I am far from looking like a bride.
My face is streaked with smeared mascara, my hair is a mess, and my bare arms display purple bruises that stand out against the white of the simple wedding dress.
I look like the corpse bride; a sadder, more chaotic version of her.
I don’t know how many hours I was unconscious, I don’t know how long it’s been since I last ate, but somehow my body feels adrenaline, and it’s that adrenaline that keeps me standing, even though inside I’m pure chaos.
The moment night begins to creep in through the window, the door opens again.
I’m there, sitting obediently on the bed, waiting for my death sentence.
Demyan and Killian approach.
I remain completely still, staring blankly ahead of me.
"That’s it, Milaya," Demyan whispers. "I like that attitude. However,
