26. Aj
Idon’t know how long I stay like that.
I feel so…fucking…empty.
I finally release my hands and push myself upright, my body shaking. What the hell is wrong with me? I could have said the safeword… I—
Forcing myself to stand, every muscle protests as I wipe the drying cum from my skin.
I need to stop this.
Whatever this is.
It’s too much. Too fucked up.
Even now, even after being used and discarded, all I can think about is how badly I want him back.
I turn on the shower, stepping under the spray as hot as I can stand it.
This safehouse is different from the others—actual decent products lined up on the shelf.
Real shampoo, conditioner, body wash that doesn’t smell cheap.
I scrub my skin until it’s red and raw. I even shave, something I haven’t been able to do properly in months.
The razor glides over my legs, under my arms, between my thighs.
It doesn’t wash away the shame. Doesn’t stop the throbbing ache between my legs. And it sure as hell doesn’t make me forget the way he looked at me when he came on my ass.
I rest my forehead against the cold tile. I shouldn’t want his attention. I shouldn’t need it.
But I do.
And I hate myself for it.
Wrapping the towel tighter around myself, I step back into the bedroom. He’s stretched out across the bed, hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. Grey sweatpants riding low on his hips.
I don’t say anything. I don’t ask if we’re staying here or leaving.
On the edge of the bed, he left a clean t-shirt and a pair of simple black underwear. I don’t ask where they came from. I just pull them on.
It swallows me whole, soft fabric brushing my thighs. I climb onto the bed without looking at him and curl up on the far side, my back turned, pulling the shirt down like it’ll cover more than it does.
Silence settles in.
My mind spirals. I hate this. The silence. The space between us. The way he touches me and then vanishes.
Hate that I want—
I drag in a breath, trying to stop before I spiral any further. But I can feel it building again. That pressure in my chest. That need to break it, to say something, to—
His fingers brush the back of my thigh.
I suck in a breath.
He hooks the hem of the shirt and drags it up, exposing my skin inch by inch to the cold air.
I don’t move.
I don’t breathe.
My heart is pounding so loud that I’m sure he can feel it.
His hand slides under the fabric, palm spreading over my stomach, and before I can react, he’s pulling me back against him.
“Wolff?”
“Go to sleep, solnyshko.”
I should pull away.
I should tell him to stop treating me like this. To stop acting like I’m something to be used whenever he wants. But the second he pulls me closer, my body goes soft against his, tension melting away.
It’s pathetic.
I know it is.
I let out a shaky breath and close my eyes anyway. Fuck it. I’ll let myself pretend he cares.
For a few minutes, it’s quiet again. Then his hand starts moving. Across my ribs, down my stomach, circling my hip with his fingertips.
“What are you doing?” I whisper.
“Touching you.”
Heat creeps up my neck, settling in my cheeks. “Why?”
“Because I want to.”
I huff quietly. “Since when?”
“Since I realized it shuts you up.”
“Asshole.”
His hand keeps moving, tracing the line of my waist, thumb brushing lightly over my skin. I turn my head slightly, just enough to see his face in my periphery.
“Why don’t you like being touched?”
His hand stills for a second before he moves again. I roll onto my back, staring up at the ceiling. He keeps tracing small patterns across my bare stomach, goosebumps pebbling my skin from the tender touch.
“What language were you speaking earlier? On the phone.”
“Czech.”
I’m surprised he answered, so I press for more. “How many languages do you know?”
“Seven.”
I shift to look at him more fully. “You know seven languages?”
“Mhm.”
It shouldn’t surprise me, but it does. “Pretty impressive for someone who barely talks.”
His eyes stay closed. I watch him for a second, taking in the sharp lines of his face. “You’re really fucking smart, aren’t you?”
One eye slightly opens, fixing on me. “Shut up and go to sleep.”
I roll my eyes, but something about it settles me.
“I learned Spanish,” I share as I turn back to the ceiling. “At boarding school.”
His hand doesn’t stop.
“My roommate was from Spain. I used to spend summers with her family. They’d talk so fast I could barely keep up. She would laugh at me every time I said the wrong things.”
I know he’s not listening. But talking about something that isn’t death or cages or him makes the ache in my chest dull just enough to breathe through it.
“So she started teaching me properly. Said if I was going to embarrass myself, I should at least do it fluently.” A faint smile tugs at my mouth. “We lost touch after graduation. But I still remember most of it.”
His hand drags once more across my stomach, and then everything shifts. He moves, pulling me back against him, my back pressed to his chest as his arm wraps around me.
“Sleep.” His voice is a rough rumble against my ear.
I let out a slow breath and press back into him before I can think better of it. I don’t care that the silence is back. Don’t care that I don’t understand him, that I probably never will.
For tonight, I let myself pretend. That I’m not completely ruined. That I’m not alone.
“Where are we going?” I glance over at Wolff.
His jaw is locked, fingers wrapped tight around the steering wheel, knuckles pale from the pressure. He looks grumpier than usual this morning. Not that he’s ever not an asshole.
Just…more of one today.
He doesn’t answer.
I sigh and let my head fall back against the seat, turning toward the window. Buildings slide past in a blur of grey and concrete, signs in Russian I can’t read, everything packed close together. It’s different from the roads we’ve been on—no endless trees, no empty stretches of nothing.
This is a city.
It takes me a second to even register that.
The last few places we’ve stopped have been buried in isolation—old cabins and crumbling warehouses. But the last place was modern and nice. Closets full of clothes in every size, men’s and women’s. The jeans and sweater I found actually fit.
And now this: Driving around civilization.
The truck slows, and I glance up again.
We’re deeper into the city now. People walk past shop windows, bundled up, heads down against the cold. A group of kids runs through a park across the street, their laughter faint through the glass.
It feels…wrong.
Like I’m looking at something I’m not supposed to be part of anymore.
The truck pulls to the curb, and Wolff cuts the engine. He doesn’t move right away. He just sits there, staring out the windshield, breathing slow and deep.
“Wolff?”
His hands tighten once more, then he shoves the door open and gets out. I scramble after him, keeping close as he heads toward a small café tucked between two brick buildings. The windows are fogged over, the sign on the door written in Russian.
Warmth hits me the second I step inside. It’s crowded. Tables filled with too many people. Conversations overlapping. The smell hits next—coffee, fresh bread, something savory cooking somewhere in the back.
My stomach grumbles.
I haven’t eaten enough for that to feel normal.
Wolff’s hand closes around my upper arm, steering me toward the counter. The contact sends a small, unwanted shiver through me.
He says something to the woman behind the counter. She smiles like this is normal, like he’s just another customer, and turns to grab two cups.
“Wolff, what are we doing here?” I whisper.
Speaking to her again, he hands over cash and takes the coffee cups. Then he guides me to a small table near the window. But he doesn’t relax. His eyes keep moving constantly, scanning the room, tracking every shift, every person, like he always does.
A burst of quiet laughter pulls my attention to the side.
A group of girls—around my age—crowd a small table near the window. Coffee cups, half-eaten pastries, phones scattered between them. One flips her long, glossy blonde hair over her shoulder. Another leans in, whispering something that makes the rest of them laugh.
They all look…perfect.
Healthy, shiny hair that falls in effortless waves. Clear, glowing skin with flawless makeup. Tight, expensive clothes that hug their toned bodies. No tension in their shoulders. No flinching at sudden noises. No constantly scanning the room like something might come for them.
Just…normal.
For a second, the longing hits me so hard it steals my breath—to sit there, to laugh like that, to exist in a world where the worst thing that could happen is a bad hair day or a canceled plan.
My hand drifts up, brushing the hacked ends of my own hair.
It’s uneven, choppy in places where it was cut with dull scissors, longer and tangled in others.
The cheap black dye looks dull and lifeless, washing me out.
It feels brittle, like it might snap if I pull too hard. One of the girls glances over.
Her eyes land on Wolff first. Then they shift to me. Then back to him. A whisper passes between them, and suddenly they’re all smiling, trying to hide their laughter.
What is someone like him doing with someone like her?
That’s what they’re thinking. That’s what they’re laughing about.
I pull my gaze back to the table, to the untouched coffee in front of me.
My reflection stares back in the glass top—pale, gaunt, shadows under my eyes that no amount of sleep seems to fix.
The collar of my sweater shifts slightly, revealing the yellowing bruises along my neck.
Collar-shaped marks that refuse to fade.
I used to be like them—pretty, outgoing, with soft skin and a bright laugh. The kind of girl who turned heads for the right reasons. Now I’m this. Thin in all the wrong places, scarred in places no one can see.
And now I’m sitting here in a warm café, watching girls giggle like the world is simple. Like it isn’t full of men like him. Like it isn’t full of men like the ones who held me down and laughed while I screamed.
I reach for the coffee just to have something to hold on to. Anything to stop myself from looking back at them again.
“Why are we here?” I blurt out.
“Drink your coffee.”
I don’t want it. I don’t want to be here.
“Those girls keep staring at you.” The words sound stupid the second they leave my mouth.
His hand drops to the leg of my chair and drags it closer to him, the scrape loud against the floor. He pulls the chair until my thigh bumps into his, the space between us gone in an instant.
“Drink your fucking coffee, AJ.”
A few minutes later, plates start landing on the table with bread, cheeses, eggs, sausages.
“Wolff…what is this? Why are we stopping at a—”
“Eat.” He pushes a plate closer to me.
“Wolff—”
“Cómete tu comida.”
I huff quietly, fingers curling around the edge of the plate. “So you were listening to my story.”
“I’m not deaf.” His eyes flick to mine for half a second before scanning the room again. “Maybe you’ll follow directions better in Spanish.”
I pick up a fork and shove the eggs around on the plate, resisting the urge to say something back. Joke’s on him, I won’t follow any of his stupid directions.
“It’s nice to see you, Dylan.”
Wolff’s entire body goes rigid. My head jerks up, and there’s a woman sitting across from us. I didn’t hear her walk up. Didn’t see her pull out the chair. She’s just…there.
White-blonde hair, cut short and sharp around her jaw. She looks like she belongs on the cover of a magazine. Large, dark brown eyes, a heart-shaped face with perfect red lips. Her black coat is fitted to her slim body. She’s stunning.
Dylan?
I turn slowly, looking at Wolff, my brow pinched.
His jaw is locked so tight I see the muscle working beneath his skin. Fingers curled slightly, his hands have gone completely still on the table.
“Miranda.”
She smiles, leaning back as she pulls her scarf free, revealing a pale and jagged burn scar along the side of her neck.
Her eyes flick to me, then she looks back at him. “You look like hell.” The smirk stays as she continues talking to Wolff in a language I don’t understand.