I bowed my head and kissed her lips. This time, the contact was a little longer, a little deeper.
"You are so beautiful, Irina. Truly... you are like a flower blooming in the midst of ruins."
There was a brief silence. Irina just smiled—but it wasn't an ordinary smile. Tiny wrinkles appeared at the corners of her eyes; it was a smile adorned with the traces of fatigue, war, and pain, but also of peace and belonging. It was a rare and precious expression that a woman gives when she truly feels safe.
I remained silent for a few seconds. Unable to take my eyes off her, I spoke, weighing my words in my mind:
"Well... what did you trade for this dress? The heavy sniper rifle and bullets were in my car... you must not have used them."
Irina giggled with a playful smile on her lips. Then she slowly placed her index finger on my lips. The gesture was graceful, like a velvety touch.
"Shh... my handsome Aleksey..." she said, her voice velvety, almost a whisper. "I always carry a second weapon. I bought this dress... along with the pistol bullets I keep in my bag and a few boxes of painkillers."
For a moment, she tilted her head to the side, her hair cascading down her shoulder. Her eyes sparkled—filled with pride, pleasure, and a touch of triumph. Then she leaned slightly toward me and adjusted the collar of my shirt with her fingertips. The movement was so slow and deliberate that it seemed designed to give me a heart attack. 'God, this woman's charm is more deadly than nuclear bombs,' I thought to myself.
She scanned me from head to toe. I was searching her eyes for approval, as if my black pants, black shirt, and carefully polished shoes were seeking her approval. And when I found it, she looked into my eyes with that mischievous smile.
"You're the most stunning man I've ever seen…" she said calmly, but there was a tremor of sincerity in her voice. "And knowing that you dressed like this just for me… believe me, it's enough to stop my heart."
At the end of her words, her eyelids lowered slightly. This wasn't a seduction, a temptation—it was a confession, a surrender. I had to respond to that tenderness that touched her heart.
In that moment, I only wanted her. I knew she was mine alone. This devotion was like a rare flower blooming amidst wars and scarcity.
Smiling, I bent slightly and extended my arm toward her.
"Then shall we begin our tour of the city, Lady Irina?" I said, adding a slight chuckle to my voice.
Irina pursed her lips into a closed smile. She took my arm gently, but as she placed her fingers on my muscles, she seemed to probe me with her fingertips. It was as if she wanted to confirm my presence, my strength, my existence there with her hands. Then she leaned her body lightly against mine. This was not merely physical closeness; it was a gesture that conveyed refuge, trust, surrender, and ownership.
"Let's go, Handsome Lord," she said, her voice melodic and confident. That familiar smile was on her face again—one part elegant noblewoman, the other part a woman with fire inside her.
We walked out of the room slowly and carefully. I deliberately kept my steps short, feeling the weight on my left side, adjusting my rhythm to match Irina's so she could walk without strain. Our shoulders were almost touching, but what passed between us was far more than that: a silent yet profound understanding, a harmony.
As we walked down the corridor, my eyes fell on two young female doctors. They were the girls who had prepared Irina that morning. When they saw us, they turned to each other and smiled faintly. There was something in their eyes—pride, joy, a little admiration. Perhaps it was a sense of hope at witnessing the bond that was blossoming between these two weary warriors in their own little world. I avoided eye contact and turned my attention back to Irina.
As we stepped out of the hospital, a cool, soft evening breeze caressed my face. The sky had turned a gray tinged with purple. The streetlights were just beginning to come on, and the city was sinking into a peaceful silence, ready to shake off the day's fatigue.
I was the first to break the silence as we walked.
"Alright," I said, turning my head toward her, "where should we go first? The market is still quite lively at this hour. Plus, it's the time when the goods are most abundant…"
Irina chuckled softly. A strand of her hair fell onto her shoulder, and the wind gently played with it.
"Then let's go to the market," she said. "I've heard that you can find anything you want at this city's market."
What she said seemed simple, but the meaning behind it was profound. Perhaps she wasn't just referring to goods. Perhaps this market was a step closer to the ordinary, everyday life we had longed for.
We walked for about fifteen, maybe twenty minutes. As the coolness of the evening slowly enveloped the city, we reached one of Tver's busiest and liveliest streets, the market. The red light of the setting sun hit the roofs and the edges of the awnings, casting long shadows on the stone pavement. The heart of the city was beating here—even though the shadow of the war years had fallen over them, people were still gathering, bargaining, laughing, arguing, living.
The market was packed, even though it was evening. There was movement between every street and in front of every stall. Children ran around with wooden toys in their hands, women weighed fruits and vegetables in their mesh bags, and occasionally, burly men with rifles on their shoulders scanned the area.
As I made my way through the crowd, a food stall caught my attention. It was very different from the cheap street food stalls. It was spotless. The young men behind the stall wore white aprons and chef's hats. They wore gloves and performed every movement with the seriousness of a kitchen. The scent of golden-brown fried "пирожки" (Peroshki), filled with potatoes or meat, filled the air. The warm scent of fried dough and melted butter filled my nose, stirring a sense of hunger in my throat.
There was a line of five or six people in front of the counter. A wooden sign, elegantly written, hung above the counter:
"Homemade Potato Peroshki – Clean, Fresh, Filling."
I turned to Irina and looked into her eyes. She smiled slightly and nodded her head in agreement. No answer was needed. Her face already bore that childlike joy that said, "I want some too."
We joined the queue. Side by side, silently, we began to wait, listening to the sizzling of oil coming from the buffet. For a moment, everything seemed to stand still. Irina rested her head on my shoulder. Even in the crowd, even in the noise, at that moment the world revolved only around us.
A few minutes later, it was our turn. The murmur of the crowd waiting behind us faded slightly, and we took a few steps toward the elderly woman at the counter. She must have been in her late sixties, her face bearing the marks of the years; but there was still a lively, warm sparkle in her eyes. Her white hair was braided, and her hands, like those of someone who had kneaded dough for years, were rough but reassuring. She looked at us carefully through her glasses, then spoke with a sincere smile on her lips:
"Good evening, my dear children..."
She looked from us to each other, our arms locked together. Then she continued in a sweet voice:
"You look very good together. Tell me, what would you like to buy?"
Irina blushed suddenly at the woman's words. A blush spread across her cheeks, she averted her eyes, but the shy smile on her lips did not fade. I tilted my head slightly toward the woman and spoke with a smile:
"Good evening, auntie. Thank you for your kind words. If it's not too much trouble, we'd like four potato 'Peroşki'."
I reached into the side pocket of my backpack, my fingers finding their way by habit. I took two 7.62×25 mm TT bullets into my palm and quietly placed them on the metal surface of the counter. The sound of the metal echoed softly in the silence of the moment.
"Will this be enough?" I asked, looking into the woman's eyes.
The old woman glanced at the bullets, then a softer expression appeared on her face. She pushed her glasses up slightly and smiled as she carefully placed the bullets in the pocket of her apron:
"Of course, my dear, it's more than enough. You've spent your ammunition for a few cents' worth of pleasure. But it's clear it's for a special evening…"
She turned back to the counter, steam still rising from the pot. She placed four crisp golden perashki into a paper bag. She put a few napkins on top, then held it out gently with both hands:
"Enjoy your meal, my children. May God protect you. In times like these, people who find each other are the greatest blessing."
The woman's words touched something deep inside me. It was an echo of the compassion and sincerity that still remained in the midst of war and deprivation. I took the package and nodded slightly:
"Thank you, auntie. We'll take your blessings with us."
Irina bowed her head slightly, took my hand with a shy but sincere smile on her face. Her fingers gently wrapped around mine. We continued walking side by side in the dim yellow light of the street lamps; as our footsteps echoed on the pavement, the world around us seemed to slow down. The buzz of the crowd had faded away; all that remained were the sound of our footsteps and the quiet warmth between us.
I opened the paper bag in my hand. I took out one of the still-steaming perashki, wrapped it in a napkin, and carefully handed it to Irina.
"Here," I said softly. "You should try it while it's still warm."
Irina looked up, her red eyes meeting mine for a moment, then she smiled and took the peraşki. When she took her first bite, she closed her eyes, and then a satisfied murmur spread across her lips.
"Mmm... it's delicious," she said, then turned to me mischievously.
"You try it too."
She extended the perashki in her hand toward my lips with a graceful movement. The playful tenderness on her lips was also evident in her eyes. I leaned in and took a large bite with a slight smile. As I bit into it, I watched Irina tilt her head back slightly, then narrow her eyes and look at me with feigned shock. But that theatrical expression was quickly broken by a laugh rising from the corners of her lips.
"No way! What was that huge bite?" she said, her voice mingling with laughter.
Her shoulders trembled slightly as she tried to suppress her laughter, but she couldn't.
I smiled. I took another piece of perashki from my hand and wrapped it in my own napkin. As the warm, creamy taste of the potato mixed with butter spread through my mouth between bites, I felt as if I had returned to the kitchen of my childhood. The dust of war, the roar of destruction, all the fatigue I carried inside me had fallen silent for that moment. There was a woman beside me. A woman whose smile lightened me, whose walk gave meaning to time.
Without realizing it, we had both slowed down, walking in silence, listening only to each other. The perashki in our hands were quickly gone. As I swallowed the last bites, I wiped the oil from my fingers with the last napkin in my hand. Irina did the same, then we carefully folded the papers and threw them into the rusty trash can by the roadside.
The sky was now a deep blue tinged with purple. The stars were not yet visible, but the sweet coolness in the air signaled that night was slowly descending on the streets.
We walked slowly toward the inner parts of the market. The crowd was thinning out, and the stalls were giving way to the shadows of dilapidated buildings. The sun had dipped toward the west, and the dim light of the street lamps was seeping through the ruins. The sound of our footsteps echoed on the stone pavement, and the silence around us was beginning to feel unsettling.
Just then...
Suddenly, four shadows surrounded us. The escape route behind us was blocked. The first man who appeared in front of us was wearing a greasy, dirty blue tracksuit, his face covered in grime, his teeth yellowed, his eyes bloodshot. He smiled—but there was no friendliness or sanity in that smile. Only hunger. Greed. And threat.
"Well, well," he said, his voice sounding like the squeak of a street rat. "Look what we found on the dark side of the market. A dapper gentleman and a lady of unparalleled beauty. Judging by your appearance, you must be quite valuable… Leave whatever you hold dear and make way. Or else… this path will be your grave."
I didn't even hear half of what he said. At that moment, my mind had fallen into silence—but it was the silence before the storm. My instincts had kicked in.
I grabbed Irina by the waist and pulled her toward me. I held her hand tightly in mine. I slowly turned my head and scanned the four bandits one by one.
When my eyes met theirs, the same thing shone in all their pupils: anger and hunger masked by helplessness.
There were no guns in their hands, but each of them held an improvised weapon—a rusty knife, an iron pipe, a pair of brass knuckles, and a cracked hatchet.
The man's eyes drifted to Irina. A greasy, repulsive grin appeared at the corners of his lips.
He licked his cracked lips with his tongue—his saliva dripping down his chin—and scanned Irina from head to toe with his eyes glowing in the darkness.
"Your clothes will be ruined, my dear," he said in a hoarse, heavy voice.
"Maybe... we can help you take it off. There are other ways to get out of this. For example... we could have some fun together, couldn't we?"
When Irina heard the man's words, a look of disgust appeared on her face. Then the sparkle in her eyes seemed to freeze, as if all her emotions had turned to stone. She reached for the gun in her handbag, but hesitated, knowing that firing a gun in the city would cause problems. With her leg injured, she moved behind me and gripped my hand tightly with both hands.
The three men behind the man began to laugh with a contemptuous chuckle. The rusty pipe in one of their hands clattered to the ground, echoing.
At that moment, I heard a click inside me. It was as if a fuse had blown in my brain.
Time slowed down.
The world around me began to fade, the colors dimmed.
The sound of my teeth grinding together began to drown out the loud beating of my heart.
Nothing mattered anymore.
A deadly, demonic, cold smile appeared on my face. It was as if my body had fallen into the hands of a sinful demon.
I took a step. Then another.
The man's mouth was still moving, but I couldn't hear him anymore. There was only one sound echoing inside me:
"She's my woman…
She is my Irina…
SHE IS ONLY MINE!"
Suddenly, I lunged forward.
My first punch landed on his face.
The sound of breaking bones was so sharp that the others around us reflexively stepped back.
But I didn't stop.
I grabbed the man by the hair, pulled his head toward me, and landed another punch.
And another.
With each punch, the bones in his face shifted a little more, and blood spurted from his teeth and nostrils.
The man couldn't even scream anymore.
He was just moaning and trembling.
But I still didn't stop.
At that moment, even Irina's shocked voice didn't reach my ears.
I wasn't a man at that moment.
I was a danger.
I was a demon from the depths of hell.
I was the embodiment of darkness, possessiveness, anger, and love born in hell.
The other three stared blankly at their friend's mangled face. The shock in their eyes froze them in place for a few seconds. But their instincts kicked in. They tried to become hunters, not prey.
The first one—the weak but agile-looking one with a rusty knife in his hand—lunged at me with a loud scream.
His target was my stomach, perhaps my kidney.
The knife flashed through the air.
But I was faster.
I shifted my shoulder to the side, twisting my body to break the direction of the attack. At the same time, I raised my elbow and struck his jaw with all my strength.
"CRACK!"
The sound of bone cracking was sharp enough to drown out the noise of the marketplace.
The man froze in midair for a moment and then collapsed to the ground.
But I didn't stop.
I lifted my foot and, crouching down, pressed my full body weight onto his hand—the dirty, bony hand holding the knife...
"CRACK!"
His fingers snapped at a grotesque angle, his nails digging into the flesh.
The man screamed like a torn animal.
His cry seemed to be etched into the sky.
At that moment, the other man—the one with the iron pipe—charged at me, screaming like an animal.
He raised the pipe into the air and swung it with all his strength.
I raised my arms, took a defensive stance.
CLANG!
The iron pipe struck my arms. The blow was so powerful I felt it in my bones… but there was no pain.
At that moment, the adrenaline had reached such a point that my body felt numb yet conscious.
Without thinking, I reflexively kicked him—right in the knee.
When my foot hit the bone, I felt a sense of satisfaction.
The knee cracked.
His foot twisted grotesquely to the side.
The man couldn't even scream, because I immediately followed up with a full-force uppercut to his jaw.
His head snapped back, his eyes rolled. The man fell to the ground like a puppet whose strings had been cut.
The last remaining man turned around without even glancing around and began to run away. The sound of his footsteps echoed through the cobblestone street and faded into the darkness.
I was still standing there. My fists were covered in blood—I wasn't sure if it was his or mine.
I was breathing deeply and uncontrollably. My chest was rising and falling, my veins throbbing. I noticed my fists were trembling.
My eyes were still fixed on the fleeing man, but my mind was in a much darker place.
A kind of trance... a kind of rage... followed by the silence that comes after an animalistic, possessive urge.
At that moment, a soft touch pulled me out of the darkness.
Irina...
She had come up beside me silently and wrapped her arms around my neck.
She held me tightly with all her strength.
As if she understood exactly what was happening.
She began to check my body with concern.
She touched the bloody bruises on my arms with her palms, especially the area where the pipe had hit me.
Her fingers touched the wounds with the precision of a warrior surgeon;
she took my hands in hers and cupped her soft face, as if she wanted me to look only at her.
But what she was really focusing on were my eyes.
What was in my gaze? Fragility? Pain? Madness?
"Aleksey... Are you okay?"
Her voice trembled.
Her eyes were on mine, but I looked away.
I spoke in a hoarse, suppressed voice:
"I'm fine... but..."
The sentence remained unfinished.
My words froze, but my gaze completed them.
When my eyes turned back to her, the darkness had already returned.
Cold...
Merciless...
And with a possessiveness that cut deep...
Irina placed her hands on my face. The warmth of her fingers felt like a momentary coolness on my skin, which was burning with anger. She cupped my cheeks with her palms and forced me to look into her eyes. I couldn't escape. I didn't want to escape at that moment anyway.
Her red eyes did not flicker. On the contrary, they shone with a steely determination. There were no tears. There was no fear.
Only the feminine pride of belonging to me, of surrendering completely, and at the same time of claiming me as her own...
"Aleksey," she said, her voice a whisper but echoing with meaning.
"I am yours, Aleksey. No one else can touch me. I am only your woman."
Her words pierced my soul like nails.
Irina pressed her body closer to mine. She rested her head on my chest. Her heart was beating wildly, but not from fear.
We were both there. In the midst of blood, sweat, and darkness… But we were now each other's sanctuary.
I wanted to run my hands through her hair. I wanted to stroke those magnificent white silk strands.
But… my fists were still stained with blood. I couldn't touch those pure, clean locks.
So I just leaned down… and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead.
The scent of her hair… God knows, at that moment it was the most peaceful thing in the world.
At that moment, a calmness spread through me.
As if the storm inside me had been calmed by her words.
It was as if I had taken refuge in the sky for a moment in the midst of war.
I spoke in a whisper, my voice so soft that even the wind might have envied it:
"Let's keep walking, my Irina…
Let's not let today be ruined by these disgusting men."