THE DOCTOR

TATIANA

The doctor is a woman named Irina.

She sets her bag on the nightstand and takes out gloves, needles, and a thread. She looks at Kain, then at me, then back at Kain.

"Not me," he says. "Her."

Irina doesn't ask questions. Not about the state of the room or why a twenty-two-year-old woman is locked inside a stranger's house wearing clothes that don't fit her. She simply nods at me and points to the chair by the bed.

I sit. My knee throbs where I scraped it on the doorframe. Kain lowers himself onto the edge of the mattress beside me. His sleeve is already rolled up. The fresh wound on his hand has started bleeding again. Dark red seeps through the fabric he pressed against it.

Irina kneels in front of me. She dabs my scraped knee with alcohol. I wince at the sting.

"Shouldn't doctors be older?" I say, mostly to distract myself from the burning. "You know, grey hair. Spectacles on a chain."

"Why do you think so?" Irina's voice matches her steady hands. "And how do you know I'm not old?"

I give her a knowing look. She smiles.

"Don't be deceived," she says. "I dye my oldness away."

A laugh escapes me. It feels strange in my throat. I shouldn't be laughing. My family is dead. I'm locked in a stranger's house. But I laugh anyway, and Irina's smile widens just a fraction.

She threads a needle, holds it to the light. The silver glints.

I pull back immediately. "I don't like needles. Please stop."

"They are not for you." She tilts her head toward Kain.

I stand up quickly, backing toward the window, putting distance between me and the needle.

Irina cuts off Kain's shirt with a tiny pair of scissors which I find unnecessary since he wasn't hurt anywhere else. The fabric falls away from his shoulders and I changed my mind. Cutting the shirt is very important.

I try not to look and I fail.

He is ripped. Muscles I had only had the privilege of seeing through pictures, carved like someone spent years getting beaten and surviving it. His nipples stand erect in the cold air. I almost lick my lips, genuinely this time, before I catch myself.

Stop it, Tatiana. You have Julian. Julian is sweet and normal and doesn't murder entire families at dinner.

I force my eyes away from Kain's chest. Up to his face. He's still staring at the wall, expressionless, like he doesn't notice or care that he's half-naked in front of me.

Then I see the scars.

Old ones. Some jagged, some round. A bullet wound below his collarbone. Another on his ribcage. A long knife scar across his stomach.

"Bullet wounds," I say, my voice quieter than I intended. I look at Kain. He doesn't acknowledge me. "Is that what this usually is? You bring her bullet wounds?"

"Usually," Irina says, drawing the first stitch through the gash on his hand. "Knives sometimes. Glass once. A fishhook, memorably." She sighs as she ties a knot, and starts the next stitch. "You're the first hairpin."

"Should I feel honored?"

Irina looks up at me with an amused face. "You should."

I cross my arms, waiting for the punchline.

"No one has ever lived to tell the tale of hurting Kain," she says.

My laughter dies in my throat.

Irina winks at me.

That bitch. She was just messing with me.

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. "Not funny."

"Wasn't a joke." She pulls the last stitch tight, snips the thread with small silver scissors. "He just has a soft spot for pretty faces."

Kain finally looks at me. His grey eyes give away nothing. But his jaw tightens, just a fraction.

Irina packs her instruments. I watch her hands move and an idea blooms in my chest.

Kain isn't leaving the room. But if I can get a message to Irina, if she can carry something out of these walls.

"How much does he pay you," I whispered, stepping closer, "to stay quiet?"

Irina pauses. Looks up.

"I can double it." I grab her hands, desperate now, the words spilling out before I can stop them. "Please. I just need to get a message across. One message. To my boyfriend. He'll be worried for me."

Irina looks at Kain. I did too.

He nods once.

"Okay," she says.

I blink. "Okay? This isn't a trick?"

"No," Kain says. His voice sounding tired. "Go ahead."

I don't wait for him to change his mind. I spin around, searching the room. "Pen. I need a pen. Paper. "

Kain sighs. He reaches into his pocket and holds out a pen. Black ink.

I snatch it from his fingers. There's a jotter on the nightstand. I flip it open to a blank page.

My hands are shaking. My eyes are wet. I blink hard, forcing the tears back, but one escapes anyway. It drops onto the paper, smearing the ink as I write.

Dear Julian,

I'm alive. Please don't abandon me like everyone else.

I love you, My Romeo.

T.

I stare at the words. They look small. Not enough to convey any of what I feel.

But that's all I have.

I fold the paper and press it into Irina's palm.

"Julian Moreau," I say and gave her the address to the public mailbox, Julian and I used to share our letters before my parents death. He didn't want my parents to know we were dating since he worked for them and they can be super overprotective of me.

Irina tucks the letter into her coat pocket. Her face is unreadable.

"I'll try," she says.

She walks to the door and Kain stands too. He pulls a clean shirt from the wardrobe and pulls it over his head. Then walks her out. The lock clicks behind them.

I stand in the middle of the room, breathing hard.