Chapter 1: Beast and Butterfly
The haze had a texture. It was thick, like wool soaked in petrol, stuffed behind her eyes and down her throat. Anya floated in it, aware only of heat and a dull, bone-deep ache. Then a sound, rhythmic and slow. Scrape. Rinse. Scrape.
She forced one eye open. The light was soft, indirect, glinting off water and pale marble. She was in a bath, the water so deep it cradled her chin. Steam rose, carrying a faint, clean scent of lavender.
Scrape. Rinse.
Her gaze drifted to the source of the sound. A man knelt on the marble floor beside the tub, his back to her. He was massive, the corded muscles of his shoulders and back shifting beneath a tight black t-shirt as he worked. He was scrubbing his own knuckles in a basin of water tinted pink. The water in the basin darkened each time he dipped his fist.
She tried to move and the water sloshed. A whimper escaped her, thin and ragged.
He went still. He didn’t turn, not immediately. He finished rinsing his hand, the water now a definite red, and set the basin aside with a quiet clink. Then he turned.
Anya flinched, expecting a blow, a shout, the familiar curl of a cruel lip.
It didn’t come. His face was a landscape of weathered skin and old scars, but his eyes were a calm, startling blue. He looked at her, not through her. He saw her.
Slowly, he reached for a cloth floating in the bathwater. He wrung it out. “You are safe here,” he said. His voice was low, a rumble with a heavy Slavic cadence. He didn’t smile. It wasn’t a reassurance given lightly; it was a statement of fact.
She didn’t believe him. She couldn’t. Safety was a concept from a story she’d forgotten.
He moved the cloth toward her arm, which was resting on the tub’s edge. It was then she saw the state of it. Her skin was mottled with bruises in ugly yellows and purples, but that wasn’t what he was focusing on. There were smears of dried, flaking blood. It wasn’t hers. The memory slammed into her drug-slowed mind: hands shoving her, a roaring crowd, the metallic smell, being pushed toward a door while men laughed. They had dropped her here, a prize wrapped in filth.
He saw her recognition, the fresh terror. He stopped, cloth in hand. “I will not hurt you,” he said, each word deliberate. “This… is from them. It needs to go.”
She was quiet. Frozen. Her breath hitched in her chest.
He waited. The only sound was the hum of hidden machinery, the soft lap of water. The heat was close, drugging. Her limbs felt leaden.
After a long moment, he simply began. He started with her forearm, the one on the edge. His touch was shockingly gentle, the callouses on his fingers scraping softly as he worked the warm cloth over her skin. The blood dissolved, revealing the pale, bruised flesh beneath. He was meticulous. He rinsed the cloth, wrung it, continued. He worked in silence, his breathing steady, his movements methodical and calm.
He moved to her other arm, supporting her weight as he lifted it from the water. She flinched again at the closeness, at the sheer size of him blotting out the light. He paused, giving her space without moving away.
“My name is Dimitri,” he said, focusing on his task. “This is my cell. You are a guest.” He said the word ‘guest’ with a faint, grim twist. “They think it is a joke. A gift for the tenth belt.” He nodded toward a low shelf where a monstrous championship belt, all polished steel and crude engraving, lay discarded like a piece of trash.
She followed his gaze, then looked back at him. His knuckles were raw and split. He had fought for that thing. He had won. And then they had given her to him, covered in the gore of that world.
He saw her looking at his hands. “It is just skin,” he murmured, and resumed washing her arm.
She didn’t speak. Couldn’t. The drugs and the trauma had stolen her voice, locking it behind a wall of thick glass. But she watched. She felt the warm cloth pass over her collarbone, her shoulder. He was careful, clinical, turning his head slightly to give her a sliver of privacy as the cloth moved over the curves of her body submerged in the water. There was no ownership in his touch. No desire. It was a chore. A necessary kindness.
He talked. Just a few words here and there, his voice that low, steady rumble in the quiet, steamy room. “The water is heated. The air is clean.” A pause as he rinsed the cloth again. “They will not come in here. The door locks from inside.”
He was washing her because of what she was covered in. The realization seeped through the haze. He wasn’t cleansing her for himself. He was cleansing her of them.
When he brought the cloth up to her face, she instinctively recoiled, pressing back against the cool marble. He stopped, his hand hovering. Those ice-blue eyes held hers. He didn’t push. He just waited, his expression unreadable but patient. The heat, the closeness, the residual drugs made the room swim. Her fear was a live wire, but beneath it, a terrible exhaustion was winning.
Slowly, ever so slowly, she let her head relax forward, just a fraction. A gesture.
He understood. With a touch so light it was barely there, his calloused thumb brushed her cheekbone, wiping away a smudge of dirt that wasn’t dirt. It was the first touch she hadn’t associated with pain in a long time. It was foreign. It confused her more than any blow.
He finished in silence after that. She was quiet. She only gestured, a slight nod, a tiny shift of her hand. He was Slavic, a man of few words, but he said enough. He tried to comfort her, not with empty promises, but with the solid, undeniable reality of his gentleness. He was patient.
Finally, he set the cloth aside. The water around her was clear. He reached for a large, fluffy towel that had been warming on a heated rail. “It is done,” he said. He held the towel open, an offering, and looked toward the far wall to give her space to rise.