1
SVETLANA
The cold seeps into my bones like it's always been there, like warmth is something I’ve only ever imagined—in a dream I can barely remember.
I don't know how long I've been in this room. Days blur into nights, blur into days again, marked only by the meals they bring—when they remember to bring them at all. I don’t think they want me dead, so it’s enough to keep me from starving entirely, but it’s not enough to keep me from becoming rail-thin, weak, the way they want me to be. They want me compliant—the one thing I’ve tried so hard not to become.
Usually it’s just bread and water—the bread so stale it cuts the roof of my mouth, the water stagnant. Sometimes there’s protein, some kind of meat that usually smells off, as if a maid cleaned out the refrigerator, and I got the scraps. I force myself to eat it anyway, because I know I need the calories if I’m going to keep fighting.
Except… I’ve started to wonder what the point is any longer. Why, exactly, I’m fighting, when it’s clear that I’m never going to win.
My stomach stopped growling days ago. Or was it weeks? Time moves strangely here, thick and slow like honey, except there's nothing sweet about this place.
The compound sits somewhere outside Moscow. I know that much. I heard them talking about it when they first brought me here, back when I still had the energy to listen, to catalog every detail that might help me escape. Back when I still believed escape was possible.
Now I'm not so sure I believe in anything.
The room they’re keeping me in is small, maybe ten feet by ten feet, with concrete walls that weep moisture and a single barred window too high to reach. There's a cot with a thin mattress that reeks of mildew, and I wonder sometimes who else has slept on it. I wonder what happened to them. I wonder if I want to know.
My body aches in ways I didn't know were possible. There are bruises on my ribs, my thighs, my arms, and between my legs. Some are fresh, purple-black, and tender. Others have faded to that sickly yellow-green that means they're healing, though healing feels like the wrong word for it. Nothing about this is healing. My left wrist throbs where one of them twisted it yesterday—or was it the day before? I'm fairly certain at least one of my ribs is cracked. Every breath sends a sharp spike of pain through my chest.
I should be used to the pain by now. I should be numb to it.
I'm not. It still hurts just as badly every time. It still shocks me every time that others can hurt me so casually, so cruelly. That they’reallowedto.
That there will be no retribution, no consequences for them.
Ever.
The door opens without warning. That's part of the game they play, keeping me off-balance, never knowing when they'll come or what they'll want when they do.Howthey’ll hurt me…or if they’ll just leave me alone. Sometimes there isn’t pain. It keeps me hoping that this time it won’t be so bad.
I don't look up. I learned that lesson early. Eye contact is an invitation, a challenge. It's better to make myself small, to disappear into the corner of the cot, where the shadows are deepest.
"Get up."
The voice belongs to Evan, one of the guards. He's younger than the others, maybe mid-twenties, with a face that I would have found handsome in some other life, in some other place. But here, he’s too cruel for me to find him handsome, even though he’s not the worst of the lot. Grigory is the worst. Then Pyotr. Pyotr is the most creative.
I don't move.
"I said get up." His boots cross the floor, heavy and deliberate. "You're being cleaned up. There's a guest coming tonight, someone important. Iosef wants you presentable."
Iosef. The name alone makes my stomach turn. He's the one who bought me, the one who owns this place, who owns me, even if I’m shared with all the men. I've only seen him a handful of times, but each encounter is seared into my memory with a traumatic clarity. He's a big man, broad-shouldered and thick through the middle, with cold eyes and rough hands.
"I'm not going anywhere." My voice comes out hoarse, barely above a whisper. I haven't used it much lately. There's no point in screaming when no one who cares can hear you. “I’m not going to let youpresentme to anyone. I’m done.”
The words come out before I can really think them through, but I mean it. I’m done being used. Shown off. Hurt.They can kill me,I think blankly. Maybe that’s better.
Evan unlocks the door and strides into the cell. Before I can move, his hand closes around my upper arm, yanking me to myfeet. Pain explodes through my ribs, and I gasp, doubling over. He doesn't let go.
"You don't have a choice,printsessa." The endearment is mocking, cruel. "You're going to get cleaned up, you're going to put on something pretty, and you're going to smile for whoever Iosef wants to show you off to. Understand?" He smirks. “You should be glad to go upstairs again. If you’re a good girl, maybe you’ll get the scraps from dinner. ‘Fresh’ food, for you, at least.”
Something inside me snaps.
Maybe it's the pain and the hunger. Maybe it's the way he called me princess, like I'm still that girl who used to dance on a New York stage, who posed for clicking cameras, who had a life and a future, and an identity beyond being a man’s property.
Maybe I’m just tired of all of it.
I drive my knee up into his groin with every ounce of strength I have left.
