Page 5

The first thing I feel is pain.

A dull, persistent throb at the back of my head, like someone’s lodged a stone behind my skull and wrapped it in fire. My neck aches—stiff, raw—and when I try to shift, my muscles scream in protest. My arms are heavy. Too heavy. The skin along my wrists stings, and my legs are pins and needles, cold and stiff beneath me.

I blink slowly, but everything’s out of focus. Light stutters overhead—an old bulb flickering, casting the room in fits and starts of harsh illumination. The air is damp. Cold enough to sting when I breathe too deeply. The smell hits next: wood, rot, dirt, and something metallic beneath it all. Blood, maybe.

My breath catches.

I sit up—or try to—and the world lurches. My hands are bound. Not tightly, not cruelly, but enough to remind me I’m not free. Rope around my wrists, crossed in front of me. Ankles too. Loose, but deliberate.

Panic sharpens through the fog.

I twist, pulling against the bindings. No give. My skin rubs raw. I shift again, trying to find the source of the pain in my neck. Something sharp. A sting. Like a needle.

Memory kicks in hard and fast. The hospital parking lot. The cold. The sudden, searing prick behind my neck.

My phone falling. Someone behind me.

My heart hammers against my ribs, loud enough to drown out thought. I squeeze my eyes shut, force air into my lungs, hold it, let it go. I’m trained for trauma. I know how to breathe through panic, how to assess under pressure. Except this isn’t triage. This isn’t blood in the ER or a mother wailing or a code blue.

I open my eyes again, blinking hard to focus. The room is small—rough, unfinished wooden walls. Dirt floor. Low ceiling with support beams thick with cobwebs. There’s a single door to my left, closed. No handle on this side. A window, high and small near the ceiling, offers just a sliver of the outside.

I shift toward it, awkward with bound feet, and manage to lift myself enough to see.

It’s night. No streetlights. No city noise. Just trees.

And beyond them—a field. Empty. Stretching out beneath a charcoal sky. A fence in the distance. A barn, maybe. Some kind of shed. I can just make out the curve of a silo against the clouds.

A farm. I’m on a fucking farm?

The cold gets worse the longer I sit still. It seeps into my fingers, my toes, the base of my spine. I try the ropes again, twisting, testing. Whoever tied them knew what they were doing—tight enough to restrict, loose enough to avoid bruises. Medical precision.

My throat is dry. I swallow and taste fear, stale and bitter.

A sound from upstairs—boots, maybe. Heavy. Pacing.

I freeze. They know I’m awake, or they will soon.

I scan the room for anything—tools, sharp edges, anything I could use. But there’s nothing. Just old crates, stacked in the corner. A metal folding chair. An empty bottle on its side. Useless.

The ropes bite deeper as I test them again. I grit my teeth, twisting my wrists hard, but there’s no give. The bindings hold. Someone did this carefully. Not a brute job. Not sloppy.

I glance at the window again, straining for anything more. A road. Lights. Another building. But the only thing out there is dark earth and trees standing like sentries. Silent. Watching.

A sudden creak makes me jerk. Wood settling—or footsteps? I can’t tell. I hold my breath.

Minutes pass. Nothing.

I shift my weight slowly, easing toward one of the crates. Maybe I can break it. Use the edge. Do something, but it’s too far. My legs drag, bound just enough to stop me. I collapse sideways with a soft grunt, heart in my throat.

I breathe hard through my nose, willing myself not to cry.

I’ve seen women come into the hospital after being taken. Some of them make it. Most don’t. I never imagined I’d be one of them. Never imagined I’d be the one waking up in some freezing basement in the middle of nowhere.

Whoever brought me here didn’t do it out of panic. This was orchestrated. Controlled. Planned. They knew who I was. Where I’d be. What time my shift started.

This wasn’t just a kidnapping; it was a calculated abduction. Which means someone out there thinks I’m valuable. Useful.

That’s the only reason I’m still breathing.

For how long?

The air feels heavier now. My head aches more with every passing second. The sting at the back of my neck pulses. I don’t know what they used—something fast, something potent—but I still feel it in my veins, dragging my thoughts under.

Another footstep upstairs. Whoever they are, they’re coming for me.

The door creaks open.

I flinch, instinct tightening every muscle in my body. The light from the hallway slashes across the floor, a crooked line of pale yellow that cuts through the cold. For a moment, I see only the outline—broad shoulders, a straight spine, the confident, deliberate step of someone who doesn’t hesitate.

Then he steps into the room, and everything in me locks up.

Kolya Sharov.

I don’t know him—not in any real way—but the moment I see him, I know . The weight of him fills the space like smoke, slow and suffocating. His presence isn’t loud, but it’s absolute. Like gravity. Like drowning.

Everybody knows the Sharovs.

He’s tall—impossibly tall from where I sit on the floor—and dressed in black from coat to boots, the heavy kind of fabric that drips wealth and authority in equal measure. His face is cut from stone: sharp cheekbones, square jaw, the cruel set of a mouth that doesn’t smile. But it’s his eyes that freeze me. Dark, sharp, and cold. So cold. They rake over me like I’m nothing more than a tool, an object to be assessed and used.

No pity. No warmth. Just calculation.

“Get up,” he says, voice low and rough—like gravel under boot.

My body moves before my brain can keep up, adrenaline overriding everything else. I scramble clumsily to my knees, then my feet, legs stiff and numb from too long on the floor. My arms are still bound, and I stumble as I rise. He doesn’t offer help. Doesn’t reach out. Just watches, waiting.

I don’t dare look away from him, but I feel it—the danger wrapped around him like a second skin. Something about the way he carries himself, the stillness, the control. There’s no doubt in my mind that this man has killed. Not just once.

He unties me and turns without a word, expecting me to follow.

I do.

The hallway outside is just as rough as the basement—bare wood, cold air leaking through every crack. I’m not sure if it’s a house or a shed or some crumbling ruin, but it’s not meant for comfort. It’s meant for keeping things inside. Things like me.

He leads me into a room at the end of the hall. There’s another man in the corner—dark jacket, face unreadable—but I don’t have time to focus on him. My attention is swallowed by what’s in the center of the room.

A mattress. Blood-stained. The man on it—

My stomach flips.

He’s pale. Sweating. His leg is wrapped in thick, dirty gauze, soaked through with dark red and brown. Infection. Maybe worse. The smell hits me next—rot, decay, blood gone sour. My breath catches in my throat, and I instinctively take a step back.

“What—what happened to him?” I ask, the words shaking loose before I can stop them.

I barely get them out before Kolya turns. He’s on me in an instant.

His hand clamps around my jaw, fingers digging into my cheeks. Not hard enough to bruise. Just enough to own.

“You don’t get to ask questions,” he growls, his voice like steel dragged across concrete. His face is so close I can feel the heat of his breath. “Your job is to keep him alive.”

His other hand moves—quick, practiced—and suddenly, there’s something cold against my temple.

A gun.

My breath stops. My heart doesn’t beat—it pounds . Violent. Deafening. Like it’s trying to escape my body. The barrel is smooth, unyielding. My knees nearly buckle.

“If he dies,” Kolya says slowly, deliberately, “you die. Understand?”

I nod. Fast. Too fast.

His grip lingers for a moment longer. Just enough to let the weight of the threat settle deep into my bones. Then he releases me, stepping back as though nothing just happened. The gun disappears into the holster beneath his coat like it was never there.

I can’t move.

He shoves me forward. “Go,” he says. “Do what you were taken for.”

The doctor in me—the part that still functions on instinct and training—forces my legs to move. I stumble toward the man on the mattress, trying to ignore the bile rising in my throat. My hands tremble so badly I can barely undo the bindings. They fall to the floor, forgotten.

I drop to my knees beside the unconscious man, pressing my fingers to his throat. Pulse—weak, fast. Skin—hot. Too hot.

I press the back of my hand to his forehead. Fever.

“Name?” I ask, voice dry.

“Yuri,” the other man says from the corner.

I nod, already lifting the soaked gauze. The wound underneath is angry—red, swollen, oozing. The bullet hole is ragged, and whoever tried to treat it before butchered it. No irrigation, no antiseptic, and the wrappings were tight enough to trap the infection inside. Idiots.

If they wanted me here, they must have something. Even a basic kit.

“Gloves. Alcohol. Clean gauze. Antibiotics, if you have them. Now,” I say, louder this time.

Kolya raises a brow but doesn’t argue.

He nods once to the man in the corner, who disappears into another room.

I lean over Yuri, working quickly with what I have. The shaking hasn’t stopped, but I push through it. I’ve seen worse. I’ve saved worse.

Never under the barrel of a gun. Never like this.

The fever’s climbing. If I can’t cool him, he’ll seize. I glance around for anything—ice, cold water, something to reduce the temperature. Nothing.

“He needs cooling packs,” I say. “Towels soaked in cold water. Anything.”

Kolya watches me with that same unreadable stare.

“If he dies,” he repeats.

“I know,” I snap, without looking at him.

Then I keep working, because there’s nothing else to do. I want to live. Maybe—just maybe—keeping him alive will buy me time to figure out how to save myself.

My fingers shake, but they know what they’re doing.

The gauze peels away from Yuri’s thigh with a sickening wet sound, the fabric sticking to the flesh beneath like it doesn’t want to let go. I grit my teeth and peel slowly, steadily, the way I’ve done a hundred times before.

This isn’t the hospital. There’s no nurse beside me. No sterile tray of instruments. No hum of machines or overhead voices calling for bloodwork or vitals.

Only Kolya’s silence.

His presence looms behind me like a shadow stitched into my spine, unmoving, unreadable. I feel his eyes on me—piercing, clinical, and utterly devoid of trust. It’s like working with a blade pressed between my ribs. One wrong move, and I won’t get another chance.

The wound beneath the gauze is grotesque. The entry point is jagged—no clean line, just torn skin, bruised and bloated. The surrounding tissue is inflamed, hot, and weeping. Infection has already taken hold, and the smell tells me there’s necrosis setting in.

Days without proper treatment, maybe more. Whoever tried to patch him up before didn’t know what they were doing. Or they didn’t care.

I glance over my shoulder.

Kolya hasn’t moved. His hands are folded in front of him now, relaxed—but I know better. There’s nothing relaxed about him. He’s coiled steel wrapped in flesh and tailored fabric.

He’s not the kind of man who blinks when someone dies. He’s the kind who watches closely to make sure they know they’re dying.

“Where’s the supplies I asked for?” I ask, keeping my voice steady.

The man from before—Boris—returns with a metal case. It’s dented, dusty, but when he sets it down beside me, I flip the lid open and feel my lungs loosen just slightly. Basic supplies. Antiseptic. Scissors. Sutures. A few vials of broad-spectrum antibiotics. Painkillers. Gloves.

Not ideal, but close enough.

I snap the gloves on with trembling hands, then reach for the antiseptic and gauze.

“Yuri,” I whisper, voice low and close to his ear. “If you can hear me, I need you to stay still. This is going to hurt.”

He doesn’t stir. Unconscious, then. Deep. Maybe too deep. That’s both a blessing and a curse.

I soak the gauze and begin to clean. The second the antiseptic hits, the wound hisses, bubbling faintly as it fights the infection. Pus leaks from the edges. I press harder, cleaning deep, careful not to open the wound more than it already is. Still, Yuri twitches, breath hitching as nerves spark reflexively.

I exhale slowly, focusing. For a moment, the world narrows to just my hands. Just the blood and the wound and the fragile thread of life tethering this man to consciousness.

But the weight never leaves my back.

Kolya hasn’t spoken since that one warning— If he dies, you die —but I feel it in every inch of the room. He’s watching everything. Measuring it. Measuring me.

How fast I move. How steady my hands are. How useful I am.

I finish cleaning and grab the syringe. The antibiotic’s thick, almost gel-like, and I jab it into the muscle above the wound, injecting slowly. Yuri stirs, his body recoiling weakly. A good sign. A sign his system isn’t fully shutting down.

Another breath. Another wipe. I start suturing where the skin has torn wide around the bullet path. It’s crude, but functional. I’ve worked in trauma wards. I’ve done this before, in chaos, in blood. But never like this. Never for my life.

I feel sweat bead down my spine despite the cold.

My hands are steady now, only because I’ve given them no other choice.

The silence stretches too long. I glance up again, unable to stop myself.

Kolya is closer now.

He’s moved forward silently, the way predators do. His arms are still folded, but his eyes are locked on mine—unblinking, unreadable, but no less sharp. It’s like being studied under a microscope. Like he’s trying to decide where to cut.

I don’t speak, neither does he.

I turn back to Yuri and finish the last stitch, cutting the thread with the small shears from the kit. I pack the wound, wrap it cleanly with new gauze, then sit back on my heels, chest rising and falling hard.

“He’ll live,” I say quietly. “He needs more than this. Fluids. IV antibiotics. Monitoring.”

Kolya tilts his head slightly. “Can you keep him alive until he talks?”

I nod, mouth dry. “If you give me what I need.”

He stares for a moment longer. Then, without a word, he steps back.

The tension in the room shifts. Not lighter. Just different. Like the decision’s been made—for now.

Boris moves past me, bending over Yuri to adjust the blanket they’ve thrown over him. I stay where I am, knees aching, hands bloody through the gloves.

I don’t speak. Don’t move. I know the second I stop being useful, everything changes.

The fear hasn’t gone anywhere. It pulses in me like a second heartbeat, every breath laced with adrenaline.

Kolya says nothing as he turns away, the sound of his boots heavy against the wooden floor. He moves with slow certainty, like a man who never needs to rush because the world will wait for him. Or break under him. Boris falls into step behind him, leaving me alone beside the man I’ve just kept from death.

Yuri moans softly, his face slick with sweat. I adjust the gauze again, more to keep my hands busy than because it needs fixing. I don’t want to stand. I don’t want to look away from him. He’s the only thing tethering me to the world I knew—fragile as that tether is.

I hear the door creak, then click shut. I’m alone.

Not truly, but close enough. The silence is dense, broken only by the rasp of Yuri’s breathing and the occasional groan of the wind pushing against the house. I finally peel the gloves off, blood sticky against my fingers, and drop them into the dented metal tray at my side.

I wrap my arms around myself and breathe in deep, slow, trying to slow the thudding in my chest. My scrubs are damp with sweat and cold air. I feel like I’m still falling, the ground shifting under my feet, even though I’m not moving.

They’re not going to let me go. I know that now, in a way I hadn’t let myself believe earlier.

They need me, though. At least for now. That… that might be something I can use.

I reach over and press my fingers to Yuri’s neck again, counting the seconds between heartbeats. Still weak. Still alive.

I close my eyes, just for a moment and try to remember how to be brave.