Page 12 of Cruel Submission

“Arkady.” My name comes out on an exhale. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, keeping everything locked down tight. I need her here, in this kitchen, away from the east wing for the next ten minutes. “Where were you?”

She opens her mouth. Closes it. “Something came up. I’m sorry I didn’t call, I—”

“Something came up?” I let the words hang there, flat and cold, even though what I want is to cross this room and put my hands on her, confirm she’s real and breathing and mine. “That’s all you’re giving me?”

Her face closes off. “I’m here now. I’ll make up the hours.”

Footsteps echo overhead—Stefan moving Debra to the guest room. Mirabel’s eyes flick toward the ceiling, and I see the question forming before she can ask it.

“We’ll talk about this later,” I cut her off. “I have things to handle.”

I push off the doorframe and walk out before she can respond, before I have to see whatever I just put in her eyes. The hallway stretches ahead, and I take the stairs two at a time to where Yanis waits outside the east guest suite.

“Stefan filled me in.” He keeps his voice low. “How is she?”

I can’t answer. Don’t have words for what I just pulled out of my father’s house. Instead, I push open the door.

The room is dim, just the bedside lamp throwing weak yellow light across the carpet and furniture. Debra’s perched on the bed’s edge, still gripping that child’s backpack like it’s the only thing keeping her tethered to earth. Stefan stands by the window, hands in his pockets, looking anywhere but at her.

“Behold.” The word comes out ragged. “This is what our father does in his spare time.”

Yanis moves past me into the room. I watch the color leach from his face as he takes her in properly—the finger-shaped bruises, the welts, the haunted eyes, the way she’s curled inward like she’s apologizing for existing.

“Bozhe moy,” he breathes.

We approach slowly. I crouch in front of her, trying to catch her eye without making it a demand. “Debra. This is my brother, Yanis. You’re safe now. No one here will hurt you.”

Her skin goes the color of old paper. Then her breathing changes—goes rapid and shallow, like her lungs have forgotten how to work. Her fingers start trembling where they clutch the backpack straps. Sweat beads along her temples. Her chest jerks in quick, uneven spasms.

“Debra?” I reach toward her shoulder.

She flinches so violently she nearly pitches off the mattress. Her whole body goes rigid—locked solid—and her mouth opens, but no sound comes out except a thin, airless wheeze. Then the shaking starts. Deep tremors that rack through her frame, her shoulders hitching like something inside her is trying to claw its way out.

“Fuck! What’s—?”

“Panic attack.” Yanis is already moving, lowering himself onto the bed beside her with deliberate slowness. “Debra, can you hear me? You’re safe. I know it doesn’t feel real, but you’re safe.”

He extends his hand palm-up, offering not taking. After a stretched moment, her hand shoots out and clamps onto his like he’s the only thing stopping her from drowning.

“Good. That’s good.” His voice drops to something low and soothing. “Just breathe with me. In through your nose. Count of four. Out through your mouth. Count of six.”

But it’s not touching her. Her breathing accelerates, more ragged, more desperate. Her eyes are open but not seeing—fixed on something terrible that only exists in her head. The shaking intensifies until the whole bed frame vibrates.

“She needs help. A doctor. Sedatives,” Yanis says, looking up at me.

I’m already pulling my phone, dialing Dr. Harrison. He picks up on the third ring, voice thick with interrupted sleep.

“Ashwater Heights. Now.”

“Arkady, what—?”

“Now.”

I disconnect.

It takes him twenty-three minutes to arrive; I count every one. I meet him at the door and lead him upstairs without explanation. He takes one look at Debra—still shaking, still trapped in whatever private hell is eating her alive—and his expression shifts into something clinical and detached.