She stumbles inside, pushed by a guard who closes the door behind her without a word. She's wearing a wedding dress—my wedding dress, hastily altered to fit her smaller frame. White silk and lace that should symbolize joy.
Instead, it looks like a shroud.
Mascara streaks down her cheeks. Her eyes are red and swollen. Her hands shake as she stares at me.
"Kira!" She throws herself into my arms. We both collapse to the floor, holding each other as she sobs.
"I can't do this." The words come out broken. "Please, I can't marry him. He's old and he scares me and I don't—I can't—"
"Shh, baby, I know." I hold her tight, stroking her hair like when she was little and had nightmares. "Listen to me. We're going to get out of this."
"How?" She pulls back to look at me. The terror in her eyes breaks my heart. "There are guards everywhere. And what aboutyou? Roman said you're going to—that Volkov will—" She can't finish the sentence.
I can't either. Can't think about what Volkov will do without wanting to vomit.
"We fight." I stand, pulling her up with me. "We find a way to fight."
I look around the room desperately. Plain furniture. The window is too high and probably reinforced. The door is solid, locked from outside.
But there has to be something.
I start searching—pulling open drawers, checking under furniture, looking for anything we could use as a weapon.
"What are you doing?" Anya watches me, hope and fear warring in her expression.
"Looking for options."
There is a single wooden chair in the room. I grab it and smash it against the floor several times.
I smash the chair against the floor until one of the legs breaks free. The wood splinters, leaving a jagged edge that could do damage if I get close enough.
"Here." I hand the makeshift weapon to Anya. "When they come for you, you go for the eyes or the throat. Don't hesitate."
"Kira, I can't—"
"You can." I grip her shoulders. "You're my sister. You have steel in you, even if you don't know it yet."
She takes the wooden leg with shaking hands. "What about you?"
I grab another piece of the broken chair—shorter, but with a sharp edge. "I'll manage."
The odds are laughable.
But we're not going down without a fight.
"What's the plan?" Anya asks.
"When they come to take you to the chapel, we fight. Hit them fast, hit them hard, and run. Poke them in the eyes. Jab that stick into their balls. Make them bleed, Anya. Do you hear me? Don’t play nice. Be violent."
"Run where?" Her voice is small. "The compound is huge. There are guards everywhere."
"I don't know yet. But anywhere is better than that chapel."
She nods, trying to be brave.
I've failed her.
But I can still fight beside her.
