Chapter 41: The First Dawn
Dawn came slow and gray through the barred window, painting the room in shades of sickly light.
Mila woke with a gasp, her body jerking upright before her mind caught up with the world. The sheets were twisted around her legs, damp with sweat, and her heart was pounding so hard she could feel it in her teeth. The nightmare was still clinging to her skin like a second layer, phantom hands and phantom voices whispering at the edges of her consciousness.
She looked around wildly. Bare walls. A bolted-down bed. The smell of stale cigarettes and something antiseptic.
And a man asleep in a chair by the door.
She remembered him in pieces. The ceremony. The way he'd stepped between her and the general. The way he'd told her the bed was hers. The way he'd said I don't intend to touch you like it was the simplest thing in the world.
Alexsi Volkov was still wearing his uniform shirt, though he'd loosened the collar and rolled up his sleeves. His head was tilted back against the wall, his jaw slack with exhaustion, one hand resting on his thigh.
His hand was resting on a knife.
She watched the blade catch the weak morning light. Watched the way his fingers lay loose and ready around the hilt, even in sleep. He was a soldier. They were all soldiers here. Every man in this building had probably killed someone. Had probably done worse.
She had to get out.
Mila swung her legs over the side of the bed. The room tilted. She grabbed the edge of the mattress and held on, breathing through the nausea that rolled up her throat like a wave. The drugs were still in her system, a syrupy fog that made her limbs feel stuffed with cotton and her thoughts slide sideways every time she tried to grip them.
The bathroom door was maybe ten feet away. She could make it. She just had to stand up and walk.
She stood.
She made it two steps before her knees buckled.
The floor rushed up to meet her, linoleum cold and hard and unforgiving. She threw out her hands to catch herself, but the impact never came. Instead, strong arms caught her mid-fall, hauling her upright with a gentleness that seemed impossible from a man that size.
"Easy." His voice was low and rough from sleep, but steady. "I've got you."
Mila flinched. Her whole body seized up, every muscle locking tight as her mind raced through the possibilities of what happened next. The ones who caught you when you fell were the ones who wanted something. That was how it always went. The guard who'd helped her back to her cell had wanted her to lower her defenses. The doctor who'd been so kind to her arm had wanted—
She couldn't finish the thought. Her stomach lurched and she doubled over, vomiting bile and water onto the linoleum floor.
Alexsi didn't let go. He held her up with one arm while the other grabbed the basin from the nightstand, positioning it beneath her face just in time for the second wave. She gagged and heaved, tears streaming down her face, her whole body shaking with the force of it.
"Just breathe," he said. "Let it come out. You'll feel better."
She didn't want to feel better. She wanted to be anywhere else. She wanted to be dead. No—she didn't want to be dead. She wanted to be gone. Invisible. Somewhere no one could touch her.
The vomiting stopped after a minute. She sagged against him, too weak to hold herself up, too exhausted to care about the humiliation of it. He eased her back onto the edge of the bed, then knelt down and wiped her mouth with a cool cloth he must have gotten from somewhere.
"Cold," she mumbled.
"Should help with the nausea." He dipped the cloth in the basin, wrung it out, and pressed it to her forehead. The coolness was a shock against her sweat-slicked skin, but it did feel better. She hated that it felt better.
"Don't," she whispered.
"Don't what?"
"Don't be nice to me."
He paused. His hand hovered near her face, the cloth dripping onto the front of her dress. She watched his expression shift, something dark passing behind his eyes before he set the cloth down and sat back on his heels.
"Why not?"
"Because the last ones who were nice to me—" She stopped. Swallowed. The words were jagged in her throat, sharp-edged and hard to push out. "The last ones who were nice to me, one of them sold me to the men who put these bruises on my face. And the other one watched while they did it and said I should be grateful for the attention."
Alexsi's jaw tightened. She saw the muscle jump in his cheek. She expected him to argue, to insist he was different, to make the same empty promises she'd heard a hundred times before.
He didn't.
"Fair enough," he said quietly. He pushed himself to his feet and walked to the small dresser against the wall. He pulled open a drawer and took out a clean shirt, a pair of sweatpants, a towel. He set them on the bed beside her and stepped back.
"The bathroom's through that door. Water's hot, so take your time. I'll be in the other room."
He turned and walked out. The door clicked shut behind him.
Mila stared at the closed door. At the pile of clean clothes on the bed. At the basin of water still sitting on the floor where he'd left it, the cloth draped neatly over the edge.
Something loosened in her chest. Just a fraction. Just enough to let her take a full breath for the first time in what felt like days.
She didn't trust him. She couldn't trust him. But he'd given her a door.
She gathered the clothes and stumbled toward the bathroom.
---
The shower was a revelation.
Hot water sluiced over her skin, washing away the grime of the past three days—the filth of the transport van, the layers of heavy makeup that had been caked onto her face like a mask, the lingering chemical sweetness of whatever they'd drugged her with. She stood under the spray until the water ran cold, letting it strip away the topmost layer of everything she'd been through.
When she finally stepped out, wrapped in a towel, she caught her reflection in the steamed mirror.
The face that stared back at her was almost unrecognizable. The bruise on her cheekbone had bloomed into a dark, angry purple. Her split lip had crusted over. Her ribs showed through her skin like ridges beneath a blanket—she'd lost weight in the weeks since they'd taken her.
She looked like a ghost wearing a girl's skin.
Mila dressed slowly, careful not to jostle the tender places. The shirt was too big, hanging off her shoulders and falling past her fingertips. The sweatpants had a drawstring, so she pulled them tight. Army-issue, she guessed. Probably his. The smell of him clung to the fabric—soap and gunpowder and something clean underneath.
She hated how safe it made her feel.
When she emerged from the bathroom, she found the suite empty.
The armchair where he'd been sitting was pushed against the wall. The sofa cushions had been flattened into a makeshift bed, the imprints of his body still visible in the fabric. A tray sat on the small dining table, covered with a cloth, a mug of steam rising from the edge.
She approached it like a wounded animal approaching a trap. Slow. Cautious. Ready to bolt.
The cloth lifted to reveal a plate of eggs, a piece of dark bread, a bowl of kasha with butter melting into it, and a glass of juice. There was no note, but a second mug sat beside the first, as if he'd poured himself a coffee and left it to cool while he'd gone wherever he'd gone.
She was still staring at the food when the door to the hallway opened.
Mila spun around, her heart slamming against her ribs. But it was just the big one. Andrey. He filled the doorway like a mountain moving through a valley, and for a moment the sight of him made her breath catch with fresh panic—until she registered the tray in his hands.
"—got you some bread from the mess hall, thought you might be hungry—oh. Oh." He stopped short, his eyes going wide. "You're awake. I didn't mean to scare you."
"You didn't," she lied.
He looked at the tray, then at her, then at the plate on the table. A flush crept up his thick neck. "Ah. I see he already brought you something." He set his tray down next to hers, showing a small jar of honey and a tin of tea. "Extra supplies. In case you wanted something sweet."
She stared at him. He stared back. His hands, the size of dinner plates, hung awkwardly at his sides.
"You don't have to do this," she said.
"Do what?"
"Feed me. Bring me things. Be..." She gestured vaguely, at the room, at him, at everything. "Nice."
Andrey's brow furrowed. He looked genuinely confused, like she'd spoken a language he didn't understand. "Why wouldn't we be nice to you?"
"That's not how it works." She heard her own voice crack. "It doesn't. The niceness always comes with a price."
Andrey stood there for a long moment. Then he lowered himself onto the edge of the sofa, his immense frame making it groan in protest. He folded his hands in his lap and looked at them, silent, as if weighing his words.
"I had a sister once," he said finally. "Sort of. A girl from the village I grew up in. She was like a sister to me—we grew up together, split bread together, skipped school together. When the war came, she was taken. I looked for her for a year." His hands tightened. "Found her body in a mass grave outside the city. She'd been... they'd done things to her. Things no one should have to survive."
Mila's throat closed.
"Every woman who comes through here, I see her face in them." Andrey looked up, his dark eyes steady. "So no, you won't be getting any price from me. The price was already paid. By her. By everyone like her. And I'd rather die than collect another one."
Mila had to look away. Her eyes burned, but she refused to cry. She'd promised herself a long time ago that she wouldn't cry in front of them anymore.
"He's like that too, you know," Andrey said, gesturing at the empty room. "Alexsi. He doesn't show it, but it's the same for him. He's spent the last ten years trying to atone for the crimes of his father. That's why he took this posting—so he could watch the border, try to stop the human trafficking that the capital turns a blind eye to." He paused. "He's not like the others."
"You could be lying to me."
"I could be." Andrey shrugged, a massive, rolling motion. "But I'm not."
He stood up, carefully, like he was trying not to spook a wild animal. "Eat something. There's honey for the tea if you want it. I'll be in the hallway if you need me."
He walked to the door and paused, his hand on the handle. Without turning around, he said: "I'm sorry for what they did to you. All of it. You didn't deserve that."
The door clicked shut.
Mila stood alone in the silent room. The food sat on the table, steam rising from the plates. The light through the barred window cast long shadows across the floor.
She sat down, picked up the bread, and took a bite.
It was the first food she'd eaten in two days.
---
Alexsi came back an hour later, looking haggard, his shirt damp with snowmelt. He'd been outside. She could see frost on his shoulders, melting into dark patches.
He stopped short when he saw her sitting at the table, the plate half-eaten in front of her.
"You ate."
"Don't sound so surprised."
He almost smiled. Almost. "Fair enough." He hung his coat on a hook by the door, then moved toward the kitchenette to make coffee. His movements were measured, deliberately non-threatening. She watched the way his hands curved around the kettle, the way he kept his back slightly turned to her—leaving her the door, leaving her the window. Space, he was giving her space.
"I've arranged for a non-commissioned officer to verify the marriage this afternoon," he said, his voice casual, as if discussing the weather. "He's a friend of mine. He'll report what I tell him to report."
"And if your father sends his own witnesses?"
"He'll send his adjutant." Alexsi poured the coffee, not looking at her. "I'll deal with him. You don't have to worry. You won't be touched."
"Why?"
He turned, holding the mug in both hands. His face was unreadable, carved from stone. "Because no one should have to live through what you've already lived through. That's why."
The words hung in the air. Mila watched him, searching for the lie, the angle, the hidden hook. She'd gotten good at spotting those over the years. But he didn't look away, didn't smile his way around it, didn't do any of the things men did when they were trying to deceive.
He just stood there, drinking his coffee, letting her look.
"I don't believe you," she said finally.
"That's your right."
"But I want to."