Chapter 16 #4
His arms wrapped around my body like I weighed nothing.
I instinctively curled into his chest.
Stinking. Filthy.
Broken.
And yet—
He carried me anyway.
Through the gates.
Up the grand staircase.
Past silent hallways lined with expensive art and heavy security.
Straight to our bathroom.
His steps were steady.
Unshaken.
As if carrying me through war zones and devastation was now part of who he was.
He set me down carefully on the wide marble edge of the tub.
Warm water already filled it.
Steam rose in soft, curling waves toward the ceiling.
Someone had prepared it.
Not randomly — but under his command.
Ruslan always anticipated what I needed before I could even ask.
The heat from the water shimmered against my skin, glowing softly under the bathroom lights.
For a moment, it felt almost peaceful.
Almost normal.
Then reality crashed back in.
Ruslan knelt in front of me.
Not standing over me.
Not commanding. Kneeling.
His posture shifted the power dynamic without words — lowering himself to meet me, to serve me, to care for me.
His hands moved toward the torn hem of my sundress.
They were steady.
Reverent.
He lifted the fabric slowly, carefully, sliding it over my head.
He made sure not to drag it across dried blood that had stiffened along my ribs.
The ruined dress fell to the floor in silence.
Next — my bra.
What remained of it.
His fingers unclasped it gently.
He slid the straps off my shoulders.
No discomfort.
He didn’t flinch at the bruises exposed beneath.
My underwear followed.
He removed it with the same calm precision — treating my body like something sacred rather than something damaged.
Every movement was deliberate.
He never rushed.
He never recoiled from the smell.
From the filth.
From the evidence of what had been done to me.
Then he gathered my hair.
It had once been glossy waves that fell down my back freely.
Now it was tangled.
Stiff with sweat and dried dirt.
He lifted it carefully from my neck and began loosening the knots at my nape with his fingers.
When he hit a stubborn tangle, he didn’t yank.
He worked through it patiently.
Slowly untangling each strand as if restoring something precious.
“Your hair is ruined right now,” he murmured quietly.
“But it will grow back.”
His voice was reassuring.
Then he helped me step into the tub.
The moment my skin submerged in the hot water—
I gasped.
The heat burned against my open scrapes and bruises.
Every cut screamed.
Every injured muscle protested.
I instinctively tried to pull back.
Ruslan’s hands steadied my shoulders.
“Stay,” he whispered.
“Let it clean you.”
The sting slowly turned into something else.
Relief. Deep.
Bone-melting relief.
It was like the water was pulling poison out of my body.
Pulling away dirt.
Pulling away memory.
Ruslan rolled up the sleeves of his black shirt.
He picked up the bar of unscented soap.
My favorite.
The one he always kept stocked because he knew strong perfumes made my skin react.
He dipped a cloth into the water and began.
He started with my face.
Wiping away dried blood.
Erasing streaks of tears.
Cleaning the grime that had clung to my skin.
His thumb traced gently under my eyes.
Then along my jaw.
Then across my lips.
He moved to my neck next.
Careful.
Methodical.
His fingers pressed lightly over bruises there — assessing damage.
Then my shoulders.
My arms.
He lifted each limb slowly, turning it in his hands like he was checking for fractures.
Like he was making sure nothing had been broken beyond repair.
When he reached my stomach —
He stopped.
The bruises there were darker.
More severe.
Evidence of where fists had landed.
Where boots had pressed.
His jaw tightened visibly.
His hand hovered over the largest mark.
His thumb touched it softly.
Not pressing.
Just acknowledging.
His voice dropped lower.
“I’m sorry.”
The words came out rough. Raw.
“For all of it.”
I swallowed hard.
My eyes burned.
“It’s not your fault,” I whispered.
He didn’t argue with me this time.
He didn’t try to take responsibility for something he hadn’t done.
He simply resumed washing.
He moved lower.
My legs. My ankles.
My feet.
Then —
Between my thighs.
His movements didn’t change.
He didn’t become awkward.
He cleaned me there carefully — as if restoring dignity to a place that had been violated.
It wasn’t sexual.
It was healing.
It was reclamation.
When the water turned pink and murky from the blood and dirt washing off my body —
He drained it.
The sound of water rushing down the pipe echoed loudly in the quiet bathroom.
He refilled the tub.
Warm water poured again.
And he washed me a second time.
Thorough.
Determined.
As if removing layers of trauma required repetition.
Only when the water stayed clear did he stop.
He helped me stand.
Wrapped a large, soft towel around my body.
His hands supported my waist as he lifted me out carefully.
He carried me to the bedroom without hesitation.
The sheets had been changed.
Fresh.
Clean.
He laid me down gently as if I were fragile glass.
As if one wrong movement could shatter me.
Then he disappeared into the bathroom.
For a moment — silence swallowed the room.
I lay on the bed naked.
Raw.
Staring at the ceiling.
My body felt cleaner.
But the emptiness inside me was still heavy.
It pressed against my ribs.
That tiny life.
Ours.
It had existed. Even if briefly.
In a few months, I would have felt movement.
Small kicks against my stomach.
I would have watched my body change again.
Daphne would have pressed her ear against my belly and giggled at the idea of being a big sister.
We would have chosen names.
Names tied to strength.
Laurel trees. Victory. Resilience.
Something symbolic.
Something meaningful.
Something that honored survival.
But now —
Nothing.
Harris had taken it.
My father had helped destroy it.
My hands moved instinctively to my stomach.
I curled onto my side.
As if trying to protect a space that no longer held life.
The grief came like waves.
It built slowly.
Then crashed violently.
My chest tightened.
Sobs tore through me.
Silent at first.
Then shaking.
I rocked.
Back and forth.
Trying to regulate the pain.
Trying to survive it.
I wanted to claw the ache out of my body.
Wanted to bleed the grief away.
Wanted to scream until my throat was raw and empty.
I didn’t hear him return.
I only felt the bed dip behind me.
Ruslan had showered.
Changed.
He wore a simple black T-shirt and dark sweatpants.
His hair was damp.
Water droplets clung to the ends and darkened the fabric at his shoulders.
He slid onto the bed carefully.
Not rushing.
Not announcing himself loudly.
He positioned himself behind me and paused — giving me the chance to react.
“Come here,” he murmured softly.
His arms opened.
I hesitated for a second.
Then I turned.
I pressed my body into his.
He immediately wrapped me up.
His chest against my back.
His arm tightening around my waist.
His other hand slid up slowly — resting over my stomach — where our child had once existed.
He began stroking slow circles across my bare skin.
Skin to skin.
Warm.
Grounding. Protective.
“I will never leave you again,” he said quietly against my hair.
His voice vibrated through his chest into my body.
“Not until death do us part.”
He tightened his grip slightly.
“And even then... I’ll fight the devil himself to stay with you.”
The promise wasn’t poetic for show.
It came from guilt.
From fear of losing me again.
From love so intense it carried pain inside it.
From a man who had almost lost everything.
And refused to let it happen twice.
“How many days was I gone?” I asked quietly.
The question slipped out before I could stop it.
My fingers traced absent patterns across Ruslan’s scarred chest — following the ridges of old wounds, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing beneath my touch.
He didn’t answer immediately.
His arms tightened around me instead.
Not in avoidance. But in hesitation.
“It’s best if you don’t know,” he said at last.
The calm in his tone was intentional.
He leaned down and pressed a slow kiss against my forehead — lingering longer than necessary, as if trying to replace the memory of every second I had spent away from him.
“You’re safe now.”
His hand moved across my back in slow, continuous strokes.
“I’ve handled everything.”
His jaw tightened slightly.
“Harris and Vasquez are chained in the basement — waiting for your command.”
My breath caught.
“Waiting for my command?”
Ruslan’s gaze darkened — not with cruelty, but with authority.
“Yes.”
“You’ll be the one to decide how both men die,” he said quietly. “Don’t worry — I know over nine hundred ways to make a man beg for death.”
His voice dropped.
“Every family in California that ever backed them — funded them — protected them — is gone. Financial accounts frozen. Properties seized. Influence dismantled.”
A pause.
“They’re worthless now.”
His gaze hardened.
“Their families? Their power? It’s all been erased.”
My stomach twisted.
“Ruslan...”
“No one will threaten us again,” he continued firmly.
“Not here. Not in Greece.”
He tilted his head slightly, his eye locking onto mine.
“You choose where we go next. I’ll follow.”
The weight of his power and loyalty pressed heavily against my chest.
I closed my eyes for a moment.
Let the steady rhythm of his heartbeat sink into me.
It was strong.
It made the chaos in my mind feel slightly quieter.
“I just want to sleep,” I whispered.
My body felt like it had run a marathon through hell.
My bones ached.
My muscles trembled with exhaustion.
“Then sleep, love.”
His hand never stopped moving.
Slow circles. Reassuring.
Endless.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
I allowed my body to relax fully against his.
My body felt heavy — but my thoughts were restless.
“How about my sister?”
The words escaped softly into the quiet space between us.
Ruslan’s breathing shifted slightly.