I WATCH HIM LEAVE the bathroom. The look of sheer horror on his face said everything I need to know. He’s disgusted by me, and he hates me. I don’t blame him, not in the slightest. I feel the exact same way about myself. I jump when I hear the front door slam, and that’s when I know that he’s gone.
“Quinn,” Mika’s gentle voice calls as I hear his footsteps approach.
I quickly wrap the towel around my body to cover myself, although it doesn’t really matter. He’s already seen my grotesque body. Mika walks into the bathroom and nods as he hands me a pile of clothes.
“Put these on. Doctor Sokoloff will be here any minute.”
I take the material in my hands and hold it to my chest, lifting my eyes to his.
“Doctor?”
“Yeah. Ziven wanted you to get checked out, considering…”
I blink in surprise that Ziven is the one who arranged this doctor to come here. Then again, I shouldn’t be. Even though he doesn’t want anything to do with me, Ziven is still a good man. A realization I wished that I had come to on my own months ago. My life would be so different right now had I really seen him, instead of turning a blind eye to the man he is, assuming the worst.
Mika doesn’t say anything else. He turns and walks away, closing the door behind him. I drop my towel on the bathroom floor and take the black t-shirt he gave me, slipping it on and watching in the mirror as it covers me to almost my knees, swallowing me completely.
Then I pull on the boxers he’s given me before I pull up the athletic shorts that almost look like pants. I pull the drawstrings as tightly as I can before I roll the waist about fifty times. I root around his bathroom drawers before I find a comb, and I gently untangle all of the knots from my ugly red hair.
“Doctor Sokoloff is here, mishka,” Mika murmurs from the other side of the bathroom door.
I nod, letting out a puff of air before I open the door. Standing in the bedroom, next to the bed, is a tall, slender man. His eyes regard me, looking me up and down as his lips form a thin, unhappy line before they purse together and he grunts.
“Mika, leave us,” he announces.
Without a word, Mika walks out of the bedroom and closes the door behind him.
“Come, sit. I need to go over your history and check you,” he says. His voice sounds hard, harsh, and a little scary.
I slowly make my way over to him and sit down on the bed.
“Mika says you’ve been violated and beaten. Obviously, he left out starved,” he says, his voice gentling as he crouches down in front of me.
I nod, tears filling my eyes and falling in streams down my cheeks without my permission.
“You’re unwilling to give up the man’s identity?” the doctor asks.
“It doesn’t matter,” I whisper.
“Oh, but it does. Nonetheless, that’s your choice, Quinn. Can you tell me what you’ve been through the past six weeks?”
I take him in, his scariness almost completely disappeared. Now, he looks almost kind. Obviously, this is his way of handling me with kid gloves, and I’m thankful and grateful for it.
“From the beginning?” I ask.
“Please,” he murmurs.
I suck in a deep breath before letting it out, and then I nod. I tell him everything, everything but Oswald’s name or his occupation. I need to protect these men who have taken care of me, even when I didn’t deserve it, and especially now that I definitely do not deserve it.
Oswald Johnson is nothing but a nightmare of the past.
After today, I never want to think of him again.
Doctor Sokoloff leaves shortly after testing me for—everything. I’ve never felt so dirty in all of my life. STDs were the last thing on my mind when I was with Oswald; but now, now they’re the only thing on it.
“You want some dinner?” Mika asks, walking into the bedroom.
“Doctor Sokoloff said I needed bland foods, broths and crackers,” I murmur, staring at my feet.
“I think I have some Ramen,” Mika says.
I almost laugh at how stereotypically bachelor of him it is to have Ramen. I don’t laugh, though. Honestly, there isn’t much to laugh about, aside from that.
I eat the Ramen that Mika makes me, thankful and grateful to have his hospitality, sympathies, and even his pity.
“I have a guest room. It’s yours for as long as you need it, mishka,” he announces once I’ve eaten my entire bowl of soup.
“You’re too generous. Seriously,” I say.
After I stand, Mika places his hand at the small of my back he guides me toward his guestroom. Once I walk inside, I see that it’s nothing more than just a simple bed on top of a frame—no head or footboard, and no other furnishings. Though, I can’t deny that the bed looks comfortable. It may be simple, but I’ll be sleeping safely, for the first time in weeks.
“You are a friend, Quinn. You can stay for as long as you need to. I’m hardly home as it is,” he says.
“I’m feeling really tired,” I whisper, looking up to him.
“The doctor gave you some feel good stuff when you took those pills,” he chuckles as he pulls down the comforter for me to climb between the sheets.
I lay down, unable to say another word as my eyes drift closed.
My phone rings as I’m finishing up my last mile on the treadmill. I look down and see that it’s Doc Sokoloff and decide to answer it. I jump down from the the machine and turn it off before heading toward my bench press. I sit down, taking in a deep breath and letting it out before I slide my thumb against the accept key.
“Dorosh,” I grunt.
“I’ve just left her. Where are you so that we can discuss this?” he asks as I hear a door clicked closed behind him.
“My place,” I mutter.
He ends the call and, a few moments later, I hear a knock on my door. If Doctor Sokoloff had a legit practice, then he wouldn’t be able to discuss shit with me. But he’s on my payroll, he’s Bratva, and he only works for Bratva—not like Doctor Pavlov in New York, who has a private practice as well. There is no doctor-patient confidentiality here.
“Sokoloff,” I mutter as I open the door to let him pass by me and inside of my place.
“You’ll want some vodka for this,” he murmurs.
“Just tell me.”
“Let me change my phrase. I need some vodka for this,” he demands.
Walking over to my freezer, I pull out a new bottle and then grab two tumblers before going back over to him. He’s sitting on my couch, so I set up the glasses and fill them to the top. This is not going to be a pretty story, and I know that I’ll need some alcohol, too.
“Her body is bruised, her genitals equally damaged,” he starts. My back goes ramrod straight, my jaw ticking as I clench it tightly, and I look at him—waiting. “Those will heal in time.”
“Continue,” I grind out.
“She was starved. Her body fat is pretty much zero. I would be surprised if she could even have a period, she has such malnutrition. All those things, they will heal in time, and she will gain weight and strength back. I’m worried about her mental state,” he says, throwing back his drink and pouring himself another glass.
“Mental state?”
“She’s suffered, Ziven. She’s suffered at the hands of a monster. She’ll have nightmares and issues with this for the rest of her life, probably. I’ve sedated her for tonight, given her a script for sleeping pills, and muscle relaxers. She’ll probably need a therapist,” he murmurs.
I lift a brow at him in question, and he shakes his head once. Therapists aren’t seen in our line of work, ever. Not by us, or by our women. One slip of the tongue and a therapist, who is a mandated reporter, can send your fucking ass to prison. Quinn was already seen talking with a fed once, back in California. She’s lucky she’s still breathing as it is.
“Just keep a close eye on her, Ziven. Any signs of her mental state deteriorating, and you’re going to have to let her seek help,” he says, throwing his shot back and then standing. “I’m going now. Call me if she needs anything. I’ll know the results of her tests in a few days.”
“Tests?” I ask.
“STD and pregnancy. I took both by blood draw.”
I don’t say anything else as he leaves my apartment, closing the door quietly behind him when he does. I don’t say anything because the only thing I can think about were the two words he left me with—STD and pregnancy. I close my eyes. Pinching them tightly before I fill up my tumbler with vodka again.
The hells my poor Quinn has been through. I saw pieces of her hesitancy, her shyness, throughout our time together. I fucking adored them, but she didn’t want to be mine. She fought me; oh, how she fucking fought me, even though her body surrendered to me every single time. One kiss is all it would take for her to turn from sour to sweet, to pull me close and open for me.
Somebody abused her, fucking shredded her, and I didn’t go after her like I promised I always would. I didn’t fight for her, and she got fucked up in the process. Had I done that, had I even half-assed looked for her, I would have found her. I could have saved her from the hells she survived.
I drink another glass, then another, and another. I’m stumbling, unable to completely hold myself upright anymore as I step into the hallway and lock my condo’s front door on a mission to find my way back to Mika’s.
“Mika,” I call out, demanding that he open the door.
Standing in front of me, his hair a rumpled mess, and his body covered in sweats and no shirt, is the man himself. I narrow my eyes on him as I sway in my spot, trying my damnedest to stand still.
“Where is she?” I bark.
“Fuck, you’re trashed, boss,” Mika chuckles. “She’s in my spare room.” He lifts his chin toward the bedroom, and I stumble my way toward it with a grunt.
Opening the door, I see the moon has cast a shadow on her sleeping frame. I close the door behind me and strip out of my clothes, leaving my boxer briefs on, before I crawl into bed behind her emaciated, slight body.
I curl against her, feeling her back against my chest as I wrap my arm around her stomach. I inhale her, smelling the fresh soap and shampoo that isn’t her. But when I inhale again, I get traces of her natural scent.
I missed it.
I missed her.
I shouldn’t.
I shouldn’t give a flying fuck how she’s doing. Quinn was a grade-A, fucking bitch to me from day one.
Maybe I like the abuse, the fucking torture. I don’t know. But when I had her in my arms, when she would finally relent to me, that sweet that poured out of her, it made up for all of the bitter that came with her, too. I took her abuse because I knew how she could be.
Now, she’s fucking broken. I could walk away from her, I could leave her and let her heal and grow and go.
But I can’t.
Right now, everything feels right. With her in my arms, with her soft breathing, her chest rising and falling with each inhale and exhale of air. She’s here, she’s safe, and she’s alive. I press my lips to her shoulder as my eyes droop closed.
“Ziven,” she whispers in her sleep. I squeeze her gently.
“Right here, katyonak.”
Her body relaxes as does mine. I sleep, holding her close to me, keeping her at my side where she should always be.
Maybe I’m a fool, a fucking moron, but she owns me.
She always has.