Chapter Four
Arkady
Somewhere between my father’s ruined gates and the highway, Debra’s breathing evens out.
I glance over. Her head’s tipped against the window, eyes closed, mouth slack. Finally unconscious—probably the first time in six years she’s felt safe enough to let go. Or maybe her nervous system has just crashed out.
I turn back to the road, but my mind’s already racing ahead to the next crisis. Mirabel.
Where the fuck is she?
The question’s been chewing at me since I realized she wasn’t among the girls we pulled from the cellar.
Maybe Gavriil has nothing to do with her disappearance.
But if he doesn’t, then where is she? Why hasn’t she called?
Texted? She’d never skip work without notice—not when every hour pays for her father’s chemo.
She’d show up bleeding before she’d miss a shift.
Which means something’s very wrong.
I’m going back out the second I get Debra settled. I’ll burn this entire city down to find her.
Stefan navigates the curves with precision, no wasted motion. We carve through the dark toward Ashwater Heights, and the silence in the van feels dense, oppressive. Just the engine’s hum and Debra’s soft breathing behind me.
When we pull through my gates, the lights are on.
My hands tighten on the door handle. I left minimal staff on tonight—security only. So who the hell is inside?
Stefan stops near the side entrance. I’m out before he cuts the engine. “Get her inside through the east wing,” I tell him. “Keep her out of sight until I check the house.”
He nods once. No questions.
I take the front steps and push through into the foyer. Lemon polish. Fresh flowers. The house has been cleaned. Recently. My boots track across marble that’s gleaming from mopping.
Then I hear it—water running in the kitchen. The soft clink of dishes.
I move down the hallway and stop in the kitchen doorway.
Mirabel.
She’s at the sink, back to me, sleeves pushed to her elbows, washing a pot. Her hair’s twisted up in that messy knot she makes when she’s focused on something else, and she’s humming—soft, off-key.
In my house.
Alive.
The relief hits me so hard I have to lock my knees to stay upright. My chest opens up, lets me breathe for the first time in hours. She’s here. She’s whole. She’s—
Then the rest of reality slams back in.
Debra. Upstairs. Mirabel can’t see her. Not yet.
Not like this—barely stable, brutalized, held together by adrenaline and terror.
And Mirabel will demand answers I can’t give her.
She’ll want to touch her sister, talk to her, fix her, and I can’t let that happen.
Not when Debra’s one wrong word away from breaking completely.
I need her upstairs and hidden. Now.
I step back into the hallway and catch Stefan’s eye through the window. He’s got Debra upright, supporting most of her weight. I motion sharply toward the east corridor, the service route that bypasses all the main rooms. He adjusts course without hesitation.
I watch until they disappear around the corner. Then I count to ten, aligning my expression into something cold and controlled, and walk into the kitchen.
Mirabel hasn’t heard me. She’s bent over the sink, scrubbing hard at something, and I can see the tension strung through her shoulders, the way her hands shake slightly even as she works. She’s not as calm as she’s pretending.
“So. You’re back.”
She spins around. The pot hits the sink with a clatter. Her eyes go wide when she sees me—shock, then something softer, then something else that flickers across her face too fast for me to identify. Like she’s afraid I’ll ask questions she can’t answer.
“Arkady.” My name comes out on an exhale. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, keeping everything locked down tight. I need her here, in this kitchen, away from the east wing for the next ten minutes. “Where were you?”
She opens her mouth. Closes it. “Something came up. I’m sorry I didn’t call, I—”
“Something came up?” I let the words hang there, flat and cold, even though what I want is to cross this room and put my hands on her, confirm she’s real and breathing and mine. “That’s all you’re giving me?”
Her face closes off. “I’m here now. I’ll make up the hours.”
Footsteps echo overhead—Stefan moving Debra to the guest room. Mirabel’s eyes flick toward the ceiling, and I see the question forming before she can ask it.
“We’ll talk about this later,” I cut her off. “I have things to handle.”
I push off the doorframe and walk out before she can respond, before I have to see whatever I just put in her eyes. The hallway stretches ahead, and I take the stairs two at a time to where Yanis waits outside the east guest suite.
“Stefan filled me in.” He keeps his voice low. “How is she?”
I can’t answer. Don’t have words for what I just pulled out of my father’s house. Instead, I push open the door.
The room is dim, just the bedside lamp throwing weak yellow light across the carpet and furniture.
Debra’s perched on the bed’s edge, still gripping that child’s backpack like it’s the only thing keeping her tethered to earth.
Stefan stands by the window, hands in his pockets, looking anywhere but at her.
“Behold.” The word comes out ragged. “This is what our father does in his spare time.”
Yanis moves past me into the room. I watch the color leach from his face as he takes her in properly—the finger-shaped bruises, the welts, the haunted eyes, the way she’s curled inward like she’s apologizing for existing.
“Bozhe moy,” he breathes.
We approach slowly. I crouch in front of her, trying to catch her eye without making it a demand. “Debra. This is my brother, Yanis. You’re safe now. No one here will hurt you.”
Her skin goes the color of old paper. Then her breathing changes—goes rapid and shallow, like her lungs have forgotten how to work. Her fingers start trembling where they clutch the backpack straps. Sweat beads along her temples. Her chest jerks in quick, uneven spasms.
“Debra?” I reach toward her shoulder.
She flinches so violently she nearly pitches off the mattress.
Her whole body goes rigid—locked solid—and her mouth opens, but no sound comes out except a thin, airless wheeze.
Then the shaking starts. Deep tremors that rack through her frame, her shoulders hitching like something inside her is trying to claw its way out.
“Fuck! What’s—?”
“Panic attack.” Yanis is already moving, lowering himself onto the bed beside her with deliberate slowness. “Debra, can you hear me? You’re safe. I know it doesn’t feel real, but you’re safe.”
He extends his hand palm-up, offering not taking. After a stretched moment, her hand shoots out and clamps onto his like he’s the only thing stopping her from drowning.
“Good. That’s good.” His voice drops to something low and soothing. “Just breathe with me. In through your nose. Count of four. Out through your mouth. Count of six.”
But it’s not touching her. Her breathing accelerates, more ragged, more desperate. Her eyes are open but not seeing—fixed on something terrible that only exists in her head. The shaking intensifies until the whole bed frame vibrates.
“She needs help. A doctor. Sedatives,” Yanis says, looking up at me.
I’m already pulling my phone, dialing Dr. Harrison. He picks up on the third ring, voice thick with interrupted sleep.
“Ashwater Heights. Now.”
“Arkady, what—?”
“Now.”
I disconnect.
It takes him twenty-three minutes to arrive; I count every one. I meet him at the door and lead him upstairs without explanation. He takes one look at Debra—still shaking, still trapped in whatever private hell is eating her alive—and his expression shifts into something clinical and detached.
“Everyone out. I need space.”
We file into the hallway. Yanis plants himself against the wall, both hands tunneling through his hair.
Stefan has vanished somewhere, probably home to comfort his daughter.
I stay where I am, useless, listening to Harrison’s low, steady voice through the door and Debra’s broken breathing underneath it.
Forty-one minutes before the door opens.
Harrison emerges with his medical bag, looking ten years older than when he went in. “She’s stable. Heavily sedated.”
“What happened in there?”
“Severe panic attack triggered by acute PTSD.” He meets my eyes. “Mr. Laurov, that woman’s psychological state is extremely fragile. Years of sustained captivity and abuse have left her with severe dissociation, identity confusion, complex trauma responses. She barely knows who she is anymore.”
I look past him into the room. Debra’s curled on her side under a blanket, finally still, her eyes blank as she stares off at something only she can see.
“She doesn’t respond to her own name consistently,” Harrison continues.
“Flinches at sudden movements, loud sounds, direct eye contact. Anything that registers as a potential threat.” He pauses.
“I need you to minimize her exposure to new people. No visitors. No introductions. She can’t process that kind of stimulus right now. ”
“How long?”
He shrugs. “Months, maybe, before she’s functional enough for normal interaction.
This kind of chronic trauma doesn’t heal overnight.
” He shifts his bag. “I’ll be back tomorrow to start building a treatment plan.
But Arkady—she needs absolute stability.
Routine. Zero surprises. Can you maintain that environment? ”
I look at Debra again. At Mirabel’s face reflected back in broken fragments.
“Yes.”
Harrison nods and heads for the stairs. Yanis watches him go, then turns to me.
“You have to tell Mirabel.”
“No.” I’m surprised at how sharply the word comes out.
“You heard him. Debra can’t handle new people.
And Mirabel—” I stop. Try again. “She’ll want to see her.
Talk to her. She’ll push for answers Debra can’t give, and I won’t let that happen.
Not until Debra can survive it. The last thing Mirabel needs is to think she was the one who shattered her sister’s mind. ”
“So what’s your plan? Keep them separated under the same roof? That’s insane.”
“Then I’m insane.” I straighten. “But I’m not letting these women meet until they’re both able to handle it.”
Yanis stares at me like I’ve suggested burning down the house.
Maybe I should. Would be simpler than what I’m about to do.
“You’re mad,” Yanis says. “This is all going to come out, and when it does, it’s going to be a shitshow.”
“Then I’ll deal with it when it happens,” I say, hating the fact that my goddamn brother’s probably right.
Pizdets!
My life was never meant to get so fucking complicated.