forward and threw a single punch.
It landed with devastating precision.