~ Powers of Nations: A Countryhumans Chronicle

▶Chapter:70◀

The chapter:

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3rd person pov:

The pale morning light filtered through the blinds, casting long shadows across the room. Russia lay stiffly on the bed, his body aching from the torment of the night before. Every muscle protested as he tried to move, his skin still sensitive from the cruel bites and rough treatment. The cuffs binding him to America clinked softly, a constant reminder of his inescapable situation.

America was already awake, lounging beside Russia with an air of casual dominance. His arm rested possessively across Russia's waist, and he seemed to be in no hurry to let go. The room was filled with a heavy silence, broken only by the occasional creak of the bed as America shifted his position.

"Morning," America drawled lazily, his voice devoid of any real warmth. He leaned in closer, his breath hot against Russia's neck. "Slept well?"

Russia didn’t answer, his throat too sore from the previous night’s screaming to even try. He kept his gaze averted, knowing that any response might provoke America further. The bruises and bite marks on his body were throbbing reminders of what he had endured, and he was too exhausted to do anything but lie there, enduring the oppressive atmosphere.

America sighed as if bored, then suddenly sat up, dragging Russia with him due to the short length of the cuffs. "Come on, get up. We've got things to do," he ordered, his tone impatient.

Russia winced as he was pulled into a sitting position, the movement causing the chain to pull uncomfortably at his wrist. His wings, which he had carefully hidden throughout the night, ached from being compressed beneath his clothing, but he dared not adjust them. He couldn’t let America discover them; it was the one secret he had left.

"Here," America said, tossing a pair of clothes onto the bed. Russia glanced at them—another oversized shirt and pants that would be far too big for him. He hesitated, knowing that changing would be difficult with the cuffs restricting his movement.

"Well? What are you waiting for?" America snapped, his patience clearly wearing thin.

Russia swallowed his fear and gathered the clothes in his arms. "I… I need to go to the bathroom," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

America rolled his eyes but didn’t protest. Instead, he stood up, allowing Russia enough slack in the chain to make his way to the bathroom. The three meters of chain felt much shorter in the cramped space, and Russia had to maneuver carefully to avoid pulling too hard on the cuffs. He closed the bathroom door behind him, though it didn’t fully shut due to the chain.

Once inside, Russia let out a shaky breath. His wings felt cramped and sore, but he knew he couldn’t let them out fully, not with America just outside. He carefully peeled off the oversized shirt and pants, hissing as the fabric brushed against his bruised skin. The sight in the mirror made his stomach turn—his body was littered with fresh bruises and bite marks, some of which had bled during the night, he really felt disgusted at himself.

He stepped into the shower, hoping the hot water would soothe some of the pain. But even that simple act was made difficult by the cuffs, which kept pulling at his wrist with every movement. Russia did his best to clean himself up quickly, mindful of the limited space and the ever-present chain that bound him to America.

When he finished, he dried off and put on the clothes America had given him. As expected, the shirt hung loosely on his frame, and the pants were too big, threatening to slip down with every step. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for whatever awaited him outside the bathroom.