Alexsi was pretty quiet through the whole thing. As soon as he realized his minister father had set this up, that she was from the tribe his battalion had been keeping at bay on the boarder. And that the ministry and capital were serious. He did the math. She would surely be married to one of the other commanders if he refused. He made eye contact with his best friend and fellow commander Andrey. He’d been a government steroid experiment and was huge. They’d been in military training together. Short of choosing him - almost all the rest would hurt her badly. So he kept his Slavic Soviet stoic face and demeanour as always. Counting down to when he could get her somewhere calmer and safer. The vulture surrounding them made him ill. The way people were talking like she was a thing. At least he had resources and pretty comfortable fancy housing back at his battalion. And his men loved and respected him. He just needed to get them out of this god awful place. He realized pretty quickly too that she was drugged. And the closer he got the more bruising under makeup became clear. This was not her choice. He knew he and Andrey were big. And she seemed really scared. But brave. He would do what he could for her. At the least it looked like she needed medical help. At the least it looked like she needed medical help. He didn’t want to return her to the same uncle and family that had essentially sold her off like this. She saw it as trafficking herself. There is no sex. He’s only kind to her.

Chapter 42: The Hotel's Quiet Refuge

The suite came alive in stages.

First the light—a pale, watery gray filtering through the heavy velvet drapes, catching dust motes suspended in the still air. Then the sounds: the distant hiss of traffic far below, the groan of old pipes in the walls, the soft rhythm of breathing. Three people breathing. Three people in a room that should have held one.

Mila surfaced from a sleep so deep it felt like drowning.

Her body was heavy, weighted down by a fatigue that had settled into her bones over the past weeks. For a moment she didn't know where she was. The ceiling above her was high and ornate, traced with gold scrollwork that caught the dim light. The sheets beneath her fingers were soft—genuinely soft, not the rough canvas she'd grown used to. And the smell—

She inhaled sharply, the unfamiliar scents flooding her senses. Polish leather. Old money. Something floral from a vase on the side table.

The Hotel Moskva. Her fragmented memory assembled the pieces slowly. The false name Alexsi had given the clerk. The way Andrey had carried her up the stairs like she weighed nothing at all. The bed swallowing her whole, the cashmere throw—

She turned her head. They were still there.

Both of them.

Alexsi sat in an armchair by the window, his long legs stretched out, his head lolled to one side in that same exhausted sleep she'd witnessed the night before. Andrey had wedged himself into a second chair that looked comically too small for his frame, his massive hands folded over his stomach, his chin resting on his chest. Neither of them had undressed. Neither of them had gone far.

They'd stayed.

Mila pressed her palm against the mattress, testing the strength in her arms. The tremors had eased. The nausea had backed off to a dull, queasy hum. She felt wrung out, hollowed, but present in a way she hadn't been since—

Since before.

She tried to sit up, and the motion sent a spike of pain through her ribs. She gasped, clamping her hand over her side. The movement was enough. Alexsi's eyes snapped open, going from asleep to alert in a single breath, his hand moving toward the knife he'd left on the side table.

Then he saw her, and his hand stopped.

"Easy," he said, his voice rough with sleep. "Don't try to move too fast."

"I'm fine." The words came out cracked and dry, barely audible.

"You're not fine." He rose from the chair, moving with that same careful, non-threatening deliberation she was beginning to recognize. He crossed to the table by the window, where a pitcher of water sat beside a tray of covered dishes. He poured a glass and brought it to her, holding it out at arm's length.

She took it. Their fingers didn't touch.

The water was cool and clean, and she drank it in greedy swallows, hating how much she needed it. When she finished, he took the glass from her hand and set it on the nightstand.

"I ordered breakfast," he said, nodding toward the tray. "There's soup, bread, some fruit. Nothing heavy."

"How long was I asleep?"

"Almost sixteen hours."

She blinked. That didn't seem possible. The last time she'd slept more than three hours at a stretch had been—

She couldn't remember.

"Your body's catching up," Andrey said from the armchair. He was awake now too, stretching his enormous arms over his head with a series of cracks that made her wince. "You've been running on nothing but adrenaline and fear for weeks. That shit catches up with you eventually."

She flinched. Not at his words—at the casual way he acknowledged what she'd been through. Like it was fact, not something to tiptoe around.

Alexsi shot him a look. Andrey shrugged.

"What? She knows what happened. Pretending it didn't happen doesn't help anyone."

Mila found herself staring at the massive man. There was no guile in his face, no hidden edge. Just a plain, honest assessment, offered without expectation.

"The soup's still warm," Alexsi said, steering the conversation back. He lifted the metal cover off one of the bowls, releasing a cloud of steam and a smell so rich and savory that her stomach turned over with sudden, greedy hunger. "It's just broth and vegetables. Should be easy on your stomach."

She hated how obvious her body's reactions were. How transparent her needs were written across her face.

But she couldn't make herself say no.

She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, slowly, carefully, bracing herself against the mattress until the world stopped spinning. Alexsi didn't move to help her. He stood back, giving her room.

She made it to the table on her own.

The chair was padded, almost absurdly comfortable compared to everything she'd sat on in weeks. She eased herself down, lifting the spoon with a hand that trembled slightly. The first sip of broth was so warm and savory that it brought tears to her eyes.

She blinked them back.

Andrey dropped a piece of bread onto her plate, along with a slice of apple. "Eat slow," he advised. "Your stomach's not used to real food yet."

She nodded, not trusting her voice.