Chapter 7
ELENA
My sister’s head shifted at the sound.
Slow. Heavy.
Her left eye was completely swollen shut — the lid puffed and discolored, sealed by trauma.
The right eye strained open.
It took effort.
Her gaze focused on me with painful slowness — like her brain was fighting through shock to recognize what it was seeing.
Her body trembled violently.
Whether from pain, shock, or fear — I couldn’t tell.
“E...lena...” she breathed.
The sound came out as a wet rasp.
Her lips barely moved.
We shared the same name.
Her name was Elena — Elena Senior — though right now there was nothing regal about her. Nothing strong. Nothing left of the woman she used to be.
I crossed the distance in seconds and dropped to my knees in front of her.
My hands reached for her instinctively.
“Elena,” I whispered — voice breaking for the first time since entering.
I wrapped my arms around her.
Carefully. Gently.
But the second I pulled her against me, she inhaled sharply — and her body jerked.
She made a sound of pain that ripped through me like a blade.
I froze.
Immediately I released her.
“I’m sorry — I’m sorry —” I whispered fast, pulling back as if I’d burned her.
Every inch of her looked like an open wound.
Touching her felt like risking further damage.
Her good eye filled with tears.
They spilled slowly down her bruised cheek.
“...You came...” she whispered.
That shattered me.
“Yes,” I breathed. “I came.”
A thick string of saliva mixed with blood dripped from her ruined mouth. It hung for a second before falling onto her torn dress.
She swallowed it back with visible effort, her throat working painfully as if even that simple movement cost her everything.
She shook her head — small, frantic — like she wished I hadn’t seen her like this.
Like she was ashamed.
“Please...” Her voice cracked, barely more than a whisper dragged from shredded lungs. “...end me.”
The words hit me harder than a bullet.
I froze.
Then I shook my head violently. “No. No, no, Elena.”
Her swollen lips trembled.
“I’ve been...” She swallowed again. Her teeth clacked faintly together as fresh blood welled at the corners of her mouth. Her body shuddered from the effort of speaking. “...on the run... for years. Never resting. Hiding... evading... Ruslan’s men...”
Her good eye — the one that wasn’t swollen shut — filled with tears.
“I... just want to die.”
The desperation in her voice shattered something inside my chest.
I reached for her.
My hands cupped her face — gently. So gently. As if she were made of glass and might crack beneath my touch. My thumbs brushed away tears that carved clean lines through dirt and dried blood on her cheeks.
“You’re not dying,” I whispered fiercely. My voice trembled but my words were iron. “Not here. Not ever. I’m getting you out.”
She stared at me.
Exhausted. Unbelieving.
Like hope was a language she had forgotten how to understand.
Then her head dropped forward again, shoulders sagging against the ropes that bound her to the broken chair.
She had stopped fighting.
Not because she wanted to — but because she simply had no strength left to fight.
Tears blurred my vision. Hot. Relentless.
They fell so heavily they dropped onto the cold concrete floor like shattered fragments of my restraint.
My throat tightened until it felt sealed shut.
Every breath scraped against the inside of my chest. I tried to speak — to reassure her — but the words dissolved into broken sobs.
I wasn’t prepared for this.
Not for seeing my sister reduced to skin stretched over bone.
Not for the sight of bruises layered over scars layered over fresh wounds.
“I’ll get you out,” I choked out, pressing my forehead briefly against hers. “I swear on everything I have left.”
My hands shook violently as I pulled away.
I shifted my weight and rose onto one knee beside the chair.
From inside my right boot, I reached for the small tactical dagger strapped there — thin blade, razor sharp, serrated along one edge for cutting through heavy restraints.
I flicked it open.
The soft metallic snick sounded deafening in the silent room.
Then I began cutting.
The ropes around her wrists were thick — coarse hemp reinforced with knots tightened so brutally that they had bitten deep into her skin.
I started with her right wrist.
Carefully.
I slid the blade under the rope and sawed through the fibers slowly. The material resisted at first before giving way with faint popping sounds as strands snapped apart.
Blood welled fresh where the rope had embedded itself into raw flesh.
I bit down on my lip so hard I tasted copper — forcing myself not to panic at how close the blade came to her skin.
Steady.
Focus.
I shifted to the next layer, cutting through knots that were fused with dried blood and torn tissue.
Her left wrist came next.
The rope there had sunk deeper — as if it had been tightened repeatedly over time. It clung to her skin like it had grown into it.
I worked it loose inch by inch.
When the blade brushed against exposed skin, she flinched — a weak reflex.
“I’m sorry,” I murmured immediately.
She shook her head slightly.
“It’s... okay...” she breathed.
That nearly broke me.
I moved to her ankles.
The ropes there were worse.
Her legs were swollen from restricted circulation. Purple bruises spread beneath the skin. The cords had carved deep furrows around her bones like permanent marks of captivity.
I sliced through the first restraint.
Nothing.
The second.
Nothing.
The third finally snapped with a dull twang that echoed in the room.
I caught her leg before it could fall too harshly.
The moment the final rope was severed, her body collapsed forward.
The chair had been the only thing keeping her upright.
She fell face-first onto the filthy concrete floor with a soft, sickening thud.
Her limbs sprawled at unnatural angles — muscles too weak to react, nerves shocked from prolonged restraint.
“Elena...”
Her name broke out of my throat in a whisper as I scrambled to her side.
I dropped to my knees and rolled her over gently — careful, terrified of causing more damage.
Her head lolled lifelessly to the side. Her eyes were closed. Her chest rose in shallow, uneven breaths that looked painful — like each inhale had to be fought for.
Unconscious.
Or worse.
“Oh no...” The words tore out of me, cracked and unstable. “No, no — I can’t find you after all these years just to watch you die here.”
My hands hovered over her face as if touching her might break whatever fragile thread was keeping her alive.
“You’re the only real family I have left,” I whispered, voice trembling. “Please...”
My throat closed.
Tears burned behind my eyes.
I carefully slid one arm under her shoulders and the other beneath her knees, lifting her into my arms.
She was alarmingly light.
Too light.
Her bones pressed sharply against my grip — skin thin, fragile, marked by abuse and starvation. She smelled of old blood, sweat, and untreated wounds that had festered too long.
The scent hit me like a physical blow.
I pulled her closer to my chest and adjusted her weight, cradling her like she was something sacred that I had just barely managed to reclaim.
I rocked slightly.
Tears fell freely now — splashing onto her matted hair.
“Help!” I screamed suddenly, my voice ripping through the silent room. “Someone help!”
The word echoed off the walls.
Silence answered me.
No footsteps.
No rush.
Only the distant drip of water somewhere in the building and the faint buzz of dying fluorescent lights overhead.
“Elena...” I pressed my forehead against hers. “Open your eyes, please...”
My fingers brushed her cheek, shaking.
“Don’t die on me now. You can’t give up. Big sister... please... stay with me.”
Nothing.
Her head slumped heavier against my shoulder.
I pulled her closer and lowered my ear to her chest — listening.
There.
A faint beat. Weak. Unstable.
But there.
Relief and terror collided inside me at the same time.
She was still fighting.
Footsteps. Sudden.
Running.
They thundered down the corridor, growing louder by the second.
My body reacted before my mind did.
I shifted, lowering her slightly while tightening my hold, ready to use my gun if anyone came in hostile.
Two men burst through the doorway.
Black tactical gear.
Earpieces.
Serious expressions hardened by discipline.
My muscles locked.
I expected force. Expected them to grab me. Restrain me. Question me.
Instead—
They moved straight toward us.
No hesitation. No aggression.
They knelt beside me almost simultaneously.
One slid his arms carefully under her shoulders. The other positioned his hands beneath her legs.
“Where are you taking her?” I demanded sharply, rising to my feet as they lifted her.
“To the hospital, ma’am,” the taller one replied. His voice was calm, professional — not unkind. “Now.”
They carried her with practiced coordination — efficient yet surprisingly gentle for men that size.
“I’m coming,” I said immediately, stepping after them.
“No, ma’am.” The shorter, broader one didn’t look at me. He adjusted his grip on her body. “Orders. Tell Mr. Baranov to bring you if you must come.”
Mr. Baranov.
The name hit like a reminder.
Like a leash.
My jaw clenched.
They moved fast toward the exit — boots steady, carrying her like time was critical.
We reached the loading bay.
An ambulance waited — white, unmarked, engine already running. Silent emergency lights pulsed softly against the dark.
The doors were open.
Inside, a doctor and nurse were already prepared.
IV bags hung.
Monitoring equipment beeped to life.
They transferred Elena onto the gurney with seamless coordination.
The doctor immediately checked her pulse and airway while the nurse connected monitors and prepared an IV line.
“Please,” I begged, stepping toward the vehicle. “Let me ride with her—”
The taller guard stepped in front of me.
Not aggressively.
But firmly.
“Orders,” he repeated.
That word burned.
The ambulance doors slammed shut.