Chapter 143 Anya
Warmth. That was the first thing I felt. Warmth seeping into my frozen bones, chasing away the cold that had lived inside me for days.
I tried to open my eyes but my eyelids felt heavy, like weights pressing down, like I had forgotten how to wake up. Voices spoke around me, low and urgent, but I could not make out the words. Could not understand the language. Could only hear the sounds washing over me like water.
Hands touched me. Gentle and careful. Checking my pulse, my breathing, my temperature. Medical hands. Professional hands.
I tried to speak but my throat was too dry, my tongue too swollen. No words came out. Just a small sound like a whisper, like a ghost.
The voices stopped. Footsteps came closer. A hand touched my forehead, cool and soothing.
"Rest," a voice said. Male. Accented. "You are safe now. Rest."
I let the darkness take me again. But this time there was warmth. And softness. And the feeling that maybe, just maybe, I would survive.
Time passed. I could not tell how much. Days maybe. Or hours. Everything blurred together. Sometimes I was aware, felt hands lifting me, felt liquid touching my lips. Water. Broth. Something sweet. My body drank it eagerly, desperately. Sometimes I dreamed of Nikolai, of the forest, of strong arms lifting me and carrying me away.
Slowly, the dreams became clearer. The awareness lasted longer. My body began to respond. My heart beat stronger. My breathing steadied. My mind cleared.
Finally, I opened my eyes. And they stayed open.
I was in a bed. A large bed with soft sheets and heavy blankets. The room around me was beautiful and expensive. Tall windows with heavy curtains. Marble floors. Antique furniture. Paintings on the walls. Everything was perfect. Everything was wrong.
I sat up slowly. My body protested. Every muscle ached. Every bone hurt. My skin felt raw. But I was alive. I was warm.
Where was I? Who had brought me here? Why?
I tried to get out of bed but my legs would not support me. I collapsed back onto the mattress. Weak and helpless.
The door opened. A woman entered, middle-aged, dressed in a maid's uniform. She carried a tray with food and water. She set it on the bedside table without looking at me. Then she turned and walked toward the door.
"Wait," I tried to say. My voice was barely a whisper. "Where am I? Who brought me here?"
The woman did not answer. Did not even acknowledge that I had spoken. She just left. The door closed behind her.
I stared at the closed door. My heart pounded. What was happening?
I looked at the tray. Food. Real food. Bread. Soup. Fruit. My stomach growled. I picked up the bread with shaking hands and bit into it. The taste exploded in my mouth, rich and wonderful. I ate too fast, choked, coughed, forced myself to slow down.
More maids came. Two of them. They carried fresh linens and a basin of water. They helped me wash my face and hands. Changed my nightgown. Changed the sheets beneath me. All without speaking. All without looking me in the eye.
"Please," I said. "Can someone tell me where I am?"
Silence. They worked quickly and efficiently, their movements mechanical, practiced. One of them brushed my hair. The other adjusted my pillows. Then they gathered their things and left. Neither answered me. Neither even seemed to hear me.
I sat there in the silence, confusion and fear growing in my chest. This was not a rescue. This was something else. Something I did not understand.
The door opened again. A man this time. Older, with gray hair and a kind face. He carried a medical bag. A doctor.
He approached the bed and began checking my vitals. Pulse. Blood pressure. Pupils. He listened to my heart and lungs. His touch was gentle but impersonal.
"You are getting better," he said. That was all. No name. No explanation. No answer to the questions burning in my throat.
"Where am I?" I asked. "Who owns this house?"
The doctor finished his examination and packed his bag. He looked at me for a moment, and I thought I saw something like pity in his eyes. Then he turned and left. Just like the maids. Just like everyone.
I was alone again.
My hands clenched the bedsheets. Tears burned in my eyes but I refused to let them fall. I had survived Volkov. Survived the basement. Survived the forest. I would survive this too. But first I needed to understand what was happening. Who had taken me. Why.
I looked around the room again. There were no windows I could reach from the bed. No doors except the one everyone used. No phone. No way to call for help. I was a prisoner. But a prisoner in a palace. Fed and cleaned and cared for. Like a bird in a gilded cage.
The door opened a third time.
I looked up. Expected the maid again. Expected the doctor again. Expected anyone but who walked through that door.
A man. Tall and broad shouldered. He wore an expensive black suit, perfectly tailored. He moved with confidence and power, the kind of presence that filled a room and demanded attention.
But I could not see his face. He wore a mask. Black leather, covering everything from his nose to his hairline. Only his mouth and jaw were visible. Strong jaw. Clean shaven. Lips curved in a slight smile.
"Welcome home, mon chérie," the man said.
His voice was distorted, like he was speaking through a filter. Deep and mechanical. Impossible to recognize.
I stared at him. My heart pounded. My mind raced. Who was this? What did he want? Why was I here?
The man walked closer and stood at the foot of the bed. He looked down at me with eyes I could not see, hidden behind the mask.
"You have been asleep for a long time," he said. "I was beginning to worry you would never wake up."
"Who are you?" My voice was still weak but stronger than before.
"You will know soon enough. For now, rest. Eat. Regain your strength. We have much to discuss when you are better."
"Why am I here? What do you want from me?"
The masked man tilted his head. The smile did not leave his lips. "I saved your life. You were dying in that forest. Alone. Forgotten. I found you. Brought you here. Healed you."
"Why?"
"Because I need something from you."