Angel tends my wounds using the supplies Ivan left with shaking hands. The cuts aren't deep enough to be fatal, just enough to hurt, to weaken, to remind me of that night. Anatoly's artistic in his cruelty. Always has been.
"We need a plan," she says softly, wrapping gauze around the worst cut. "Because when he comes back?—"
"I know." I force my brain to work through the pain and exhaustion. "The garrote. Check my left thigh."
Her fingers find it, still wrapped tight despite everything, and she works it free, thin wire glinting dully.
"It's not much," I admit. "But if we can get close enough?—"
"We will." Her voice hardens, taking on an edge I've never heard before. "And when we do, I want Anatoly. I want to watch the light leave his eyes."
I look at her in the darkness, see my own rage reflected back. "If we get out of here, you can have him. But right now we need to stay alive long enough for that guard change."
We huddle together in the cage, two women who've had too much taken, waiting for midnight. Waiting for one last chance to fight back. And in the darkness, I make a promise to myself: if I survive this, if by some miracle we both walk out of here, I'm done with revenge. Done with the consuming fire that's turned me into something I don't recognize.
But first, I have to survive. We both do.
The hour passes like years. Every sound makes us flinch, anticipating Anatoly's return. But he doesn't come. Not yet.
When footsteps finally echo down the corridor at 11:45 p.m, they're different. Heavier. Multiple sets. And underneath them, I hear Anatoly's voice, high and excited, promising Father a show.
Angel's hand finds mine in the darkness. She squeezes once, and I squeeze back. Whatever comes next, we face it together. Even if together means dying in a cage while monsters watch. At least I won't die alone. At least I'll die fighting.
The door opens and light floods the corridor, silhouetting three figures. Anatoly steps forward, wearing a sick grin. Behind him, I see Ivan. And behind Ivan a third man whose face I can't quite make out in the glare. But I'd know that silhouette anywhere.
Volk.
CHAPTER 17
Sofiya
SONG: DEAD MEN DON’T RAPE BY DELILAH BON
The light burns my retinas,and I force myself to look anyway, cataloging each figure in the doorway like I'm memorizing targets at the range. Father stands center, aged but still imposing, power radiating from him in waves I remember too well. Anatoly beside him practically vibrates with anticipation, already reaching for the keys to our cage.
And Volk. Standing just behind Anatoly’s left shoulder, face carved from stone, that damned X under his eye catching the fluorescent glare. He’ll have to carve his face up even more now.
My chest constricts. Breathing becomes a conscious effort, each inhale deliberate and controlled. He came. Of course he came. Whatever fantasy I'd entertained in weak moments dies here in this concrete tomb. Angel's fingers dig into my palm hard enough to bruise.
"Yelena." Anatoly’s voice rolls through the space, Russian accent thick, showing his heightened emotion.
I say nothing. Words are weapons I can't afford to waste.
He steps closer to the bars, studying me like I'm an insect pinned to cardboard. "You've caused quite a lot of trouble.” His lips curl into something approximating a smile. "Did you reallythink you could hide? That I wouldn't eventually discover the truth?"
"I wasn't hiding." My voice comes out stronger than expected, edged with steel I've been forging for ten years. "I was preparing."
Anatoly laughs, the sound gravelly. "Preparing to die, apparently. Because that's what happens next, little girl. Slowly. Painfully. And this time, there's no desert to crawl away into."
The garrote wire bites into my palm where I've wrapped it around my hand, hidden against my thigh. Angel shifts beside me, positioning herself. We've had an hour to plan this final stand, to accept we're dying here but we're taking someone with us. Preferably Anatoly. Definitely Anatoly.
Anatoly produces keys from his pocket, tosses them to Ivan. "Bring her out. I want to look at her properly before we begin."
This is it. The moment the cage door opens, the brief window where chaos might give us an advantage. I tense, muscles coiling, counting heartbeats. We're unarmed except for the garrote. Wounded, exhausted, outmatched in every measurable way. But I've survived worse.
The lock clicks, and Ivan swings the door wide, reaching for me with greedy hands. I wait until he's close enough to smell his rancid breath, then I move. The wire loops around his throat before he can react. I yank backward with everything I have left, feeling it bite deep, watching his eyes bulge with satisfying shock. He claws at his neck, trying to get purchase on the thin strand slicing into his flesh.
Angel surges past me, diving for the fallen keys. I see Volk moving in a blur, leaving Angel and me to our fate, disappearing down the hallway. Anatoly shouts something, pulling his gun. I duck behind Ivan's thrashing body, using him as a shield, hauling him back into the cage. Blood seeps around the wire as he makes choking sounds that almost sound like my ownscreams from that night. He’ll be completely decapitated in another few minutes. Good. Let him know how it feels.
