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I feel torn impossibly in two. Part of me wants nothing more than to stay in this room, watching Caterina obsessively until she finally opens her eyes again. And part of me knows that I can’t do that, that I have my children back home, people depending on me, a duty that goes beyond how I might feel about the woman lying in the bed a few feet away.
But I have a responsibility to her, too.
I don’t dare pick her up again, so instead, I leave her alone just long enough to get a bowl from the kitchen and a washcloth from the hall closet, filling it up with the hottest water that I think her damaged flesh will be able to stand.
And then I peel back the quilt, and in the silence of the room, start to wash away the evidence of what those animals did to her.
I feel that pang of tenderness again as I run the washcloth over her skin, skimming it over the cuts and bruises as I start with her face and work my way down, washing away the dirt and blood. My fingers brush her forehead before the cloth does, and I feel how chilled her skin is, almost as if the life has already leached out of her. It makes my chest constrict in a way that I haven’t felt since Vera died, and for a brief moment, I want to throw the cloth down and leave the room, to run away from the ache in my chest that I don’t know if I can handle again.
But I married this woman. For whatever reason, I promised to care for her.
And just now, I’m not sure if I can handle breaking another vow.
I’ve never touched Caterina before without sexual intent, but there’s nothing sexual about what I’m doing now. In fact, I can’t remembereverhaving touched any woman like this, with such gentle care that it feels like handling something fragile and delicate, a glass figure or a baby bird. There’s no hint of the spitfire that I married now, only a pale face and paler lips, as if the two men siphoned every ounce of defiance out of her.
I feel a prick of fear at that thought, that Caterina might live, but that they will have destroyed her spirit. I can’t imagine what she must have gone through, and the reality of it could be worse than what I’ve already imagined.
But for now, all I can do is care for her. When I’d stood there at the altar only a short time ago, I hadn’t imagined this. I hadn’t imagined anything other than a marriage held at a distance. I can feel that distance closing, and at the moment, there’s nothing I can do about it.
I’m not entirely sure that I want to if I'm telling the truth.
CATERINA
The next time I wake up, I have no idea where I am.
The stale smell of the cabin and the hard mattress is gone, and I can feel that there’s a blanket draped over me, but it takes a moment for me to open my eyes. They feel swollen and heavy, my lashes glued shut, and I have to pry them open blearily. I’m not even sure I should try until I feel a finger touch my forehead, slick like oil, and the scent of something sharp and herbal.
A deep voice murmurs something that I can’t quite make out, my ears still ringing a little, and I force myself to pry my eyes open as fear washes over me, my skin tingling with it.
I need to know where I am. However horrible it might be, I need to be aware of whatever is coming next. Part of me wishes that I could have just stayed unconscious—or maybe just not woken up at all. The strength I have to endure this is waning fast.
There’s a face hovering over me, blurry at first, then coming into view. I realize with a start that it’s an extremely handsome face, a man in his early thirties probably, with a sharp jaw, long nose, and dark hair that’s threatening to fall into his eyes. He doesn’t look dangerous, and when my vision clears enough for me to see his dark eyes, there’s nothing threatening in them that I can see.
There’s something purple and silky around his neck, hanging over his black t-shirt, and it takes a second for me to realize what it is—a priest’s stole.
Nothing else about him looks priestly, though.
I realize what the scent is then—I’ve smelled that oil plenty of times before, during every rite of passage as a child in the church. As an adult, in the state I’m in and where I am, it can only mean one thing.
He was performing last rites.
The thought sends a cold wave of fear over me, so intense that it takes a moment for the next to come through—why on earth would my kidnappers bother giving me last rites? It’s a considerate thing to do for a woman they’d abducted and tortured for information I don’t have.
I blink as he pulls his hand back, and I see a small smile at the corners of his mouth, twitching with what looks like relief. “Oh, thank God, you’re awake,” he says, and his Italian accent is unmistakable.
“You’re Italian,” I blurt out in a voice that cracks immediately, but he just laughs.
“I am.” He smiles down at me, and I feel that sense of reassurance again, which is strange because nothing about this situation makes sense.
“How—why are you here?” Why would the Russians have an Italian priest with them—especially a man who looks so unlike a priest at all?
“Your husband called me to perform the last rites for you. I’m not exactly qualified anymore, but I could do it in a pinch.” His smile seems genuine, his relief that I’ve woken up palpable. “I’m Max.”
“I’m—” I can still barely speak, and he shakes his head.
“Caterina, I know. Don’t try to speak. You’ve been very badly hurt. A doctor is on the way, but I got here first. Your husband thought I should perform the rites, just in case. He said he was sure it was what you would want.”
I nod slowly, still trying to process exactly what is going on.Is Viktor here?I shift a little in the bed, ignoring the pain that blooms through me at the slightest motion, and I realize with a wave of my own relief that my hands are unbound. I’m afraid to look at them, but they’re free.
