All Yuki could feel was pain coursing through every corner of her body. Her head spun as if the world itself were spinning. She struggled to sit up, only to be struck by a sharp, searing pain that forced her to bite back a cry. Yuki inhaled deeply, desperate to steady herself, but each breath came with its own ache. Still, little by little, breathing allowed her body to loosen, even if the pain never truly left.
When the dizziness began to fade, she slowly turned her gaze to the world around her. A wide bed cradled her aching body. The sheets beneath her were soft, the blanket heavy and warm—comfort she had not known for years. For the first time in what felt like forever, Yuki realized she was no longer inside the brothel that had stolen two years of her life.
Her chest tightened, not only from the bruises but also from the realization itself. She had escaped. She was alive. The thought filled her with a fragile spark of hope, so delicate that she clung to it desperately.
At some point, exhaustion took over. Yuki drifted into a restless sleep beneath the softness of the covers. By the time she woke again, someone had already tended to her wounds. Bandages covered the worst of them, the sting dulled by ointments. Whoever had brought her there had made sure she was cared for.
"Sir Ivan?"
The name left her lips in a whisper, fragile and uncertain. Her memory of the chaos was hazy, but she remembered Ivan standing there in the storm of blood and fists, tearing her away from Hiroshi's grip. If her guess was right, then everything must belong to him.
The lights in the room glowed steadily, revealing details Yuki could not mistake. She was clearly in someone's private room. Yet there were no photographs, no personal mementos, nothing that marked the space as belonging to Ivan. The absence slowly unsettled her.
"Sir Iv—"
She tried to call out, louder this time, but her voice broke into a ragged cough. Pain lanced through her chest, forcing her to clutch at the fabric of the patient's gown she wore. With trembling hands, she loosened it just enough to see the damage. Her skin was mottled with deep, ugly bruises—proof of Hiroshi's merciless hands.
"Don't push yourself."
The voice came from the doorway, calm yet edged with concern. Yuki startled; she hadn't even heard the door open. Ivan's tall frame filled the entrance, and for a moment, the air itself seemed to shift. His eyes lingered on the bruises across her body, a faint tension in his jaw as he stepped toward her.
"The doctor said none of your bones are broken," Ivan continued, his tone low, almost reassuring. "But those bruises will make it hard to breathe for a while."
Yuki's eyes locked on him, wide and searching, as though she had found the light of life itself in his presence. Ivan, uncharacteristically gentle, brushed his fingers across her cheek, his touch a stark contrast to the violence she had endured.
"How do you feel?" he asked.
Years of surviving in a world that preyed on her had sharpened Yuki's instincts. She had learned to read men—to sense what they wanted, what answer would satisfy them. With Ivan, the answer rose naturally to her lips.
"Never been better."
A faint smile tugged at Ivan's mouth, though his eyes lingered on the broken girl before him. Normally, he despised damaged goods. Yet here, with Yuki, something different stirred. Something unfamiliar. His attraction, once shallow and instinctive, had deepened into something more dangerous, more consuming.
Yuki was obedient, fragile, and sweet—like a loyal pet who clung to his every word. And Ivan found himself captivated by her.
Pulling his hand back, Ivan straightened. His gaze did not waver as he spoke words he had never offered anyone else before.
"Yuki, would you come with me… back to Russia?"
Her breath caught. Shock widened her eyes, and Ivan couldn't help but smile again, the corners of his mouth curving with satisfaction. He reached for her once more, this time encircling her slender waist, pulling her against him as though testing how well she fit in his embrace.
"I can take you away from this place. Now, all you need to do is say yes."
For two years, Yuki had been waiting—waiting for someone, anyone, who would speak those words with conviction. Her chest tightened, heat pricking at her eyes. Tears threatened to fall, though she hesitated, uncertain whether Ivan would allow such a display of weakness. Trembling, she clutched the fabric of his clothes, her lips quivering. She couldn't speak; fear of breaking the moment with a sob sealed her voice. So she only nodded, small and fragile, her silent answer louder than words.
"You can cry if you want."
The single word undid her. Yuki broke, her tears spilling freely as she buried herself in his arms. Whatever the world called him—dangerous, ruthless, merciless—none of it mattered to her in that moment. In his embrace, she felt safer than she ever had before.
"Please… take me away from here, Sir Ivan," she sobbed like a child.
He held her, firm yet tender, as if soothing that very child. Tilting her chin upward, he captured her lips, swallowing her tears until all that remained in her gaze was the raw redness of her grief.
"Yes," he whispered against her mouth, his smile sharp yet warm. "I'll take you away."
When her tears had finally run dry, Yuki settled into a quiet obedience once more. Ivan summoned the doctor again to examine her. The man prescribed an ointment for her bruises and insisted that rest would do the rest. Yuki listened attentively, nodding with the seriousness of someone who understood she could not afford weakness anymore.
Once the doctor left, Yuki's first instinct was simple: she wanted to bathe. After years of degradation, cleanliness was the only way she knew to feel whole, to feel presentable before Ivan.
She followed directions to the adjoining bathroom. Alone, she undressed, and her reflection confronted her in the mirror. The sight was worse than she expected. Purple bruises marred her wrists and ankles where Hiroshi's men had held her down. Dark marks spread across her chest, reminders of his crushing weight. And her face—her once delicate face—was swollen and battered, the remnants of Hiroshi's rage etched deep.
Yuki exhaled shakily. How could Ivan still look at her with satisfaction, even pleasure, when she appeared like this? The thought bewildered her. She pushed the question aside, focusing on the warmth of the water washing over her body, cleansing the remnants of that hell.
When she emerged, hair damp, wrapped in a bathrobe, Ivan was still in the room. He was on the phone, but the instant he saw her, he ended the call mid-sentence. His gaze sharpened, fixed solely on her. Heat rose in Yuki's cheeks under the intensity of his stare.
Ivan gestured toward a neatly folded set of clothes on the bed. "Wear that."
She followed his eyes and saw the garment—a black shirt, oversized, clearly one of his own. No skirts, no undergarments, just the shirt that fell loosely to her knees.
For a brief moment, Yuki hesitated. He wasn't leaving the room. He had no intention of turning away while she dressed. Her heart hammered, but she forced herself to remain calm, pretending she didn't notice as she let the robe fall and slipped into the shirt.
It hung off her frame, too large yet strangely fitting, as though it had been meant for her all along.
"That suits you," Ivan murmured, satisfaction clear in his voice.
Her face warmed again, but she smiled softly despite her discomfort at the air brushing against her bare skin beneath. She wanted only to please Ivan, and knowing that he approved was enough.
"Thank you, Sir Ivan," she said quietly, her voice filled with fragile relief.
For the first time in two years, Yuki truly believed she had escaped her golden cage.