They called it testing day. You called it slaughter.

The morning was calm, as it always was before the storm. You lay in Zhenya’s bed, your cheek pressed to his chest, his heartbeat lulling you like a spell. He ran his fingers through your hair slowly, his eyes closed, lips brushing your temple like you were something fragile. Something sacred.

“You don’t have to go,” he whispered, voice sharp around the edges. “Let them rot without you.”

You said nothing. You just kissed the scar on his ribs and clutched his shirt tighter.

Because you did have to go.

They owned your blood.

And they wanted to see if your body could survive their new brand of torture.

By noon, you were in white. A thin ceremonial dress that dragged behind you like a shroud. Zhenya’s jaw ticked when he saw it. The see-through sleeves. The bruises on your shoulder from last time.

“They dress you like an angel,” he spat. “But only so they can enjoy snapping your wings.”

He didn't say anything else. But his eyes never left you.

They strapped you to the marble circle again. Wires slithered up your arms. The chanting started—ancient, guttural sounds that made your ears bleed. You shook in your restraints. Your power—a cursed gift that boiled under your skin—twitched to life like a monster waking up.

“She’s ready,” a voice said.

“She always bleeds first,” another chuckled.

Zhenya stood behind the one-way glass. His fists were clenched. His mouth was a perfect, unreadable line. The chains around his neck glinted dully, proof that even he—a warlord, a beast—had been leashed.

You screamed.

The light exploded from your chest.

Blood dripped down your thighs. Not from violence. From burning. Your own body turning against you. They pushed harder. Your name was a number in their notes. An experiment logged under “Subject 73.”

You whispered his name once.

“Zhenya…”

And passed out.

You woke up in bed. In your old room.

The walls were dark. The air cold.

But Zhenya—Zhenya was there. Sitting at your bedside, covered in blood. Not yours.

The chains were gone.

“Hi, doll,” he said quietly, stroking your cheek. “I killed them all.”

You blinked.

His hand trembled.

“They made you scream,” he said, voice thick. “You screamed. And I just stood there like a dog. A dog in a collar. Not anymore.”

You sat up. Slowly. Every inch of you ached.

His eyes drank you in—ruined, broken, skin scorched and eyes red—and still he looked at you like you were the most divine thing to crawl from the heavens.

“You shouldn’t have seen that,” you rasped.

Zhenya leaned in, lips ghosting over your jaw. “They shouldn’t have touched what’s mine.”

You stared at him.

The blood under his nails.

The fire still burning in his pupils.

“You didn’t have to kill them all.”

He smiled.

“I left one alive.”

Your breath hitched.

“Why?”

His teeth dragged along your neck. “So he could scream your name next time he dreams. So he’d remember who you belong to.”

You shivered, leaning into him.

Because Zhenya was fire. Zhenya was ruin.

But he was also your only comfort. Your only choice.

Your king in a broken kingdom.

He pulled you into his lap, careful with your wounds, but not your mouth. He kissed you like worship. Like prayer.

“I’ll build a world where no one gets to test you,” he murmured against your lips.

You smiled weakly. “Then test me yourself.”

His eyes darkened.

“Oh, doll… I intend to.”