"Oh? She seems to have found her courage now? Daring to look me straight in the eye?"
Zayn arched a thin eyebrow, a faint, cryptic smile playing on his lips.
Without another word, he turned toward the weathered wardrobe and pulled out a set of clean clothes.
At that moment, it wasn't Dante who appeared, but Kai.
He marched in, gripping a small wooden bucket filled with steaming hot water.
With movements that were uncharacteristically stiff and awkward, he set the bucket down and fixed Mila with a piercing stare.
"This is for your bath," he grunted curtly.
If anyone in the village ever found out he was playing servant to his 'wife' like this, he would die of sheer embarrassment.
Yet, deep in the hollows of his chest, there was a secret flicker of satisfaction he couldn't quite extinguish.
"Since you're feeling so strong, go and fetch the bathtub from the east room as well," Zayn said, his eyes sharp as flint as he looked at his younger brother.
Zayn knew Kai cared, but his jagged edges and permanent scowl were doing nothing but terrifying the poor girl, fueling her desire to run.
Without a word of protest, Kai bolted out and returned shortly, hauling a massive wooden tub.
He thudded it onto the floor and gestured toward Mila.
"Go on. Wash."
He wants me to bathe? Even though the words were a blur of foreign sounds, their gestures told the story.
Yet, Mila remained frozen.
How could she possibly strip and bathe with two grown men standing there like statues in the middle of the room?
Seeing Mila still and dazed, Kai's panic flared again.
He reached out to grab her arm, but Zayn's hand shot out like a viper, catching Kai's shoulder and shoving him toward the door.
"Brother, what the hell?" Kai protested, stung.
"Why am I being kicked out?"
"Move," Zayn snapped, his patience fraying.
With his brother's reckless temper, Kai was only going to scare the small woman half to death.
After forcing Kai away, Zayn didn't step back inside.
He simply stood at the threshold, pointing toward the tub, the steaming water, and the clothes atop the wardrobe.
"Bathe quickly and change into clean clothes. Dinner will be ready soon," he said, his voice dropping into a much softer, almost melodic register.
Then, he pulled the door shut firmly, finally granting Mila the sanctuary of privacy.
Outside, Kai felt the sting of injustice.
He was the one who hauled the water; he was the one who lugged the heavy wooden tub—yet it was his second brother who walked away looking like the gentle protector.
Why did Zayn get the credit for his back-breaking labor?
The moment the door clicked shut and Mila was out of sight, the warmth vanished from Zayn's face.
He turned on Kai with an icy, threatening glare.
"If you keep making a hobby out of terrifying women, you might as well forget about ever having a wife."
Inside the room, hearing the hushed whispers fade behind the door, Mila finally felt the tension leave her shoulders.
She slid off the heated brick bed.
Her clothes were a disaster—filthy, tattered, and smelling of old sweat and fear; she desperately needed to wash the day away.
Before long, the two brothers outside heard the soft, rhythmic splashing of water from within.
Their breath hitched in their throats; a sudden, suffocating heat seemed to radiate from behind the wooden door.
"Kai, go chop some firewood. I'll handle the cooking," Zayn muttered, trying to steady his own pulse.
But Kai simply clamped his hand over his nose, shaking his head violently.
"What is it?" Zayn started, then stopped as he saw bright, fresh blood leaking through Kai's fingers.
Zayn couldn't hold back a laugh.
"Look at you! Go wash your face with cold water, quickly!"
Without waiting for a second command, Kai scrambled to the kitchen, scooped up a ladle of freezing water, and splashed it over his face in a frenzy.
Erik chose that exact moment to return with another bucket of water.
He stared in bewilderment at his brother frantically dousing himself.
"What's wrong with him?"
"He's thinking about his wife," Zayn teased as he stepped into the kitchen.
Kai was only eighteen, an age where a man's blood is always near a boil.
With a woman as stunning as that bathing in the very next room, Kai's reaction was hardly a mystery.
Erik's expression shifted instantly.
He cast a worried, lingering glance toward the west room.
"It's fine, she's just bathing," Zayn added quickly.
Bathing.
For some reason, that simple, mundane word made Erik's usually cold, stoic face flush a deep, burning crimson.
Mila finished her bath as fast as her trembling hands allowed.
But when she reached for the provided clothes, she paused—these are men's clothes? The size was gargantuan.
Did she have nothing of her own? Was she truly a complete stranger to this family?
Knock, knock, knock.
A gentle tap sounded at the door, followed by Zayn's smooth voice.
"Are you finished? Dinner is ready."
Mila panicked.
Without thinking, she threw the oversized garments on and pressed her body against the door, terrified he might just push his way in.
Feeling the resistance, Zayn gave the door a slight, experimental nudge, but it wouldn't budge; she was holding it shut. Zayn let out a soft chuckle.
"If you're done, open the door later. I'll have Dante bring your dinner to you."
As Zayn walked away, a thought flickered through Mila's mind:
What good was this flimsy door if they truly intended to do her harm?
She waited until the sound of footsteps died away completely before properly dressing herself.
The clothes looked ridiculous.
The tunic was so wide it could have housed two of her.
She had to wrap the excess fabric around her waist several times to keep it up, though the collar still slumped off her shoulders.
The trousers were worse, pooling on the floor like a gown.
She rolled them up repeatedly until they reached her ankles, but the legs remained so wide she could feel the draft swirling around her skin.
I can't possibly go out looking like this, she thought, frustrated.
Just then, another knock.
This time, it was a child's voice.
"Sister, I brought food."
Because it was a child, Mila's guard lowered slightly.
She cracked the door open and peeked out.
A thin boy with a gentle face stood there.
Seeing the door open, his face split into a wide grin as he held out a bowl.
"Sister, here."
"Thank you," Mila whispered as she took the bowl.
The boy immediately spun around and bolted, seemingly overwhelmed by shyness.
Mila offered a small, tired smile.
Despite the horror at the village entrance, this family seemed... honest, in their own way.
Simple. They seemed to genuinely care for her.
The bowl of corn porridge and two warm, fragrant corn buns made Mila's stomach growl instantly.
She retreated to her bed and began to eat.
It was her first time tasting such coarse grains, but to her starving palate, it was a feast.
She finished every drop, and for the first time in a long time, her stomach felt at peace.
However, she was stuck.
She didn't know how to return the empty bowl, and she was far too mortified to step out in these billowing clothes.
Luckily, Zayn had already anticipated her dilemma.
After giving her enough time to eat, he sent Dante back to fetch the dishes.
Once the bowl was gone, Mila finally breathed a sigh of relief.
But as she turned around, she realized the basin of used bathwater was still in the room.
Ah, let it be. I'll empty it tomorrow.
Mila locked the door and lay back down on the kang.
The surface was rock hard, and the bedding was painfully thin, smelling faintly of damp and age.
The sheets were so worn they had faded to a murky charcoal grey—a color that looked like it would never be clean again, no matter how many times it was scrubbed.
Yet, she had no other choice.
In the flickering, dying light, Mila surveyed the room.
The walls were made of dull mud bricks, and the furniture was sparse—just the brick bed she lay on and a single wardrobe with peeling paint.
That was it.
This family... they were truly, desperately poor.