Page 24 of Savage Warrior

I remove my jacket from her thin shoulders, then shed my wet clothes and shoes. I lift her fully dressed as she is and carry her through to the shower cubicle. There, I step inside with her still in my arms.

After a few minutes, she seems to regain her senses. She stiffens in my arms, so much that I take the risk of setting her on her feet. Her knees don’t give way, so I let her stand unaided. Then, I grasp the hem of the sweatshirt and draw it up over her head. The jeans soon follow, and I kick all the sodden garments away. Not only are her clothes wet, but in the harsh electric light I can see that they are also filthy. Like the rest of her.

I don’t say anything, simply reach for the soap. I lather her back, then the rest of her torso. I try to keep my touch clinical, but she flinches when my palms cover her breasts.

“Please don’t…” Her voice cracks on the words.

“It’s okay, you’re safe.”

I direct the showerhead onto her to rinse the grimy soap suds away and feel like flinching myself. What I had taken for grime is in fact bruising. Dark, angry contusions cover most of her back and ribs, her arms, and her thighs. I hadn’t been able to see them in the dim torchlight, but now they are plain enough. Her injuries look tender. And recent. I gentle my handling of her.

“We just need to get you warm, and clean.” I crouch to wash her legs, then rinse those, too. “There, is that better?” I stand and place my hands on her shoulders to turn her to face me.

It’s only then that she realises I’m also naked. Her compliance evaporates, and she is suddenly fighting me. “Please, do not hurt me…”

It’s an unequal contest. Easily, I press her against the tiles with my body and cradle her jaw between my palms. “Arina, did someone already hurt you?” It’s obvious they did, but I’m wondering how much, exactly, and in what ways.

“They… They…” She gives up the struggle and dissolves in helpless weeping.

Pitiful, heartbroken sobs rack her slender frame, and I abandon any further attempt at discussion. I grab a towel from the floor outside the cubicle and wrap her in it. She’s still sobbing when I bundle her back into the bed and draw the covers over her.

CHAPTER 8

Arina

I wake up to daylight and the smell of coffee. And something else. Something mouth-watering. I wrinkle my nose and try to remember that aroma.

Bacon! Just like it used to be when my mother was still alive and Papa wasn’t ill, and we had enough money for nice food. Bacon, with eggs perhaps, and mushrooms, the start of a perfect family Sunday morning. We might go to the park later, or the cinema if it was raining. We were together, and happy.

Reality slaps me in the face, every bit as viciously as any of those thugs did. I am no longer a child. Both my parents are gone. My family is no longer together, and no one is happy. I can barely recall what happy was. Until that bacon brought it all back momentarily.

It doesn’t last

I sit up with a jolt when reality rushes back, ready to crush me all over again. I was abducted, forced onto a boat, brought to the UK where I witnessed a cold-blooded murder before escaping to… to where? What? Who?

The ‘who?’ is soon answered.

“You’re awake, then.” The tall figure standing by the stove regards me. “Are you hungry?”

Is it a trick question? These men don’t provide food. They don’t care what we need…

I don’t answer. I don’t know the answer.

He doesn’t ask me again. Instead, he picks up a bread roll from the table and slaps three rashers of bacon into it. He brings it to the bed, on a small plate, and sets it down on top of the blankets.

“Eat it if you want to.” He’s returning to the stove when he pauses and looks back at me over his shoulder. “Unless you’re vegetarian? Or don’t eat pork?” He waits, one dark eyebrow raised.

I shake my head at the same time as my stomach growls. I decide to risk it and reach for the food.

He says nothing more. A few minutes later, he’s seated on the edge of the bed next to me, another bacon roll in his hand. We both eat in silence. When he’s finished, he makes coffee and brings that over to me.

“Spasibo,” I murmur. Thank you.

“You are Russian?” he asks.

I realise he’s switched to my mother tongue. Earlier he spoke to me in English.

I shake my head. “Belarus. You know that.” He must know. He and his accomplices kidnapped me from there.

---