When she woke up in the sterile room with dim golden lights, her eyes fluttered open and close a few times. Anastasia finally crossed the threshold from sedation to consciousness. Her eyes felt heavy, like they were glued shut.
"Stasia," Dylan called for her.
When the world came into focus, she didn't see the dark, terrifying silhouette of the man who had bathed her. She saw Dylan.
He was sitting on the edge of the bed, his face haggard. He looked like he hadn't slept in a week, his shirt wrinkled and smelling of the duplex and common fear. He reached out, his fingers interlacing with hers.
It was a soft, practiced motion she had once found comforting. Now, it just felt cold.
"Dylan," she whispered. The word felt like broken glass in her throat.
"I'm here, baby. I'm right here. You're safe now. He's gone." Dylan leaned in, pressing his forehead against her hand, his breath warm and shaky. "But it's over. I'm taking you home as soon as they let us."
