5. Polina
Polina
Something wakes me.
Not a sound exactly—just a shift in the air. I go very still, eyes shut, breath shallow.
Someone's in the room.
I crack one eye just enough to see through my lashes.
A man.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Even in the dim light spilling through the curtains, I can make out the sharp angles of his face, the way he moves—controlled, deliberate.
My heart kicks hard against my ribs.
He owns me now. He must. That's how this works, isn't it? You get pulled out of one nightmare and deposited into another. The doctor said I was safe, but the doctor isn't here now, and this man is.
Will he hurt me?
Will he want...other things?
I hope not. God, I hope not. My body already aches everywhere—ribs screaming with every breath, bruises throbbing, exhaustion so heavy I can barely think. I don't know if I could survive being used right now. Not tonight.
I keep my eyes closed and force my breathing to stay even, slow, like I'm still asleep. Maybe if he thinks I'm unconscious, he'll leave. Maybe he'll just check on me and go.
But he doesn't leave.
I feel him move closer. The mattress shifts slightly under his weight as he sits on the edge of the bed, and my pulse hammers so loud I'm sure he can hear it.
Then his hand—warm, tender—touches mine.
I nearly flinch, but I hold myself frozen. His fingers fold gently around my hand, and he just...holds it. Not squeezing. Not demanding. Just holding, like it's the most natural thing in the world.
His thumb brushes my knuckles. Once. Twice. A slow, absent stroke, like he's memorizing the shape of my hand in the dark.
Then I feel his other hand on my hair.
Oh.
He smooths it back from my forehead, his touch so tender I barely feel it, and something inside me flutters.
No one has ever touched me like this. Not once in twenty-one years.
My father's hands brought pain. Fists and open palms and fingers digging into bruises until I learned to stop crying, stop flinching, stop reacting at all.
But this man—this stranger who pulled me out of hell—his hands are different.
They're gentle—almost reverent.
I’m shaken to my very core
He leans down, and I feel the warmth of his breath against my forehead. Then his lips press there, soft as a whisper, and my entire body goes liquid.
A kiss.
It's not even a real kiss—not on the mouth, not anything scandalous—but it's mine, and it's perfect, and I want to cry.
I don't, because I'm still pretending to sleep, but my insides light up like a match struck in the dark.
He pulls back slowly, and I hear him settle into the chair beside the bed. The leather creaks as he shifts his weight. Then...nothing. Just the sound of his breathing, steady and even, like he's keeping watch.
Like he's protecting me.
I let myself drift, just a little, my mind spinning out into fantasy because it's safer than reality.
What if he's kind? What if he keeps being kind?
What if he touches me like that again—soft and careful and like I matter?
What if I get to stay here, in this warm bed, in this quiet room, where no one yells or hits or hurts me?
What if he wants me?
The thought sends a guilty wave of excitement over me, and I'm ashamed of it, but I can't stop it. I've never been wanted—not for anything good. But the way he touched my hand and kissed my forehead...
Maybe this is different.
I fall asleep imagining it. Imagining him. Imagining a world where I'm not just surviving, but living. Where someone looks at me the way he did in that cell—like I'm something worth saving.
I wake screaming.
The nightmare claws its way up from somewhere deep and vicious—my father's face, his fists, the sound of the van doors slamming shut, the cold concrete under my cheek. I can't breathe. I can't—
"Polina."
A low, steady voice cuts through the panic.
Arms wrap around me, strong and sure, and suddenly I'm not alone in the dark. I'm pressed against a warm, solid chest, and a hand is stroking my hair, and someone is murmuring, "You're safe. You're safe. I've got you."
I'm shaking so hard my teeth chatter, but he doesn't let go. He just holds me tighter, tucking my head under his chin, and rocks me like I'm something fragile.
Like I'm something precious.
"It's okay," he says quietly. "Just a bad dream. You're here. You're with me."
I bury my face in his shirt and sob. I can't help it. Everything I've been holding in for weeks—maybe years—comes pouring out, and he just lets me cry. He doesn't tell me to stop. He doesn't pull away.
He stays.
When the sobs finally slow, I realize he's in the bed with me. Not on top of the covers—under them. He climbed in beside me and wrapped himself around me like a shield, and I don't even know when that happened.
"I'm sorry," I choke out.
"Don't." His voice is almost angry, but not at me. "Don't apologize. Not for this. Not for anything."
I nod against his chest, my fingers clutching his shirt like a lifeline.
"Dr. Rossi says you can go home tomorrow," he says after a long silence.
My entire body goes rigid.
Home.
No. No, no, no.
"Please." The word tears out of me before I can stop it. "Please don't send me back."
He goes very still. "Back where?"
"Home. To my father. Please." I'm begging now, and I don't care. "I can't—he'll—"
"Your father," he repeats slowly, and there's something lethal threading through his voice now. “Why don’t you want to see your father?”
I don't answer at first. I can't. My voice is wrecked.
And then, because it's dark, and because his heartbeat is under my ear, and because he smells of warm spices and clean skin, the truth leaks out of me. "I wasn't kidnapped." I inhale slowly, then exhale. “I was sold. My father sold me."
I feel his muscles tense.
“The healed fractures the doctor found. The old ones. Your father did that.”
It sounds like a statement, but I know it’s a question.
I’m quiet for a long time.
He waits. Patiently. Like he'll wait all night if he has to.
I open my mouth to deny it. To tell him I’m clumsy and fall a lot, but the words don’t come.
Instead, I nod.
The sound he makes isn't a word. It's more like a growl, low and dangerous.
His chest rises and falls beneath my cheek, and I feel the tension coil through him like a spring wound too tight.
"Fuck him." The words are so vicious I flinch, but then his hand is stroking my hair gently again. "No one is going to hurt you again," he tells me. "Not him. Not anyone. I won't allow it. Do you understand?"
I want to believe him. I want it so badly it hurts.
But I've been lied to before. So many times.
"You don't have to believe me yet," he says, like he can read my mind. "But you will. I'll prove it."
I don't know what to say, so I just nod again.
He shifts slightly, pulling me closer, and I let my guard down, sinking into him.
For the first time in as long as I can remember, I let myself truly relax.
Just for tonight. Just for now.