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Racing through the entry room and into the kitchen, I grab the bag of fast food someone thoughtfully left on the counter.

Then I all but rip the door to the basement off the hinges.

Alena tries to protest against the speed I’m moving at, but I don’t slow until we’re in our designated bedroom and the door is closed behind us.

Andrei was right, though. There’s not much shit in here that can be broken.

There’s a bed, a dresser, and a lamp.

That’s it.

Nothing fancy, but I’ve survived in much worse conditions.

At least everything smells clean.

I feel guilty, though, that Alena has to live in such lowly accommodations.

This is not how I would choose to spend our first night together.

But I must admit, it’s a tremendous step up from the hovel I originally planned to turn her in.

“Do I get more kisses yet?” Alena asks. “You promised me as much as I wanted.”

All the blood in my body rushes to my cock.

I want to kiss the fuck out of her and never stop, but I must take care of her first.

Her wellbeing will always be my first priority.

“Soon,” I assure her, then quickly change the subject. “I’m sorry for the lack of amenities, but this is our only option.”

We’ve been shoved down here for a reason. A reason I don’t want her to know yet.

“It’s… perfectly fine,” Alena says, and tries to push her way out of my arms. “I haven’t slept in a real bed in almost ten years.”

“What?” I say, taken aback.

Searching the bond, I don’t get any emotions from her. Like she’s detached herself from what she just said.

Finally working her way free, she explains, “At the church, I slept on a glorified cot.” Walking over to the queen-size bed, her fingers trail over the thick quilt. “My blankets were quite rough. I think they changed them out whenever they softened.”

“I don’t understand. They didn’t let you have a real bed?”

“No,” she murmurs. “They thought I was evil, so they didn’t want me to have any luxuries.”

Trying not to spook her, I walk slowly around her and sit on the side of the bed.

“They hit you?” I ask gently.

The seething anger in my soul wants destruction.

“Oh yes,” she says matter-of-factly. “I was beaten almost every day, and often without a reason. Sister Agatha wanted to make sure I knew my place.”

How fucking barbaric, and yet they call us monsters.

I pat the bed beside me. “Come eat your food, my love.”

“Okay,” she says and sits down beside me.