Chapter 5: Wounds and Whispers
The private elevator opened directly into the foyer of the suite. It was a space of hushed, impersonal luxury, all muted grays and deep blues, a world away from the gilded brutality of the ministry. The manager silently handed Alexsi two keycards, pointed toward a door at the end of a short hallway—the master bedroom—and melted away.
Alexsi carried Mila through the living area, past a low sofa and a wall of windows showing the city as a diorama of cold light. Andrey moved ahead, pushing open the bedroom door and flipping on a single lamp, casting a soft, golden pool in the vast, shadowed room. The bed was a ridiculous expanse of white linen, piled with pillows.
“Bathroom’s through there,” Andrey said, nodding to another door. “I’ll get the kit.”
Alexsi didn’t set Mila on the bed. He walked straight into the bathroom and placed her, with infinite care, on a low, upholstered stool beside the massive clawfoot tub. She kept the blanket pulled tightly around her, her eyes taking in the room with the wary quickness of a trapped animal assessing its cage. Black marble floors drank the light. A single frosted sconce cast a weak glow, making the steam Andrey had already started to generate from the hot water curl like specters. The window was a dark mirror, reflecting their fragmented images back at them.
Andrey returned, lugging a heavy military-issue medical kit and a duffel bag. He set them down with a soft thud. The normalcy of the sound—the familiar click of latches—seemed absurd in this opulent setting.
“Okay,” Alexsi said, his voice low. He crouched down in front of Mila, putting himself below her eye level. “We need to get you clean and see to those cuts. Your dress is ruined. It has to come off.” He saw the immediate panic flash in her eyes, the way her hands clenched the blanket like a lifeline. “Andrey and I will help you. But we will stop the second you say to stop. Do you understand? You say ‘wait,’ and we wait. You say ‘no,’ and we find another way.”
She just stared at him, her breath quickening. The trust wasn’t there yet; it was a theoretical concept, dwarfed by a lifetime of evidence to the contrary.
Andrey, still standing by the door, cleared his throat. “How about this? Lex, you start at the bottom. With the feet. I’ll work on getting the… the top part cut away. We go slow. Like a two-man engineering project.” He attempted a smile. It looked strange on his broad, battered face, but the effort was genuine.
Mila’s gaze flicked between them. Slowly, so slowly, she gave a tiny, jerky nod.
“Alright,” Alexsi said. He reached for the medical kit, pulling out trauma shears, gauze, antiseptic, and a roll of bandage. The clinical tools seemed to anchor him. This was a procedure. A mission. Stabilize the civilian.
Andrey approached, moving with a conscious slowness that belied his size. He knelt on the marble floor beside her, the stone groaning softly under his weight. From his pocket, he produced a smaller, simpler folding knife. “Dress is done for. Gonna have to cut it off. Is that okay?”
Another nod, tighter this time. She closed her eyes.
“Good. Just sit still.” His hands, those enormous dinner-plate hands, were deft and precise. He found the seam at the shoulder of the cheap, beaded silk. The knife whispered through the fabric. The sound was shockingly loud. Mila flinched at the first touch of cold steel against her skin.
“Sorry. Cold,” Andrey mumbled.
He worked methodically, cutting down the side seam, then across the back. The dress, its structural integrity gone, sagged. The blanket slipped. Mila snatched at it, a gasp escaping her, but Andrey had already seen. They both had.
The bruising was a brutal tapestry. Mottled purples and sickly yellows bloomed across her ribs, her back, the tops of her arms. Finger-shaped marks stood out in lurid detail on her biceps. This wasn’t just the work of the men at the ministry; this was older, systematic. Her uncle’s handiwork.
Alexsi’s breath caught in his throat. He forced it out, forced his hands to be steady. He didn’t comment. Commenting would make it a topic. It would force her to acknowledge it in front of them. He simply bent to his task.
He gently lifted one foot, cradling the heel in his palm. The cuts were worse up close. Deep, angry slashes, some still seeping a watery pink. Dirt and fragments of silk were ground into the wounds. She hissed in pain the moment he made contact.
“I know,” he murmured. “This will sting. I have to clean them.” He soaked a gauze pad in antiseptic solution. The astringent smell cut through the lavender in the air. “Ready?”
She bit her lip, her eyes squeezed shut, and nodded.
He dabbed. She jerked, a full-body spasm, but didn’t pull away. He held her foot firmly, not tight, just secure. “Almost done with this one,” he said, his voice a low, continuous rumble. “You’re doing perfectly. Just breathe.”
Beside him, Andrey had finished cutting. The dress fell away into a sad, bloody heap on the floor. Mila sat in her plain, utilitarian underwear, hunched over, trying to vanish into herself. Andrey didn’t stare. He stood, grabbed a large, fluffy hotel bathrobe from a hook, and held it open like a bullfighter’s cape. “Arms up, when you’re ready. Quick swap.”
With Alexsi still working on her foot, she was distracted. Mechanically, she raised her arms. Andrey draped the robe around her shoulders and she slid her arms in, pulling the thick terrycloth closed in front of her, a barrier restored.
“Progress,” Andrey said, a note of relief in his voice. He turned to the tub, testing the water with his elbow. “Good temperature. Not too hot. You think you can get in? Or do you want the shower hose?”
Mila looked at the towering tub. The climb seemed insurmountable. “I… I do not know.”
“We’ll help,” Alexsi said, finishing the last bandage on her first foot. He started on the second. This one was worse. A particularly deep cut ran along the arch. He cleaned it with meticulous care, his brow furrowed in concentration. “Almost done. Then we’ll get you in the water. You don’t have to wash. Just sit. Soak. The heat will help.”
When the second foot was clean and bandaged, he looked up at her. “Okay?”
She nodded, her face pale.
Between them, they helped her stand. She swayed, the pain in her feet sharp and bright even through the bandages. Alexsi took most of her weight, an arm around her back, while Andrey guided her legs. It was an awkward, intimate ballet. They lowered her into the tub.
The moment the hot water enveloped her, she let out a sound—a small, broken sigh that was half pain, half profound relief. She sank down until the water lapped at her chin, the robe turning into a heavy, sodden weight around her. She didn’t move. She just let the heat seep into her bruised muscles.
“Hair?” Andrey asked, holding up a bottle of hotel shampoo. “Might as well get the… the smell out.”
Mila glanced at Alexsi, a flicker of confusion. He was still crouched by the tub, wiping his hands on a towel. He gave a slight nod of encouragement.
“Yes. Please,” she whispered.
Andrey found a plastic cup on the sink. He filled it with warm water from the tap. “Tip your head back. Close your eyes. I’ve done this for my sisters a hundred times. Big hands are good for this.”
Gently, he poured water over her hair, careful to keep it from her face. He worked the shampoo into a lather, his thick fingers surprisingly delicate as they massaged her scalp. Mila remained rigid for the first moments, then, incrementally, the tension in her neck and shoulders began to unlock. Her eyes stayed closed, but the lines of terror on her face softened minutely.
Alexsi watched, silent. He saw the tears then, not the frantic ones from the car, but silent, continuous streams that tracked through the residual grime on her cheeks and mixed with the bathwater. She wasn’t sobbing. She was just… overflowing.
Andrey saw them too. He paused, his hands stilling. “Hey. Too rough? Did I hurt you?”
She shook her head, eyes still shut, unable to speak.
“Overwhelmed,” Alexsi said quietly. He understood. The violence had been a shock to the system, but this—this careful, mundane kindness—was what threatened to break her completely. It was the antithesis of everything she’d known. It was more confusing than a fist.
“We can stop,” Alexsi said, his voice close to her ear. “Just say the word.”
She shook her head again, more vehemently this time. “N-no. Do not stop. It is… it is good.” The words were choked. “Please.”
So Andrey continued, rinsing with the same careful patience. When he was done, her dark hair was clean, slicked back from a face that looked even younger without the makeup and the filth. The bruises stood out starkly.
“Want to be alone for a bit?” Alexsi asked. “We can wait outside. You have the robe. You’re covered.”
She opened her eyes then. The thought of being alone in this strange, echoing room seemed to frighten her almost as much as their presence. “No. Do not… do not go far.”
“We’ll be right here,” Andrey said. He settled himself on the floor, his back against the marble wall, a mountain of quiet solidarity. Alexsi leaned against the vanity, crossing his arms. They became still, predictable statues in her periphery.
For ten minutes, the only sounds were the soft lap of water and the distant hum of the city. Mila didn’t move. She stared at the opposite wall, her gaze unfocused. Then, with a sudden, decisive motion, she took the wet bathrobe and shoved it over the side of the tub. It landed on the floor with a heavy, wet slap. She submerged herself completely, briefly, coming up gasping, rubbing her face with her hands as if trying to scrub off an invisible layer.
She reached for the soap and a washcloth. Her movements were stiff, pained. She washed her arms, her neck, her face with a brutal, scrubbing diligence. She was washing them away. The touch, the smell, the memory. Alexsi and Andrey said nothing, just watched the wall, the ceiling, giving her the privacy of their averted eyes.
Finally, the frantic scrubbing slowed. She leaned back again, spent. The water was cooling, clouded.
“I am finished,” she said, her voice small.
Andrey pushed himself up. “Right. Exit strategy.” He grabbed two large, clean towels from a heated rack, holding one open like before. “Stand up, and we’ll get you bundled.”
Getting her out was easier. She stood on her bandaged feet, wincing, and Andrey wrapped her in the towel, then draped the second one over her hair. Alexsi lifted her out and set her back on the stool. She was shivering again, but it was the clean, bright shiver of cooler air, not the deep shock tremor from before.
Andrey dug into the duffel bag. He pulled out soft, grey sweatpants and a faded navy sweatshirt, both clearly Alexsi’s, dwarfing her frame. “Borrowed these from Lex’s kit. They’ll swim on you, but they’re clean and warm. Socks, too. Thick ones.” He laid them on the counter.
“Can you manage?” Alexsi asked.
“Yes,” she said, and for the first time, there was a faint thread of certainty in her voice. She wanted to do this herself.
“We’ll be in the bedroom. Call if you need anything.” They left, closing the door most of the way behind them, leaving a two-inch gap.
In the bedroom, Alexsi let out a long, controlled breath, running both hands through his hair. The sterile calm of the bathroom fell away, leaving only the rage and disgust he’d been compartmentalizing.
“Her uncle,” Andrey said, his voice a low growl. He was staring out the window, his massive hands clenched into fists at his sides. “I’d like to meet him. I’d like to introduce his face to a curb.”
“Later,” Alexsi said, the word cold and final. “First, she sleeps. For a week.”
They heard the soft rustle of towels, the faint struggle of pulling on clothes too large. A long silence. Then a small, “I am done.”
They re-entered. Mila was perched on the edge of the stool, engulfed in the sweats. She’d rolled the pants and sleeves up several times. The thick socks were a bulging white mass on her slender, bandaged feet. With her clean hair damp around her shoulders and the brutal marks on her face, she looked like a child who’d survived a war.
“Bed,” Alexsi announced.
He carried her again, the short distance to the massive bed. He pulled back the duvet and sheets and placed her in the center. She sank into the mattress, her body going limp with a fatigue that seemed to come from her very bones. Andrey piled pillows around her, creating a nest.
“Now, the less fun part,” Andrey said, opening the medical kit again. He produced an IV setup—a bag of clear fluid, tubing, a catheter. “Saline. With some vitamins and a mild painkiller mixed in. You’re dehydrated, in shock, and you hurt everywhere. This will help faster than drinking water. It’s standard. We use it for our men after rough ops.”
Mila’s eyes widened at the needle.
“I am very good at this,” Andrey said, his tone softening to something like哄劝. “You’ll feel a tiny pinch. Then you won’t feel it at all. It’ll let you sleep properly. And your feet will thank you in the morning.”
She looked at Alexsi, seeking confirmation. He nodded. “It’s a good idea. You need it.”
She extended her arm, turning her face away. Andrey swabbed a spot on the back of her hand with alcohol. His movements were clinical, expert. “Small pinch now.” He slid the catheter in. She barely flinched. He taped it down securely, hung the bag from the bedpost, and adjusted the drip. “All set. You might feel a cool sensation going up your arm. That’s normal.”
The immediate effect was subtle but profound. The last remaining wires of tension in her posture seemed to dissolve. Her eyelids grew heavy. The artificial support was taking over, allowing her exhausted systems to finally stand down.
Andrey pulled a heavy armchair close to the side of the bed. “I’ve got first watch. You,” he said to Alexsi, “need to eat something and figure out what the hell we do tomorrow. And maybe change your shirt. You’ve got Lermontov on you.”
Alexsi looked down. The front of his dress uniform tunic was indeed stained with dark, dried spatter. He’d forgotten.
He looked back at Mila. Her eyes were open, watching him. The raw fear was gone, replaced by a deep, fathomless exhaustion and a dawning, bewildered uncertainty. She was safe, but she had no idea what that meant, what came next.
“Sleep,” he told her. “Nothing will happen tonight. Andrey is here. I will be just outside, on the sofa. The door will stay open.”
He turned to go.
“Alexsi.” Her voice stopped him, barely a whisper.
He turned back.
She was struggling with something, her brow furrowed. The painkiller was loosening her tongue, blurring the lines of survival-caution. “In the car… you promised. You said I never have to pretend with you.”
“I meant it.”
She studied his face, as if searching for a flaw in the weld of his words. “What do you want from me?” The question was blunt, stripped bare of all pretense. It wasn’t accusatory. It was purely, desperately pragmatic. She needed to know the price of this sanctuary.
Alexsi didn’t answer immediately. He walked back to the bed, leaned down, and placed his hands on the footboard, meeting her gaze directly. “I want you to heal. I want you to not be afraid. When you are strong enough, I want you to tell me where you want to go, and I will make it happen. That is all.” He paused. “There is no other price.”
A single tear escaped, tracking a clean line down her cheek. She didn’t believe him yet. Not fully. Belief was a bridge too far for one night. But she was starting to believe in the possibility of it, and that was a start.
“Okay,” she breathed.
She let her head sink back into the pillow, her eyes closing. The steady, slow drip of the IV counted the seconds into minutes. Her breathing deepened, slowed. The grip of wakefulness released its claim.
Andrey, a dark shape in the armchair, gave Alexsi a slow, somber nod. She’s out.
Alexsi stood watching her for another moment—the small figure lost in the enormous bed, the gentle rise and fall of the too-big sweatshirt, the pale face finally at peace. The violent world was on the other side of the door, held at bay, for now.
He walked out of the bedroom, leaving the door wide open. He shed the blood-stained tunic in the middle of the lavish living room floor, a piece of the night finally discarded. He sat on the deep sofa, facing the cityscape, and began the silent, grim work of planning their next move, while the only sound from the bedroom was the soft, rhythmic breath of a woman sleeping, truly sleeping, for the first time in a very long while.