Chapter 6 #4
"He killed her," I confirmed. "Eliminated the only witness who could corroborate my story.
Her family got a settlement, signed NDAs, were probably told she died because of complications from whoever had performed her first surgery.
They probably think some resident made a mistake.
They'll never know their daughter was murdered to cover up organ trafficking. "
The tremor had spread from my hands up my arms now, my whole body shaking with exhaustion and memory and rage I'd swallowed for too long.
"Two weeks after Maria died, after my license was suspended and my reputation destroyed, I tried one more time.
Went public. Called journalists, posted everything online, tried to get anyone to listen.
That night, three men broke into my apartment.
If my neighbor's dog hadn't started barking, if I hadn't heard them picking the lock .
. ." I shrugged, the gesture sharp and painful.
"I went out the fire escape with whatever I could grab. Haven't stopped running since."
"Until last night."
"Until last night," I agreed. "When they found me anyway."
The silence that fell was different this time—heavier, full of everything I'd just confessed.
Six months of running, of hiding, of watching a nineteen-year-old girl's life get erased to protect profits.
Of knowing Brand was still out there, still cutting into people who trusted him, still selling pieces of them to the highest bidder.
Then Kostya moved.
Not suddenly, not aggressively. He simply reached across the space between our chairs and took my shaking hands in his.
His palms were warm, callused, steady in a way that made my trembling more obvious.
He didn't squeeze, didn't try to stop the shaking.
Just held them, like he was anchoring me to something solid while everything else spun apart.
"He won't touch you again," he said, and it wasn't a promise or a comfort. It was a statement of fact, like saying water was wet or bones broke under enough pressure. "Not him. Not his people. Not anyone connected to him."
I should have pulled away. Should have maintained boundaries, kept walls up, protected myself from this dangerous intimacy.
But his hands were so steady, and I was so tired of shaking.
So I let him hold my hands while the fireplace flickered and the food grew cold and everything I'd been carrying for six months sat between us like a third presence in the room.
"You need to eat," he said finally, but he didn't let go.
"I know."
"Will you?"
I looked at the sandwich triangles, the soup that had stopped steaming, the water with its melting ice. Such simple things. Such impossible things when your body had forgotten how to trust that food would stay down, that you'd have time to digest before running again.
"I don't think I can," I admitted, the words barely a whisper.
His thumb moved across my knuckles, slow and deliberate, and that simple touch somehow made the shaking worse and better at the same time.
The tears came without permission—one moment I was staring at our joined hands, the next my vision blurred and something hot tracked down my cheek.
I tried to pull back, to stop it, to swallow the grief and rage and exhaustion that had been building for six months. But Kostya didn't let go of my hands. He held them steady while my body betrayed me, while years of medical training in emotional suppression crumbled like wet paper.
The tears came faster. Silent at first, just streams down my face that I couldn't blink away.
Then my shoulders started shaking, and a sound escaped that might have been a sob or might have been something breaking inside my chest. Once that first sound escaped, the rest followed like hemorrhaging—ugly, harsh sobs that shook my entire body.
I hadn't cried when Brand destroyed my career.
Hadn't cried when I'd run from my apartment with nothing but the clothes on my back.
Hadn't cried through six months of hiding, of hunger, of checking every shadow for men who wanted me dead.
But here, in this too-expensive chair with this dangerous man holding my hands, everything I'd bottled finally exploded.
The sobs got worse, louder, the kind that made your ribs ache and your throat raw.
Sounds I didn't know I could make tore from my chest—grief for the doctor I'd been, for Maria who'd died terrified and alone, for every patient Brand had butchered while I hid in a basement pretending I could fix things with stolen supplies and good intentions.
Kostya moved. I felt the chair shift, then he was kneeling in front of me, huge frame folded down so we were eye level. He still didn't let go of my hands. His thumbs moved in slow circles over my knuckles, steady rhythm like a heartbeat, something to focus on besides the way I was falling apart.
"Breathe," he said quietly when the sobs turned to hyperventilation. "Slow. Steady.”
I tried, failed, tried again. His voice stayed steady, counting for me when I couldn't count for myself. "One, two, three, four. Hold. Now out."
I don't know how long we stayed like that—him kneeling on expensive carpet, me curled in the chair sobbing like a child, our hands linked between us. Five minutes, maybe ten. Time meant nothing when you were busy dissolving.
Eventually, the sobs slowed to hiccups, then to just tears, then to nothing. I felt hollow, scraped out, like someone had performed emotional debridement without anesthesia. Everything hurt but in a clean way, like wounds that had been festering finally drained.
"I'm sorry," I whispered, voice destroyed from crying.
"Don't be." He was still kneeling, still holding my hands. This close, I could see flecks of gold in his dark eyes, could count the scars that decorated his face like a map of violence survived. "You needed that. Been needing it for months, probably."
"How did you—"
"Know?" He almost smiled, just a slight softening around his eyes. "I've seen that kind of control before. The kind that's holding so tight it's about to snap. You can't carry that much weight without eventually breaking."
"You don't break," I said without thinking.
"No," he agreed. "I destroy things instead. External instead of internal. But the pressure's the same."
Silence settled between us, but not uncomfortable. Just quiet, like the world had paused to let me piece myself back together. The tremor in my hands had stopped sometime during the crying, though I couldn't say when.
"Now, eat," he said finally.
"I told you, I can't—"
"I know." He released one of my hands but kept the other, using his free hand to reach for the sandwich. "You've forgotten how. Anxiety makes your throat close, makes your stomach reject everything. Your body's been in survival mode so long it thinks digestion is a luxury it can't afford."
He was right, and I hated that he was right. Hated that he could read my body's responses like a medical chart.
"So we go slow," he continued, cutting a piece of sandwich with the edge of the fork. Small, manageable, the size you'd give a toddler. "You don't have to do it yourself. Just open your mouth."
The words should have been humiliating. A grown woman, a doctor, being fed like a child. But something about the way he said it—matter-of-fact, without judgment, like this was just another medical intervention—made it feel less like degradation and more like care.
"Open," he said, holding the fork near my lips.
I could have taken it from him. Could have insisted on feeding myself. Could have maintained some shred of independence and dignity. Instead, I opened my mouth.
The fork slid between my lips, and the simple flavor of turkey and bread and mustard exploded on my tongue. I'd forgotten food could taste like something besides fear and necessity. He waited while I chewed, swallowed, didn't rush me.
"Again."
Another piece, just as small. Then another. Each bite was its own small surrender, admitting I couldn't do this alone. That I needed help. That I needed—God help me—him.
"Why do you care?" I asked between bites, the question escaping before I could stop it.
He paused, fork halfway to my mouth. "You saved my life."
"That's not—that's a debt. Obligation. Not care."
"Maybe." He offered the next bite, waited for me to take it. "Or maybe I see someone who's been alone too long. Who's forgotten that needing help doesn't make you weak."
"Doesn't it?"
"No." His voice went rougher. "Weak is letting yourself die rather than accept help. Weak is giving Brand what he wants—you disappeared, erased, gone. Strong is sitting here letting me feed you when everything in you screams to run."
Another bite. Another small surrender. The sandwich was half gone now, and my stomach hadn't rejected it. Miracle or just exhaustion, I couldn't tell.
"You're safe here," he said, setting down the fork to pick up the soup spoon. "I need you to understand that. Until Brand is destroyed—completely, permanently destroyed—you're under Besharov protection."
"Why?" The word came out small, almost lost.
"Because you looked at me bleeding on your floor and saw a patient instead of a monster." He brought the spoon to my lips, waited. "Because someone needs to stop Brand, and you're the only one with both the knowledge and the evidence to do it. Because—"
He stopped, jaw tightening like he was physically holding words back.
"Because what?"
"Because I can't stand the thought of you running anymore," he said quietly, and something in his voice made my chest tight. "Can't stand the thought of you alone in another basement, shaking hands trying to save people while you disappear piece by piece."
The soup was warm on my tongue, rich with flavor I'd forgotten existed. I swallowed, and he offered another spoonful. We continued like that—him feeding me with infinite patience, me accepting each bite like it was a peace treaty with my own body.
"I don't trust easily," I said when the soup was gone.
"Of course. Who does?"
"I might run anyway."
"You might," he agreed. "But I don't think you will."
"Why not?"
He set the spoon down, took my hands again. Both of them this time, engulfing them in his warmth and steadiness.
"Because you're tired of running. Because you want Brand stopped as much as we do. And because—" He paused, thumbs moving over my knuckles again. "Because being protected doesn't have to mean being controlled."
I wanted to argue, to point out all the ways protection became possession, help became manipulation. But sitting there with food in my stomach for the first time in days, with my hands steady in his, with the echo of tears finally shed still raw in my chest, I couldn't find the words.
"Rest," he said, standing finally but not releasing my hands yet. "Real rest. Sleep. Tomorrow we'll figure out this mess. Tonight, just let yourself be safe."
"I don't know how to do that," I admitted.
"Then I'll show you." He squeezed my hands once, then let go. "I'll be right outside if you need anything."
"You're going to guard my door?"
"Of course."
"That's not necessary—"
"It is," he interrupted. "For my peace of mind, if not yours."
He moved toward the door, massive frame navigating the furniture with that surprising grace. At the threshold, he turned back.
"Thank you," he said. "For trusting me enough to eat. For telling me about Maria. For letting me see you cry."
Then he was gone, door closing softly behind him, and I was alone with a stomach full of food and a chest full of something I couldn't name. Something that felt dangerously like hope.