Page 11

The pain is worse now.

Not sharp like the blade that tore into me, but deep—radiating through every muscle, curling hot in my side where the stitches have torn open. My body aches with every step. My lungs burn in the cold. I can’t stop shivering, even as sweat slicks my skin beneath the blood-stained scrubs. My legs are jelly. My fingers, numb.

I keep going, because I have to.

I saw Kolya Sharov put a bullet in a man’s head like it meant nothing. No hesitation. No flicker of remorse. One second, Yuri was alive, struggling to breathe, whispering truths in his fevered delirium—and the next, he was slumped over, lifeless, blood pooling beneath his skull in a dark, slow-spreading halo.

Kolya just walked away.

As if Yuri was nothing more than an old knife he didn’t need anymore. Just a tool, discarded the moment it stopped being sharp enough to use.

Which means I was never safe. I was never anything more than the next tool, the next loose end to tie off.

You’re not fine, he said, stitching me up with those rough hands, his thumb pressed to my pulse like he gave a damn. Don’t be useless.

The words twist in my chest now.

Useless is a death sentence in his world.

I stumble onto a dark, unfamiliar street. My shoes are torn. My socks soaked. The snow soaks through the threadbare scrubs and into my bones. I don’t know where I am anymore. I must’ve wandered for miles through woods, half conscious, bleeding. I passed fences. A frozen creek. Abandoned roads.

Now, I’m in a part of the city I barely recognize—old buildings and cracked sidewalks. Neon flickers over closed storefronts. There are no people. No warmth. Just the wind knifing down alleys, cutting through my scrubs like they’re paper.

My legs give out near a brick wall. I slide down to the ground, panting. I need help. I need someone— anyone —to tell me I’m safe.

The first thing I think of is the police station. It’s automatic. A childhood instinct. Run to the people with badges. They’ll protect you.

The thought sours in my mouth almost immediately, because I remember now.

I remember a night a few days after I first started treating Yuri—before I was locked up. I’d passed by the edge of the farmhouse and heard voices. Kolya and Boris. They didn’t know I was close enough to hear.

“You think the cops will care?” Boris said, laughing. “They do whatever we tell them.”

“They’ve got families to protect, same as anyone,” Kolya replied. “A few bribes, a few reminders. They know who really owns this city.”

I’d written it off then. Just posturing. Big words from dangerous men.

Now I know better. There is no one coming to help me. The police won’t save me.

I can’t go to a hospital. He’ll have eyes there. I can’t go home. He probably knows everything about me by now—where I lived, who I talked to, what I left behind. He’d find me in hours. Maybe minutes.

I squeeze my eyes shut. Then it hits me.

William.

A memory flashes: his arms wrapping around me in that little office at the orphanage, his voice warm, the weight of his hand on my shoulder. I still see that little girl who used to stitch up her own scrapes.

He always said if I ever needed anything, anything at all, I could come to him.

I never believed I would. I never let myself need anyone.

I need him now.

I push myself back to my feet with a grunt, using the wall for balance. The pain nearly sends me to my knees again, but I grit my teeth and force my legs to work. My body protests with every ragged step. I don’t even know if I’m walking in the right direction.

The thought of William is a thread.

The only thread I have.

I follow it into the dark.

***

The truck that picks me up is old—creaks like it’s stitched together with rust and second chances. The driver is older too. White beard, faded ball cap, eyes that don’t linger too long when they glance at me. I don’t know his name, and I don’t ask. I don’t have the strength. I’m crumpled in the passenger seat, blood drying along my ribs beneath the oversized coat he offered without a word.

He didn’t ask where I came from, didn’t ask what happened. Maybe he thought I’d run from a husband. A bad deal. Maybe he’s seen enough bruised girls to stop needing details. I give him the address with a voice that barely works—William’s address—and he just nods, taps the steering wheel, and drives.

Every bump in the road jars the wound at my side. I keep my hands clutched around my ribs, squeezing them tight like I can hold myself together with pressure alone. My body wants to shut down. I can feel it trying to give up. My eyes keep fluttering shut, limbs heavy, but I force myself to stay awake, staring at the glow of passing streetlamps like they’re the only stars I’ve got left.

It feels like hours, but it’s probably less. Long enough for the pain to dull into something numb and bitter. Long enough for my thoughts to spiral around what I saw—Yuri’s lifeless body, the way the blood pooled so calmly on the floorboards, the gun in Kolya’s hand still warm when he walked out without a second glance.

If he could kill Yuri that easily, why not me?

I shift in the seat, jaw clenched. My breath rattles in my chest.

The truck finally pulls up to the narrow, familiar street lined with tired houses and trimmed hedges. William’s place looks just like it did when I was a child—quaint and quiet, the porch light casting soft amber onto the steps. I murmur a thank-you, my fingers fumbling for the handle.

The driver just nods. Doesn’t say a word. He waits until I’m out before pulling away.

The cold hits me like a slap as I climb the steps.

Every movement feels like a gamble. I knock once. Twice.

The door opens almost instantly.

William stands there in a sweater and slacks, silver hair tousled like he’s been pacing the floor. His eyes widen when he sees me—bloody, limping, half collapsing on his porch.

“Elise,” he breathes. “God, what happened?”

Then his arms are around me.

Warm. Solid. Real.

For the first time in what feels like a lifetime, I let myself lean into someone.

He ushers me inside, sets me gently into a chair by the fireplace. The warmth makes my bones ache worse somehow. Like they’ve finally remembered they’re broken.

He crouches beside me, one hand firm on my shoulder.

“I—” My voice catches. My lip trembles. Just like that, everything I’ve held in breaks loose.

The tears come fast, burning hot tracks down my cheeks. My breath hitches, then collapses entirely. I curl over in the chair, sobbing into my palms, and William stays there, steady, hand gripping mine like it might anchor me to the floor.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” I whisper.

“You did the right thing,” he says, quiet and sure. “You’re safe now.”

I tell him everything.

Between gasps, sobs, and flinching memories, I unravel the entire story—Kolya, the farmhouse, the stitches, the threats, the slow-burn fear that twisted into something worse. I tell him about Yuri’s last breath, the coldness in Kolya’s eyes, the way it all fell apart.

William listens. He never interrupts. Never questions.

When I finish, he brushes my hair gently behind my ear like I’m still that girl from the orphanage, scraped knees and wild stories.

“I believe you,” he says simply. “You need to rest.”

His voice is soft, almost fatherly, as he helps me stand.

“I’ve got a room already made up,” he adds, leading me down the familiar hallway. “You can sleep. I’ll bring you something warm in the morning. You’re not alone, Elise. Not anymore.”

I want to believe him.

Every aching step I take fills me with a little more relief. A little more warmth. The thought of a bed, clean sheets, the simple fact that I’m inside and not hunted like an animal—it starts to soothe the screaming in my bones.

He stops at the end of the hall. Opens the door.

Every inch of relief vanishes, because he’s sitting there.

Kolya.

In a chair beside the bed, legs spread, one arm resting casually across the back. He looks clean, composed. That dark coat draped across the chair like a predator pretending not to bare its teeth.

His eyes find mine immediately, and he smiles. Not wide. Not mocking. Just enough to say I win.

My breath leaves me in a soundless gasp.

My legs won’t move.

The blood drains from my face as the pieces fall into place with cruel, cutting precision.

William betrayed me.

“Go on,” Kolya says, voice low, patient. “Come inside.”

My knees lock. My pulse pounds in my ears. I turn slowly, shakily, to William—my voice barely audible. “Why…?”

He doesn’t answer, but he closes the door behind me.