He led us into a small bedroom and laid Valeria down gently, her limbs slack, her hair a mess across the pillow.
“She’ll be okay,” he said, checking her pulse again, then glancing at me. “We need to keep her on her side. In case she throws up.”
I nodded and helped shift her, tucking her arm beneath her head, smoothing the hem of her ruined dress and covering her with a blanket.
We stood there for a moment, the silence thick.
When we left the room, I lingered just outside the door, watching him. He was already walking away. I looked around, taking in the space again—the cold order of it, the sharp edges. It was nice, honestly. Not warm, but clean. Controlled. Like him. And I didn’t even mean the next thing I said in a bad way. I just wanted to start a conversation. My mouth had a tendency to move faster than my thoughts, especially when I was nervous.
“So this is where you live?” I said, forcing a voice out of my throat. “It’s… tiny, but—”
He stopped and turned to face me.
“Your friend almost got raped,” he interrupted. “And you’re commenting on the size of my apartment?”
“That’s not what I—”
“Next time I rescue you from a club full of rapists, I’ll be sure to book a suite at a five star hotel.”
I flinched. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just…”
He waved me off. “Whatever. You get a room. That’s the extent of my hospitality.”
“I just—can I take a shower?” I asked, stepping forward. Images of the club still clung to my skin—the reek of sweat and alcohol, the men’s laughter, the press of his boot on my wrist. I felt like I was covered in everything they were and I just wanted to scrub it off, erase the memory of it all. “I feel… I feel filthy.”
He looked at me for a second, then sighed. “Yeah. Fine.”
“I don’t have anything to wear.”
With another sigh, he turned and disappeared into a room. When he came back, he tossed a black t-shirt at my face.
“Here. It’ll fit like a dress. Go.”
I caught it, and gave a small nod. “Thanks.”
He didn’t reply. Just walked into the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of vodka.
I slipped into the bathroom and locked the door behind me.
The light was too bright.It exposed everything I didn’t want to look at—my smeared mascara, the faint red marks blooming along my throat, the way my hands still shook when I lifted them. I gripped the edge of the sink and stared at my reflection like I couldn’t believe I was alive.
Lera was alive.
That should have been enough.
And yet my mind kept circling back to him.
How had he known?
The thought slid into me slowly, insidiously. We had chosen that club precisely because it wasn’t ours. Because it was low, forgettable, tucked into a corner of the city where no one who mattered ever went.
So how?
The thought should have terrified me. Was he stalking me? Maybe he always knew where I was, where I went, who I was with. Maybe that was how he appeared at the exact moment everything went wrong.
I pressed my palms flat against the cool porcelain and imagined him watching me, waiting, tracking my movements through the city like I belonged to him… the thought didn’t make me feel hunted.
It made me feel chosen. Protected. Wanted.
