Chapter 16 #2
Torn from me by violence. By cruelty.
I lifted my gaze to Harris.
If not for the gun in his hand — steady, smug, cowardly — I would have launched myself at him without hesitation.
I would have wrapped my hands around his throat.
I would have killed him.
The way I killed Hargrove.
Another life.
Gone.
My fingers dug into my own arms so hard that pain radiated through my skin, trying to anchor me to the present.
Why me?
The question looped inside my head like a broken record.
Why does it never stop?
Why does survival always demand loss?
My thoughts shifted suddenly to Daphne.
Her tiny hands.
Her bright eyes.
The way she laughed when Ruslan lifted her into the air.
The way she called him “Papa” with trust.
If Ruslan had seen my calls—
Three hundred and nine.
Three hundred and nine times.
Maybe he had answered. Maybe someone had told him.
Maybe he had found Daphne.
The hope was fragile. Almost cruel.
But it was all I had.
Because right now—
I was here. Covered in blood.
Broken.
And changed forever by what I had just done.
Harris moved.
The sound of fabric shifting pulled me slightly out of the spiral.
He tucked his gun back into his holster slowly.
His eyes weren’t mocking anymore.
They weren’t amused.
They were wide. Not with fear.
But with shock. Realization.
I had crossed a line he did not expect me to cross.
He had underestimated how far desperation could push someone.
He swallowed.
Then, without another word, he turned and walked out of the room.
He didn’t try to restrain me.
He didn’t threaten me.
He simply left.
Minutes passed.
Or maybe seconds.
Time felt distorted.
Then the door opened again.
Three men entered. They didn’t look at me.
Not once.
They moved straight to Hargrove’s corpse.
One grabbed his ankles. Another his shoulders.
They dragged him across the concrete floor.
Blood smeared behind him in a grotesque trail—like a red carpet leading to nowhere.
His ruined body bumped against the doorway as they hauled him out.
No ceremony. No acknowledgment.
Just disposal.
The door clanged shut behind them.
Silence returned.
TIME DISSOLVED.
It stopped meaning anything inside that room.
No food had been brought. No water. No movement beyond the slow shifting of my body when pain forced me to adjust.
The light bulb above had long since gone dim—maybe it had burned out, maybe they had turned it off—but I no longer tracked hours by brightness.
Time was measured by suffering.
I stayed in the corner, knees drawn tightly to my chest, arms wrapped around myself as if I could hold my body together through sheer will.
My eyes remained fixed on the floor.
On the drying blood.
It had turned from bright red to dark brown, cracking slightly at the edges as it soaked into the concrete.
Hargrove’s blood.
My stomach twisted every time I looked at it.
Hunger gnawed at me until it felt like claws scraping against my ribs from the inside. Thirst burned my throat raw. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth whenever I swallowed.
I had lost control of my bladder twice.
I didn’t even have the strength to be ashamed anymore.
Warm liquid had soaked into my torn dress and pooled beneath me before slowly cooling against my skin. The smell of urine mixed with blood and sweat and the damp scent of concrete.
I reeked.
I looked like something dragged from a grave.
Something left behind after violence had finished feeding.
But the physical filth wasn’t what shattered me.
It was the inside.
Every time I closed my eyes, the images returned without mercy.
Hargrove’s face.
The knife going in.
The wet sound.
His scream.
My own scream.
The way power had surged through my veins as I watched him suffer.
The way satisfaction had flooded me before guilt crushed it.
I had killed him.
And for a brief moment—I had liked it.
That realization haunted me more than the act itself.
What did that make me?
A monster?
Or someone pushed too far?
I swallowed hard.
I wasn’t just a woman who had taken a life.
I was a mother who had failed to protect her unborn child.
A wife who might never see her husband again.
A daughter whose own father had beaten life out of her baby.
The memories attacked in waves.
My father’s boot slamming into my stomach.
The brutal force.
The scream that tore from me.
The blood between my thighs hours later.
The violent, twisting agony in my core after my body was forced to expel what it wasn’t ready to lose.
The pain that burrowed deep into my pelvis — sharp, stabbing spasms that still stole my breath.
The realization that the life growing inside me—created in love with Ruslan—had been destroyed before I even knew its gender.
Twice.
Silent sobs shook my shoulders, but I refused to make noise.
I refused to give them the satisfaction of hearing me break.
“I can’t die here,” I whispered to myself.
The words were weak—but I clung to them anyway.
“Daphne needs me.”
My daughter’s face flashed in my mind.
Her tiny hands. Her bright laughter.
The way she ran toward Ruslan and jumped into his arms like he was the safest place in the world.
“I have to live for her.”
But even as I said it, doubt pressed against my thoughts like cold fingers.
What if I never saw her again?
What if they had already taken her?
Hours blurred.
Or maybe minutes passed.
Or maybe days.
My perception of time had collapsed entirely.
My body drifted between exhaustion and alertness, between awareness and numbness.
Then—
The door opened.
The metal hinges groaned loudly, the sound cutting through the heavy silence like a gunshot.
I lifted my head slowly.
Light from the hallway spilled into the room.
Vasquez stood in the doorway.
Harris stood beside him.
Both men had their hands positioned behind their backs.
Their faces were pale.
No smirks.
No arrogance.
No smug enjoyment of control.
Fear.
It was written clearly across their expressions.
They weren’t in charge anymore.
Then—
A shadow moved between them.
My breath caught.
Ruslan stepped forward.
My heart stopped.
He looked exactly as I remembered him—but harder.
Stronger. Deadlier.
His dark shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing the scars along his forearms. An eyepatch covered one side of his face.
His presence filled the doorway before he even crossed the threshold.
Behind him stood Petros.
And at least six other men I recognized from the estate—men who followed him without question.
Men who had come for war.
I tried to stand.
My legs gave out instantly.
Pain shot through my knees and I collapsed back to the floor.
Ruslan saw it.
His jaw tightened.
He crossed the room in three long strides.
He didn’t slow down at the sight of blood.
He dropped to his knees in front of me.
Right there.
In the filth.
In the mess.
He didn’t care.
“Elena...”
My name left his lips like a wound.
His hands reached for me—but instead of hesitation, there was urgency.
He pulled me into his arms.
Hard. Desperate.
Crushing.
One arm wrapped around my waist.
The other slid behind my head, cradling me as if I were something fragile that might shatter if he held too loosely.
I froze.
I was covered in blood.
Sweat.
Urine.
The remnants of violence.
I smelled like death.
I didn’t want him to touch me like this.
Not while I was filthy.
Not while I was broken.
But he didn’t let go.
He tightened his grip instead.
“Elena,” he whispered again, his voice cracking under the weight of everything unsaid. “I’m here. I’ve got you now.”
My arms felt numb—but slowly, instinct took over.
I couldn’t lift them fully.
I couldn’t hug him back properly.
So I grabbed his shirt with blood-crusted fingers and held on.
I pressed my face against his chest.
His heartbeat thundered beneath my ear.
Strong. Alive. Real.
The sound grounded me more than anything else had in days.
He was shaking.
I felt it.
His breath was uneven.
His hands tightened around me like he was afraid that if he relaxed for even a second, I would disappear again.
“I’m so sorry,” he murmured into my hair.
The words were rough.
Broken.
“I’m so fucking sorry I wasn’t there.”
Tears burned down my cheeks.
At first they came silently.
Then the sobs broke free—choking, violent waves that tore through my chest.
I clutched him harder.
He didn’t flinch from my grief. He didn’t recoil from my blood.
He just held me tighter.
We disengaged from the hug slowly.
Reluctantly.
The separation felt wrong—as if pulling away meant risking losing each other again.
My arms dropped to my sides, suddenly heavy. Exhaustion flooded through me the moment his warmth stopped surrounding me.
That was when I saw it.
Dark, wet patches staining the front of Ruslan’s crisp black shirt.
They had formed where my body had pressed against him.
Urine. Sweat. Blood.
The sour odor of days spent trapped in my own filth clung to the fabric.
My stomach twisted violently.
I staggered back a half step.
“You’re... you’re covered in it,” I whispered, shame choking my voice. “I smell like death.”
The words hurt to say—but they were true.
Ruslan didn’t even glance down at his ruined shirt.
He didn’t care.
His single blue eye remained locked on me—intense, scanning, measuring.
Not disgusted. Not distant.
Focused.
“I don’t care,” he said quietly.
His tone wasn’t comforting. It was absolute.
“Let me look at you.”
His hands rose slowly.
Large. Calloused.
Scarred from battles and consequences.
But when they touched me, they were impossibly careful.
His fingers cupped my face first.
Warm.
Grounding.
His thumbs brushed over my cheeks, wiping away dried blood that had crusted onto my skin.
He traced the swelling along my jaw. Followed the faint bruises forming under my eyes.
His touch moved lower.
Along my neck.
Across my shoulders.
Down my arms.
He examined every mark like a soldier assessing damage after a war.
Every touch was deliberate.
Every movement controlled.
“Were you hurt?” His voice dropped lower.