Chapter 9: The First Night at the Battalion
The journey to the battalion had been a blur of pain and muffled terror. The truck smelled of diesel and old canvas, and every bump on the dirt road sent jagged lightning through her ribs. She’d been wrapped in a coarse military blanket, the makeup plastered on her face by some officious aide feeling like a cracking mask. Alexsi and the giant, Andrey, had ridden in silence, their presence a wall between her and the other soldiers. She didn’t trust it. A gilded cage was still a cage. The men who’d given her to them had laughed, had pinched her bruised cheeks and called her lucky. Luck felt like a fist in the gut.
But the quarters weren’t a cell.
They were in an old administrative building, the halls wide and echoing with the ghosts of bureaucrats. Alexsi’s private suite was something else entirely. Warm oak paneling swallowed the harsh overhead lights. Faded tapestries of heroic tractors and soaring rockets softened the walls. There was a wood stove, unlit but promising, and a massive mahogany desk strewn with maps. And the bed. It sat under a window, draped in deep, crimson silk, so wide and high it looked like a ship. He’d shown her the attached bathroom, the deep tub, the stack of clean towels. “This is yours,” he’d said, his voice devoid of any expectation. “The lock works from the inside. Use it.”
He and Andrey had left her there. The silence after the door clicked shut was immense. She stood in the center of the room, her bag – the one they’d hastily packed for her – at her feet. She listened. No footsteps outside. No handle testing. Just the distant, metallic rhythm of the post, a sound like a giant’s heartbeat.
She locked the door. The bolt slid home with a solid, satisfying thunk.
For a long time, she just stood there. Then, moving stiffly, she unpacked. A few threadbare dresses. A hairbrush. A small, cracked icon of Saint Magdalene her mother had given her, which the men had missed. And tucked into a hidden seam, wrapped in waxed paper, four pills. Misoprostol. Stolen from the clinic back home months ago, a silent insurance policy against the world she knew. She’d heard the whispers. What these political marriages were for. Cementing alliances with blood, with heirs. Her uncle’s leering face flashed in her mind. You’ll give the Minister a grandson, girl. Make yourself useful.
The bed was a cloud. The silk was cool against her torn skin. She slept for fourteen hours straight, a coma of exhaustion, and when she woke, the fear was still there, sharper. The kindness was the trap. It had to be. They were fattening the lamb. Making her comfortable so she’d be compliant. Alexsi’s impassive face gave nothing away. What if he knew? What if his father’s orders had been explicit? Get her pregnant. Secure the line. The fancy room, the privacy, it was just setting the stage. Some men, even ones who seemed steady, turned into fanatics about lineage. She’d seen it. A girl from her village had tried to end a pregnancy from a beating from her drunk father; the local priest had found out and told the father, who’d locked her in a shed until she bled out. They’d called it God’s will.
She couldn’t ask. The risk was absolute.
Three days after arrival, her body told her what she already suspected. The nausea was different from the sickness of fear. Her breasts ached in a specific, familiar way. The timeline was a brutal arithmetic. The men her uncle and Minister Volkov had let into her cell hadn’t been careful. They’d been pigs at a trough. It was entirely possible. Likely, even.
That evening, she took the pills. She’d planned it. Alexsi and Andrey were downstairs, the sounds of their low conversation a rumble through the floorboards. She ran a bath as cover for the sound, swallowed the bitter pills with water from the tap, and waited.
The cramps began as a deep, grinding torsion. Then they became claws. She curled on the cool tiles of the bathroom floor, a towel stuffed in her mouth to silence the whimpers. The pain was a white-hot universe, blotting out the fancy wood paneling, the silk, everything. It was just her, the pain, and the horrifying,私密的 evidence of what had been done to her leaving her body. She prayed it was working. She prayed she wouldn’t die here, alone on this beautiful floor.
She didn’t know how long she lay there. The world shrank to the rhythm of the spasms. Then, a new sound.A knock. Firm. “Mila?” Alexsi’s voice, from the other side of the bedroom door. “You’ve been in there a while. Everything okay?”
She couldn’t answer. A guttural moan escaped her, muffled by the towel.
The knocking again.More urgent. “Mila. I’m coming in.”
She heard the rattle of the lock. He had a key, of course. He owned everything here. Footsteps on the wooden floor. Then a pause at the bathroom door, which was ajar. She saw his boots from her vantage point on the floor.
“Christ.”
He was beside her in two strides. He didn’t touch her at first, his eyes scanning the scene—the empty waxed paper, her pale, sweaty face, the bloody towel. His own face, usually so controlled, was sheet-white. His first thought was poison. She’d taken something to kill herself rather than stay here. A cold terror, different from any he’d felt in combat, seized him.
“What did you take?” His voice was sharp, a commander’s voice. He grabbed her shoulder, gentle but firm, trying to see her eyes. “Mila, tell me what you took!”
She shook her head, tears mixing with the sweat on her temples. Another cramp seized her, a vicious twist that made her arch off the floor with a choked cry. As she moved, the evidence became unmistakable.The blood.
Alexsi’s breath left him in a slow, shuddering exhale. The panic didn’t vanish, but it transformed.He understood. The pills. The timing. The absolute, logical terror that would have driven her to this, alone on a bathroom floor. He felt a staggering wave of failure. He and Andrey had been so careful about space, about not overwhelming her. They’d brought her food, given her a room, protected her from the battalion. It had never once occurred to them to ask this. To sit her down and say, What was done to you might have consequences. Do you need help? They’d kicked themselves for it later, a silent, shared guilt. They’d been thinking of her as a survivor of violence, which she was. They hadn’t fully thought of her as a patient, a body that had been brutally used.
“Okay,” he said, his voice dropping into a low, steady register. The command tone was gone, replaced by something intensely practical. “Okay. It’s alright.” He saw the fear in her eyes, the fear of him, of his reaction. “I’m not angry. You hear me? I’m not angry. I’m glad you had the means.”
He moved quickly. He fetched a clean towel from the stack, ran warm water on a cloth. He knelt behind her, his own large frame making the spacious bathroom feel small. “Here,” he murmured, and carefully, so carefully, gathered her sweat-damped hair back from her face. He wiped her brow, her cheeks, his touch clinical and tende
“Just breathe through it. The worst will pass.”
Another contraction seized her, a deep, internal wrenching that made her toes curl against the tile. She gasped, a raw, animal sound, and he kept his hand on her back, a solid, warm pressure. “I’m here,” he said, his voice a low anchor in the storm of her body. “You’re not alone for this. Not anymore.”
When the spasm subsided, leaving her shivering and hollow, he spoke again, his tone matter-of-fact. “I need to get Andrey. He’s stronger. He can carry you to the bed when you’re ready. Is that okay? He won’t be mad either.” He needed the giant’s calm strength, his hands that could lift a crate of artillery shells yet were infinitely careful. But he wouldn’t violate her privacy further.
Mila, her face pressed to the cool towel, gave a tiny, jerking nod. “Ok,” she whispered, the word thin and frayed.
“I’ll be right back.” He stood, his knees popping, and moved to the door. “Don’t try to move.”
She heard his footsteps fade, then the low, urgent rumble of his voice in the hallway. Andrey’s responding murmur, deeper, like stones shifting. They returned together, their bulk filling the doorway. Andrey took in the scene, his broad face tightening not with anger but with a profound, sorrowful understanding. He looked at Alexsi, a silent question. Alexsi gave a slight nod toward the pills’ wrapper. Andrey’s eyes closed for a second. When they opened, they were clear, focused.
“Alright, little one,” Andrey said, his voice softened to its lowest register. He knelt, a mountain gently settling. “Let’s get you out of here.”
He slid one arm under her knees, the other behind her shoulders, and lifted her as if she were made of glass. She was so light in his grasp, a bundle of trembling bones and damp fabric. He carried her the short distance to the massive bed and laid her on the clean crimson silk. Alexsi was already pulling the soiled towels from the bathroom floor, bundling them.
“Can you sit for a moment?” Alexsi asked her. “We need to get you cleaned up.”
She nodded, her energy utterly spent. Andrey supported her weight while Alexsi, with a clinical efficiency that was its own kind of gentleness, helped her out of the bloodied nightdress. He used a warm, wet cloth, his movements impersonal and thorough, washing the sweat and evidence from her skin. Andrey held a fresh nightgown, one of the soft, high-necked ones the soldiers’ wives had donated, and they maneuvered it over her head. Through it all, they worked in a silent, coordinated rhythm, their communication comprised of glances and minimal words.
“Turning you now,” Andrey warned, and they carefully shifted her so Alexsi could strip the section of silk she’d bled on. From a linen closet, Alexsi produced fresh sheets. They remade the bed around her with a brisk, martial precision, tucking the blankets securely at the sides. The room smelled of soap and cold air now, the metallic scent banished.
Once she was settled, Andrey vanished and returned with two rubber hot water bottles from the infirmary, wrapped in thin towels. He placed one at her feet, the other against her lower abdomen. The heat was a blunt, grounding comfort against the deep ache. Alexsi pulled the desk chair over, sitting close but not crowding. Andrey dragged the vast armchair from near the stove, placing it a few feet back, a silent sentinel.
“The bleeding,” Alexsi said, his voice quiet but clear. “Is it very heavy? Worse than a usual cycle?”
Mila thought, her mind sluggish. “Heavy,” she whispered. “But not… not gushing.”
“Alright. We’ll keep checking.” He reached out, his fingers finding the pulse point in her wrist. He counted, his eyes on his watch. He noted her pallor, the bluish tinge under her eyes. “Andrey, the medical kit from my office. The proper one.”
Andrey nodded and lumbered out. He returned with a sturdy metal case. From it, Alexsi extracted a blood pressure cuff and a stethoscope. He warmed the diaphragm against his palm. “This will be cold,” he said before placing it on her inner arm. The inflating cuff was a firm pressure. He listened, his face a mask of concentration. “A bit low, but not dangerous.” He wrote numbers on a scrap of paper from his desk.
Hours blurred. The deep night pressed against the windows. The cramps came in waves, lesser now, a fading tide. Each time one gripped her, one of them would be there. Andrey, with his colossal hand, would apply a firm, steady pressure to the small of her back, exactly where she needed it. Alexsi would wordlessly refill the hot water bottles. They brought weak, clear broth from the kitchen, and Andrey held the cup while she sipped, his hand completely steady.
“I thought,” Mila said once, her voice a dry leaf in the quiet, “maybe you knew.” She couldn’t look at them. “Maybe it was part of the plan with your dad. To make sure it… took.”
Alexsi didn’t flinch. He put the cup down on the nightstand. “I don’t blame you for thinking that,” he said. The sadness in his voice wasn’t directed at her; it was a wide, weary thing that filled the room. “After what you’ve seen. What they did.”
She was quiet for a long time, watching the firelight play on the tapestry of a rocket soaring toward a stylized moon. “Why did he do it?” she asked, not looking at him. “Your father. Those men. Did they think you wouldn’t… put a baby in me? So they made sure someone did?”
Alexsi let out a long, slow breath. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I don’t really know,” he admitted, the confession stark. “I’ve tried to find a logic to it. There isn’t one, not a clean one. I know lots of those men. The ones who arrange things. They’re cruel in a casual way. They think of people as… livestock. Breeding stock. Maybe they thought it would motivate me. Maybe it was just part of breaking you in. A display of power.” He rubbed a hand over his jaw. “The truth I landed on is simpler, and worse. They just didn’t think. They didn’t think of it as rape. They thought of it as… a preliminary. A rough greeting.”
The word hung in the air. Preliminary. It made the violence sound administrative.
Mila turned her head on the pillow, finally looking at him. His face was etched with fatigue and that deep, immutable regret. “Will you?” she asked, the question so direct it seemed to startle even her. “Ever put a baby in me?”
Alexsi went very still. Then, slowly, he slid from the chair to sit on the floor beside the bed, putting himself at her eye level, reducing his size. He spoke clearly, each word chosen. “I want to understand why you’re asking. Is it because you want one? Or is it because you’re afraid?”
“I’m afraid,” she said immediately, her eyes wide and dark in the dim light. “I’m afraid if I don’t, they’ll send me back. That you’ll send me back. That I’ll be useless.”
“No.” The word was absolute, a stone wall. “Listen to me. That will never happen. Not by me. I will keep you safe and well, the best I can, for as long as I can. My goal isn’t an heir. It’s just… you. Alive. And able, someday, to do what you want. Whatever that is.”
A single tear escaped, tracing a path into her hairline. “I’m too scared to have babies,” she whispered, the admission seeming to cost her.
“Okay,” he said, his voice softening further. “That’s okay. That’s more than okay.” He paused, gathering his thoughts, trying to articulate a boundary that was also a protection. “Mila… I will hug you. I will carry you if you need it. I will take good care of you. But I am thirty-six. You are twenty-two. The gap… it’s significant. And you were basically sold to me. Handed over in a truck. That transaction… it poisons everything. It makes any real consent impossible. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
She was silent, processing. It wasn’t a rejection of her; it was a rejection of the entire filthy framework that had brought them together. “I think I do,” she said softly. Then a new worry, fragile and forward-looking, emerged. “What if… someday… I do want them? Kids?”
Alexsi’s posture relaxed a fraction. The question was about a future, a hypothetical one she felt safe enough to voice. It was progress. “Then,” he said, a tentative note of warmth entering his tone, “I will get you all the vitamins the medic recommends. We will find you a good, safe man closer to your age. If you ever want that. We can help. Me and Andrey. We’re good at logistics.” He glanced at his friend, who gave a solemn nod from the armchair. “But we don’t need to worry about that right now. Not for years. Right now, you just need to get strong.”
Exhaustion, deeper than any she’d ever known, settled over her. It was a clean exhaustion, washed of its secret terror. The questions she had carried like shards of glass in her pockets were out, handled, and put away. She curled onto her side, pulling the blankets up to her chin, her body relaxing into the mattress for the first time since she’d arrived. Relief was a physical warmth, rivaling the bottles at her feet.
Alexsi watched her, the tight line of her shoulders finally easing. He was so fond of her. The feeling was sharp and uncomplicated, a protective fondness that had roots in pity but was now growing into something sturdier. He reached out and very carefully adjusted the blanket over her shoulder. Her breathing deepened, slowed.
He sat on the floor a while longer, just to be sure. Andrey, watching from the chair, finally let his own head tilt back, his eyes closing. The fire settled into embers. The post outside was silent in the deepest watch of the night. In the bed, Mila Petrovna slept, unguarded and dreamless, while her two unlikely sentinels kept their vigil in the warm, dark room.