Ivan held Lydia in his arms like she was made of glass. Her body was cold, her skin pale, and her lips slightly parted. Blood covered her gown and streaked across her cheeks, but it wasn't hers. He checked her body gently, carefully pushing back her hair and brushing his fingers over her arms and legs.
There were no wounds. No deep cuts. Just bruises—on her ankles, her calves, and her wrists. Scratches too, from branches and leaves, probably from running through the forest barefoot or falling. Her dress was torn, her shoes gone, but she was alive. That was all that mattered to him now. She was breathing.
He pulled her closer, burying his face into the curve of her neck. He could still feel the cold in her fingers, so he held them gently in his palms, warming them with his breath.
"Lydia," he whispered, his voice trembling. "You're safe now. I've got you, I've got you."
