Page 95 of The Fire Beneath the Frost

But then I heard him coming.The scrape of the hallway floor, the box tucked under one arm as he entered the kitchen.It was small and gray, a box you only saw in hospitals or back rooms of clinics.

“Take your shirt off,” he said, setting it on the table.

I blinked.“What?”

He looked up, eyes flaring.“Take your fucking shirt off, Dima.”

I flinched.But I did as I was told.

Every movement hurt.The cotton stuck to dried blood along my ribs, and I had to grit my teeth to peel it away.My shoulder screamed when I raised my arm, and my back felt like someone had taken a belt to it.I gasped as the fabric slid down my arms, and then I was standing there, half-naked under the kitchen light.

My father turned.And froze.

He said nothing at first.His jaw twitched, then his eyes glossed over, and not from anger.

“What have they done to you…” he whispered, almost too quietly to hear.

His hands trembled as he opened the box.

Inside was an old bottle of rubbing alcohol, some cotton, gauze, and tape.Supplies I didn’t even know we had.He set them down with surprising care, like they were something sacred.

He motioned for me to sit, and I sank into the hard kitchen chair.

He worked quietly.Methodically.First, dabbing the alcohol onto a cotton square, then gently—gently, like he’d never been before—cleaning the dried blood from the cuts on my back and shoulder.It stung like hell, but I didn’t make a sound.I was too stunned.I’d never seen him like this.

Every time I winced, he paused.Said nothing, but waited.When he spoke, it was only under his breath.Mutters, like curses spat into the wind.

“Fucking police…”

“…bastards, all of them…”

“…this fucking country…”

He wrapped a bandage around my ribs, careful not to pull it too tight.I watched his hands.Big, scarred, still calloused from years of work.These were the hands that had raised me.That had once slapped me for not standing straight enough.Now they were shaking as they tucked the gauze under my arm.

I couldn’t take it anymore.

“How… how did you know we were there?”My voice came out raw.Childlike.“At the police station.”

He paused.Sat back on his heels and wiped a hand down his face.

“I have friends,” he said finally, not looking at me.“People who still owe me things.Don’t ask.The less you know, the better.”

I stared at him.Friends?Since when did my father have friends who would pull strings at a police station?

Before I could ask, there was a sudden crash outside, the sound of something falling over in the street.I turned toward the window automatically.

That’s when I saw it.

My reflection.

I gasped, and my hand flew to my mouth.

My left eye was swollen nearly shut, the skin black and purple, ringed with angry red.My jaw looked lopsided—bruised, puffy, with a minor cut near the corner of my lip.A welt curved along my temple, already turning yellow.The face staring back at me wasn’t mine.It was someone else.A stranger who’d been beaten half to death.

Behind me, I heard a sound.

A sob.

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