For a long while I sit on the edge of the bed, watching Sandi sleep, her bruised shoulder catching the light—deep wine-blue, cuts edged in shadow, finger imprints faded but still visible. Not play. Not conquest. Just the evidence of survival.

It’s almost peaceful, this hush. Sandi sleeps, breathing even; I tuck the blanket higher over her shoulder and let her rest. The memory of Tarmo’s fury clings to the walls, but here in this circle of lamplight, it can’t quite reach us.

Then, after some time—a measured interval in which old anger and new clarity must have jostled for space—there’s a knock on the suite door. This time it’s not abrupt or entitled, but deliberate.

I open the door to see Tarmo, composed now, standing in the corridor. He doesn’t push inside. Instead, his gaze falls on Sandi, still asleep. He studies her quietly—the bruises, the fragile bones, the soft rise and fall of breath—as if seeing past old lust or rivalry to a deeper cost.

He turns to me, voice low but steady. “Elena, when she wakes, send Sandi to my suite. We need a debrief. About everything. That’s all.”

I nod, matching his quiet. He hesitates, searching my face for signs of forgiveness or condemnation, but I offer neither. Only silence. He turns and walks away, footsteps muted by the thick hotel carpet.

Back in the bedroom, Sandi stirs, and I let her sleep a little longer—both of us grateful for a pause before the next reckoning begins.

Then—abruptly—I throw my head back.

“Gods below, I am sooo hungry!” I announce, loud enough to shake the ceiling.

Sandi laughs, a bright sudden edge breaking the air.

“That’s all the orgasms,” she deadpans, then leans in and kisses me full on the mouth before padding off toward the shower, hips loose, her movements easy, as if the bruises are already ghosts.

Steam starts to roll from the bathroom when a knock rattles the door—brief, insistent—and then it swings open before I can answer.

Karim steps in, pushing a small hotel cart crowded with plates, each one shimmering gold and silver under steel domes.

“I really should get a lock on that door,” I mutter. Then, narrowing my eyes at him: “How did you know?”

Karim’s grin flashes, wolfish.

“I’m always hungry after galloping through heaven,” he says with a shrug. Then, softer: “Anyway, good to see you’re in excellent condition after the debacle.”

I arch a brow, smirk rising. “Shouldn’t you go see if Mitra has any… needs? Or hunger?”

The grin drops from his face like a curtain, replaced by something darker, quieter.

“When you’re decent,” he says, “make some time for me. I need to talk with you about something.”

He turns before I can answer, disappearing into the hallway, the click of the door far too loud in the still morning air.

I turn my attention to the cart—an avalanche of color and scent.

Gata flakes, spilling buttery perfume. Pakhlava gleams with syrup. Alani, dried peaches split to reveal their nut-filled hearts. Sweet sujukh ropes, walnut and grape, curling like old bracelets. Dolma, khorovats, harissa, lavash, still warm to the touch. Rows of jewel-bright fruit preserves. The feast glows in the hotel lamplight, promising comfort, if only for a few bites.

“Gods below, I am so hungry,” I think again, hoovering over the food and tearing a piece from the gata—still delicate from the oven.

The bathroom door opens.

Sandi, hair damp and smelling faintly of soap and eucalyptus, takes in the scene—me halfway through a bite, the room thick with the sweet, spiced air of breakfast, and the lingering echo of something unsaid between me and Karim.

“Gods, you are a vision, Elena,” she says, walking up to me and kissing me, this time on a mouth filled with gata. “I really would like to eat all the food from your body.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“Just a thought,” says Sandi, meanwhile quickly introducing her finger into my sticky flower.

I protest with a full mouth when Sandi sinks to inhale a bit of that stickiness.

“Oh god, you taste heavenly,” she murmurs as she lets me go and stands up.

I just look at her, chewing away on the delicacy.

I.Ph.