Chapter 2: The Blood on His Threshold
The sponsor negotiations had been a different kind of fight. Two hours in a room smelling of aftershave and ambition, men in tailored suits dissecting his next match like it was a stock portfolio. Andrey spoke when spoken to, his answers minimal, a performance of compliance that left his jaw aching. All he could think about was the suite, and the profound silence he’d left behind.
His keycard chirped at the lock. The door swung inward onto darkness, the only light the sickly green glow of the emergency exit sign. The air was wrong. It was too humid, thick with the iron-tang of blood and the echo of running water.
“Nadya?”
No answer. Just the relentless, muffled rush from the bathroom.
He moved silently, the tactical part of his brain already engaging, assessing threats. The main room was orderly, the deck of cards still stacked neatly on the table. The bathroom door was ajar, steam seeping out in wisps. He pushed it open.
The scene was a still life in monochrome and red. She was curled in the bottom of the glass-walled shower stall, fully clothed in the grey trousers and long-sleeved shirt he’d given her. The water beat down on her, icy cold, plastering the fabric to her skin. It ran pink, then clear, then pink again from a source on her left arm. Her right hand was clamped over it, but the blood welled between her fingers, relentless.
She wasn’t crying. She was just staring at the white tile wall, her eyes wide and empty, shivering violently.
Andrey killed the water. The silence was immediate, shocking. He crouched, his knees popping, the marble floor cold and wet. He didn’t reach for her, not yet.
“Nadya.” His voice was softer than he’d used in the boardroom. “Look at me.”
Her head turned slowly. Her pupils were vast, swallowing the grey of her irises. Recognition flickered, then a shame so acute it was like a physical blow. She tried to shrink further into the corner.
“Let me see,” he said, holding out his hand, palm up.
For a long moment, he thought she wouldn’t. Then, her hand—pale, water-wrinkled, trembling—slowly lifted from her arm. The cut was clean, but deep, running along the inside of her forearm. Not a haphazard tear. A deliberate, parallel line next to the faint, older scars he’d noticed on her knuckles. This was a language he understood. A scream trapped in skin.
He didn’t flinch. He didn’t ask why. He tore a fresh hand towel from the rack, folded it into a thick pad. “Press this here. Hard.”
She took it, her fingers fumbling, and did as he said. He stood, retrieving the medical kit from under the sink, the same one he’d used for the scrape on her collarbone. This would require more.
“Can you stand?”
She tried. Her legs buckled, a combination of cold and shock and blood loss. He caught her before she fell, his hands firm under her arms. He lifted her out of the stall as if she weighed nothing, setting her on the closed lid of the toilet. Her shivering was uncontrollable now, her teeth chattering.
“Stay there.”
He worked quickly, with a brutal efficiency. He dried her arm with a clean cloth, applied a clotting agent, and began to suture. The needle glinted under the harsh light. She watched, detached, as if it were happening to someone else. He spoke as he worked, his voice a low, steady murmur.
He taped a sterile dressing over the wound. Then he stood, pulling a large, clean towel from the warmer. He wrapped it around her shoulders, rubbing briskly. “You’re freezing.”
Her gaze finally focused on his face.
Her gaze finally focused on his face. Her lips parted, but no sound came out. She looked down at his hands, which were still holding the towel around her, then at the fresh, stark bandage on her arm. A small, choked noise escaped her throat.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, the words cracking.
“Don’t be,” he said, his voice leaving no room for argument. He stood and opened the linen closet, pulling out a pair of soft, navy sweats he sometimes slept in. “You’re freezing. These are dry. Can you change, or do you need help?”
She nodded, then shook her head, a confused, overwhelmed gesture. He understood.
“I’ll turn around.” He did, facing the sink, giving her the privacy of his back. He listened to the wet, struggle of fabric, the soft fall of the soaked clothes to the floor. Her breathing was still too quick, too shallow. “I’ve had worse from paper cuts,” he said, aiming for a tone of casual lightness. “Well. Not really. But close.”
He heard a faint, wet sniff behind him. It wasn’t a laugh, but it was something other than silence. “Done,” she rasped.
The sweats hung off her, comically large, the cuffs pooling around her ankles. She looked absurd and painfully young. He pointed to the main room. “Go sit. I’ll make tea. The strong kind.”
She padded out, leaving damp footprints on the black marble. He methodically cleaned the bathroom, wiping away every trace of pink water, gathering the bloody clothes into a bag he would dispose of later. The suite needed to show no weakness, no fissures.
When he brought two mugs of tea out, she was on the floor again, her back against the sofa, knees drawn up. She’d pulled the blanket from the window seat around her shoulders. He sat opposite her, mirroring her position, and slid her mug across the low table.
They drank in the quiet. The city lights blinked through a faint drizzle outside.
“Like mine,” he agreed. He finished his tea. “We have four days. We’ll practice.”Practice being a statue?”“Practice being a wall,” he said. “A very quiet, very boring wall. They’ll lose interest.” He stood, feeling the long day in his bones. “Get some sleep. Tomorrow we start.”He moved to his chair, picking up his discardedbook. It was a signal. The crisis was contained, for now. The next battle had its timeline. She watched him for a moment, then slowly uncurled, taking the blanket with her to the window-seat bed. She lay down, facing the room, her eyes on the dim outline of him in the chair.
“Andrey?” Her voice was small in the dark.
“Hmm?”
“Thank you. For the stitches.”
“You’re welcome,” he said, and turned a page he didn’t read. He listened until her breathing evened out into the shallow rhythm of sleep, a sound he was beginning to recognize as the new metric of his days. Outside, the neon glow of the hotel’s sign bled crimson through the crack in the drapes, painting a thin, persistent line across the floor between them.
The crimson line faded to grey with the slow creep of dawn. Andrey didn’t sleep. He watched the room emerge from the shadows, the shapes of furniture hardening into reality. His body ached from the chair, a familiar discomfort. Nadya slept on, a motionless mound under the blanket, her breathing the only sign of life.
He moved to the kitchen with the silence of habit, starting the coffee. The rich, bitter scent filled the space. As it brewed, he opened a drawer and took out a small, flat box he’d retrieved from the hotel’s discreet concierge service days ago, just in case. He placed it on the table beside her discarded mug.
The sound of grinding beans must have stirred her. He heard the rustle of fabric, the slow intake of breath that meant she was awake and reassembling herself. He poured two coffees, adding a spoon of honey to one, and turned.
She was sitting up, the blanket pooled around her waist. Her eyes went immediately to the fresh bandage on her arm, then to him. There was no panic this time, just a weary acceptance. She looked at the black mug he offered, then at the small box.
“What’s that?” Her voice was morning-rough.
“Open it.”
She pulled the box onto her lap, lifted the lid. Inside, on a bed of black silk, lay a wristband. It was made of dark, supple leather, about two inches wide, with a simple, polished steel clasp. It was unadorned, severe, and undeniably masculine.
“It’s for the dinner,” he said, taking a sip of his coffee. “The bandage will be too obvious. This will cover it. Put it on now, get used to the feel.”
She picked it up, her fingers testing the leather’s weight. It was sturdy. She wrapped it around her left wrist, fumbling with the clasp. He watched, not helping. She got it on the third try, snapping it shut. It sat there, a dark cuff against her pale skin, covering the dressing completely.
She flexed her hand, the new constraint clearly strange. “It’s tight.”
“It needs to be. So it doesn’t slide.” He set his coffee down. “Now we practice.”
“Now?”
“Your mind is soft in the morning. Less guarded. It’s the best time.” He pointed to the sofa. “Sit there. Not curled up. Sit like you own the leather.”
She shuffled over, perched stiffly on the edge. He remained standing, looming over her, crossing his arms. He let his expression go flat, the distant, appraising look of a sponsor.
“Look at the wall past my shoulder. Not at the floor. Not at me. Through me.”
Her eyes lifted, aiming somewhere at his collarbone.
“Further. Imagine the wall is a window. You’re watching a bird on a ledge. Nothing interesting, just a bird.”
Her gaze shifted, unfocusing slightly. The tense line of her shoulders dropped a fraction.
“Good.” His voice changed, adopting a bland, conversational tone he’d heard in the negotiation rooms. “So, Nadya, is the champion treating you well? Does he let you speak?”
She flinched, her eyes darting to his.
“Don’t break,” he said, his own voice returning. “The bird. Look at the bird. You don’t hear me. I am air.” He resumed the sponsor-voice. “That scar on his neck, how did he get it? Was it in the fight with Kapoor? Nasty business.”
Her fingers twitched on her knee. She forced her gaze back to that distant point, her jaw tightening.
“She’s pretty enough, I suppose, but quiet. They break them too much, sometimes. A waste of good pedigree.”
A flash of raw fury lit her eyes for a split second before she banked it, swallowing hard. Andrey felt a strange surge of pride. Good. Use that.
He stopped, dropping the act. “You moved. The anger was good, but you can’t show it. It’s fuel, not a flame. Let it heat your blood, not your face.”
“They talk like that?” she asked, her voice low.
“Worse. They’ll comment on your hair, your posture, the way you chew. They’ll speak about you as if you’re a painting on the wall. Your job is to be the painting.” He walked to the window, pulling the drape back. The day was overcast, the city below a dull gleam of steel. “We’ll do this every morning. It’ll get easier. Your skin will get thicker.”
“Did yours?”
He let the drape fall back. “My skin was always thick. Yours was meant for silk and sunlight. This is harder for you.” He turned. “But not impossible. The bandage needs changing.”
She followed him to the bathroom. This time, she sat on the lid of the toilet without being asked, offering her arm. He worked deftly, peeling away the old dressing. The sutures held clean, the edges of the cut already beginning to knit. He wiped it with antiseptic, the smell sharp in the small room.
“How many of these have you done?” she asked, watching his hands.
“On myself? Dozens. On others?” He applied a fresh pad. “A few. Cage-fighting isn’t a team sport, but you patch up your training partners sometimes.” He secured the dressing and tapped the leather wristband. “This stays on, even to shower. Keep it dry.”
She nodded, running her fingers over the clasp. “It looks like something you’d wear.”
“That’s the point.”
Later, they played cards. She was aggressive today, slapping down a queen of spades to take his run. “The bird on the ledge was picking at a dead thing,” she said, not looking up from her hand.
Andrey almost smiled. “See? You were listening. And now you’re using it to distract me. That’s progress.”
The day unwound in these small, measured rituals. Coffee. Practice. Cards. The silent companionship of two people in a locked room. As evening approached, a different package arrived via the silent attendant—a long, slender garment bag of black cloth.
Andrey unzipped it. Inside was a dress. It was high-necked, long-sleeved, a fall of midnight-blue velvet that would cover her from throat to wrist to ankle. It was stunning in its simplicity, and its absolute modesty was its own kind of armor.
“Try it on,” he said. “See if it fits.”
She took the bag into the bathroom. He waited. Minutes passed. Then the door opened.
The dress fit her perfectly, the velvet draping her slender frame without clinging. It made her look older, regal in a somber way. The long sleeves ended just above the leather wristband, which now looked like a deliberate accessory, not a cover-up. She stood awkwardly, her arms held slightly away from her body.
Andrey gave a slow nod. “Good. The Manager has a decent tailor.”
“It’s heavy,” she said.
“It’s supposed to be.” He walked around her, a critical circle. “It says you are not to be handled lightly. Now walk in it. Sit in it. Breathe in it.”
She took a few steps, the fabric whispering. She sat on the sofa, arranging the folds. “What do I do with my hands?”
“Rest them in your lap. One over the other. Left on top.” He demonstrated briefly. “It hides the wristband better. Now, the most important part. If someone speaks to you directly, a direct question you can’t ignore, you have one job.”
She looked up, waiting.
“You look at me,” he said, his voice dropping. “You wait. You let me answer. A half-second delay, then you turn your head slowly, you look at me with… not fear. Not affection. With expectation. Like I’m a translator. Then you look back at them, and you give a single, small, closed-mouth smile. Nothing more. Then look back at your plate.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s a script. It’s all you need.” He paused. “Can you do that?”
Nadya looked down at the dark velvet covering her legs, at the cuff of leather on her wrist. She took a slow, deep breath, the way he’d taught her. When she looked up, her face was calm, a placid mask. She turned her head toward an imaginary sponsor, offered a faint, meaningless curve of her lips that didn’t touch her eyes, and looked away.
It was chillingly perfect.
“Good,” Andrey said, and something in his chest tightened. “Now take it off before you wrinkle it. Dinner’s not for two more days.”
She retreated to the bathroom. When she emerged back in the sweatpants, the dress hanging once more in its shroud, she seemed to have left some of her fragility in the velvet. She picked up the deck of cards. “Again?”
They played into the night. On his turn, Andrey laid down a card without thinking. It was the ace of spades.
She looked at it, then at the stark black lines of the hotel’s architecture through the window. “The bird is gone,” she said quietly. “The ledge is empty.”
Andrey followed her gaze. The neon sign now glowed a sterile white. “Maybe it flew somewhere else,” he said.
“Or it fell,” she replied, and picked up the ace, winning the hand.