Chapter 4 #2
Her weight shifts gradually from rigid to heavy, and I feel the exact second her body decides it doesn’t have to fight anymore.
The tremor in her hands fades first, then her breathing evens out until it matches mine without effort, and finally her grip on my shirt loosens just enough to tell me she’s gone under.
Not deep sleep. Not peaceful. But enough.
Her cheek is still pressed to my chest, her hair tangled between my fingers, and I keep my hand where it is because the last thing she needs is to wake up reaching for something that isn’t there.
The room is dark except for the faint wash of moonlight coming through the window, and I adjust my position slightly so I’m more comfortable without shifting her weight too much.
She makes a small sound in her sleep and tightens her hand again like she felt the movement, so I settle immediately.
“It’s all right,” I murmur, even though she can’t hear it. Or maybe she can.
My arm stays wrapped around her shoulders, my other hand still cupping the back of her head, and I let my breathing stay slow and steady so she has something constant to anchor to.
I can feel the faint warmth of her tears drying against my skin, and the memory of her swinging at me flashes through my head. Not fear. Instinct. Survival.
I shift just enough to reach for the blanket at the edge of the bed and pull it higher over her shoulder, tucking it around her without disturbing the rhythm she finally found. She exhales softly and presses closer without waking, like her body made the decision before her mind did.
I stay like that, listening to the quiet of the house and counting her breaths as they move slow and steady against my chest, waiting for any sign the nightmare is trying to drag her back under.
If it does, I’ll be here, and if her father comes tomorrow, I’ll be here for that too.
If her brothers decide to test the perimeter instead of knock like civilized men, I’ll be here when they do.
She doesn’t know it yet, but she walked out of one cage and into something different, and as long as she’s in this house, no one is putting their hands on her again.
I wake before the sun fully rises, and for a second I don’t move because she’s still curled against me, breathing slow and even.
Her hand is fisted loosely in my shirt like she fell asleep afraid I’d disappear, and I ease my arm out from under her carefully so I don’t wake her.
She shifts once and settles, and when the blanket slips, I see the faint yellowing along her wrist where the rope bit in.
The bruises are still there, shadowing her skin in dull purples and greens, but they’re starting to turn, starting to heal. It’s progress, even if it’s slow.
I pull the blanket higher over her shoulder and sit there for another second, studying the fading marks like I can will them gone faster.
Eighteen days left their imprint on her, and part of me hates that I didn’t get there sooner.
But she’s here now, and she’s breathing steady in my bed, and that’s what matters.
I slide out carefully and stand, pausing at the doorway to look back at her. In the early gray light she looks smaller somehow, the hard edges of survival softened by sleep. I leave the door cracked just enough to hear her if she calls out, then head for the bathroom.
The mirror catches me under unforgiving light while I splash water over my face and brush my teeth. I pull on a T-shirt and drag a hand through my hair, rolling my shoulders once before stepping into the kitchen. The house is quiet, the kind of quiet that feels earned after a night like that.
I start the coffee first and let the smell fill the space while I grab eggs from the fridge and set a pan on the stove.
The crack of shells and the low sizzle of butter anchor me, something normal and steady in a situation that isn’t.
If Viktor Dragunov is landing in this country today, I’ll deal with him when he gets here.
But when she wakes up, she’s waking to coffee and breakfast, not to fear.
And the next time she looks down at her arms, those bruises will be a little lighter than they were yesterday.
“Good morning,” she says as she walks into the kitchen, her voice still thick with sleep and her blonde hair mussed from the pillow, strands falling in soft disarray around her face.
Her green eyes are heavy-lidded and unfocused at first, still caught somewhere between dreaming and waking, but even like that they’re bright.
Too bright for someone who went through what she did.
I turn from the stove and the words stick for a second.
She looks… soft. Sleep-rumpled. Barefoot in one of my shirts that hangs loose on her frame and a pair of sweats that are way too big. She looks fragile and strong at the same time, beautiful in a way that has nothing to do with perfection and everything to do with survival.
“Morning,” I manage, reaching for another mug. “Coffee?”
“Please,” she says, rubbing at one eye. “I’m going to need it if I’m going to survive today.” She laughs softly, but there’s something underneath it, something resigned that I don’t miss.
“How do you take it?” I ask, moving toward the counter. “I’ve got creamer, milk, and sugar.”
Her eyes lift and spark just a little. “You have creamer?” she asks, grinning. “I figured you’d drink it black.”
“I do,” I reply, quirking a brow. “The creamer’s for my mother when she visits.”
“She must visit often if you keep creamer in the house just for her,” she says, leaning her hip against the counter, still half wrapped in sleep.
“She does. She lives five minutes down the road and stops in a few times a week whether I invite her or not.”
That earns me a softer smile, one that smooths some of the tension from her face. “I’ll take creamer too,” she says. “Thank you.”
I pour the coffee and then the creamer, watching the dark turn light as it swirls. I glance up at her to see when to stop, but she just motions for me to keep going.
I shake my head slightly. “You want a little coffee with your creamer?”
She smiles, and even with the fading bruises and the exhaustion she’s carrying, it’s bright enough to change the room. “The man gets it.”
I laugh and hand her the mug. She wraps both hands around it and takes a careful sip, a soft sound slips out of her before she can stop it.
“Good coffee,” she says, eyes closing for a second.
When she opens them she looks at what I'm doing at the stove.
“That smells wonderful. Do you need any help?”
I shake my head and turn back to the stove. “Go have a seat. It’s almost ready.”
She nods and moves to the table without question, coffee cradled in her hands.
I finish up the eggs and flip them cleanly onto two plates, then pop the toast and butter it before carrying everything to the table. She’s sitting straight-backed, even half asleep, green eyes watching me.
I set the plate in front of her. “Eat.”
She gives me a faint smile and reaches for her fork.
I sit across from her, and for a second I wonder how many mornings of her life have looked like this, except bigger tables, heavier expectations, and someone else deciding her future between bites.
I’m about to take a bite of my eggs when there’s a knock at the back door.
Not tentative. Not cautious.
Two firm raps and then the handle jiggles like the knock was just a courtesy.
I close my eyes for half a second.
Of course.
“Stay there,” I tell Anya automatically, already pushing back from the table.
She watches me with mild curiosity as I cross the kitchen and unlock the back door just as it swings inward.
“Misha, ya znala, chto ty uzhe ne spit,” my mother says as she steps inside without waiting. I knew you wouldn’t still be sleeping.
She’s carrying two grocery bags like she’s about to restock my entire house, and she keeps talking in rapid Russian as she kicks the door shut behind her. “Ty ne otvechal vchera, i ya reshila, chto pridu sama.” You didn’t answer yesterday, so I decided to come myself.
“Dobroye utro, Mama,” I mutter. Good morning, Mom.
She moves straight into the kitchen like she owns it, which, honestly, she does in spirit. “Ya prinesla tebe normal’nuyu edu, potomu chto ty pitayesh’sya kak student.” I brought you real food because you eat like a college student.
Then she looks up.
And sees Anya at the table in one of my shirts. Plates set out. Coffee steaming. My mother freezes mid-step. Her eyes widen just slightly before her cheeks tint pink. Not scandalized. Just… caught. “Oy,” she says softly.
Anya rises from her chair immediately. Graceful. Polite. Like she’s been trained for moments exactly like this. “Dobroye utro,” Anya says gently. Good morning.
My mother blinks, then recovers fast, because that’s who she is. “Dobroye utro,” she replies automatically, still staring at her like she’s trying to place her.
“I’m so sorry,” my mother adds quickly, switching to English as she looks between us. “I didn’t realize you had company. I would have called first.”
Anya steps forward without hesitation and reaches for the bags in my mother’s hands.
“Pozhaluysta, allow me,” she says softly, her accent smooth. Please.
She takes one of the bags from her and carries it to the counter like she belongs here.
Then she turns back to my mother with that composed little smile that doesn’t quite hide the exhaustion in her green eyes.
“You must be Roman’s mother,” she says warmly. “It’s very nice to meet you.”
My mother straightens slightly, flustered but pleased. “Yes. Yes, I am.”
Anya gestures to the chair she just vacated. “Please,” she says. “Take my seat.”
And I stand there watching it happen.
My mother, who barrels into my house speaking Russian and criticizing my diet.
And Viktor Dragunov’s daughter, raised in power and expectation, offering her chair like she’s hosting a state dinner.
My mother switches to English in a rush. “Oh no, I couldn’t,” she says when Anya gestures toward the chair. “Please, you were sitting—”
Anya steps closer and gently waves her off. “Nyet, nyet,” she says with a soft smile. No, no. “Please. Sit.” There’s something calm in her tone. Assured. Polite without being weak.
My mother hesitates for half a second before allowing herself to be guided into the chair Anya just vacated.
“Would you like some coffee?” Anya asks her.
My mother brightens immediately. “Yes, please.”
Anya turns toward the counter without waiting for further instruction, moving easily through my kitchen like she’s been here longer than twelve hours. I start unpacking the grocery bags while Anya pours coffee into a mug and adds creamer with careful attention.
“Spasibo,” my mother says as Anya hands it to her. Thank you.
“Pozhaluysta,” Anya replies. You’re welcome.
My mother beams at her, already charmed. “And,” my mother adds proudly, reaching for one of the containers she brought, “I made pirozhki.” She opens the lid. The smell hits immediately. Warm dough. Savory filling.
Anya and I look at each other at the same time. “You made pirozhki?” Anya says, eyes lighting up in a way I haven’t seen yet. I can’t help it. “You brought pirozhki and didn’t lead with that?”
My mother laughs, clearly pleased with the reaction. “Of course I did.”
Anya sets the coffee down carefully in front of my mother and straightens, smoothing her hair back instinctively. She looks composed, even in my shirt, even with fading bruises along her wrist.
“I’m sorry,” she says warmly. “I should introduce myself properly—”
“Anastasiya,” I cut in gently.
Both women look at me.
I step forward a little, not claiming her, not speaking over her, just making it clear she doesn’t have to carry this part alone.
“Mama,” I say, meeting my mother’s eyes, “this is Anastasiya.”
My mother’s expression shifts instantly. Not surprise. Not suspicion. Just attention.
“It’s very nice to meet you, Anastasiya,” she says, taking her hand.
“And this,” I add quietly, “is my mother. Irina Kovacs.”
Anya’s posture softens just slightly at the name.
Irina studies her for a long second, and I find myself watching the interaction like it’s something fragile.
My mother is in her early fifties, but there’s nothing delicate about her.
Her dark hair is pulled back neatly, silver threading through at the temples in a way that looks earned rather than accidental.
Fine lines frame her eyes when she smiles, but they only make her more beautiful.
She carries herself straight and steady, warmth in her expression and steel beneath it.
Life hasn’t made her brittle. It’s made her strong.
It’s been just the two of us for a long time.
And now she’s standing in my kitchen, shaking hands with Viktor Dragunov’s daughter like this is just another Tuesday morning.