I stand slowly, testing my ability to move now that I’ve thawed out a bit. Pain shoots up my legs, but I grit my teeth and move toward the table, slowly, one step at a time.
Kazimir doesn't turn around.
My hand closes around the grip of the gun. It's heavier than I expected, the cold metal strange against my palm. I've never fired a gun before. But I’ve watched Kazimir—I’ve seen how he holds it, how he pulls the trigger. How hard can it be?
I back toward the door, keeping my eyes on Kazimir. He's still talking, still pacing, completely unaware. I feel my lip curl as I look at him. He doesn’t think I’m strong enough to try to escape. He isn’t even bothering to watch me because he can’t fathom that I’d try. He left his gun unattended because it was unthinkable that I’d take it. He thinks I’m weak and broken and useless.
An easy mark for him to use. A stupid woman who would believe him when he’s never given her a reason to before.
I was desperate enough to fall for it. But I’m not going to let him sell me to someone else, or exact Ilya’s revenge for things that were never really my fault to begin with.
My hand finds the doorknob behind me, and I turn it slowly, carefully, praying it doesn't creak.
It doesn't.
The door opens, and cold air rushes in. Kazimir's head snaps up, his eyes widening as he turns and sees me there, framed in the doorway. His eyes go wide as he sees the gun in my hand.
"Svetlana!"
It’s too late. I bolt out of the door, slamming it behind me, and Irun.
—
The woods swallow me whole.
I don't have a plan or supplies, or even the proper shoes. The boots are too big, and even the layers of socks can’t completely make up for that. But I have a gun, and I have rage, and right now that feels like enough.
The cold hits me immediately, biting through the layers I'm wearing. My legs scream with every step, my body begging me to stop, to give up, to put an end to this. But I don't stop. I can't stop.
Those men—Iosef's men—they're still out here. Still hunting me, still thinking they can take me, use me, break me as they did over and over before. And if Kazimir sells me to someone, they’ll do the same thing.
The memories slam into me all over again as I move through the trees. Iosef's hands on my throat. The cold concrete floor.The darkness. The pain. The way they laughed when I begged. The way they took so much pleasure in hurting me. The way they got off on it, over and over and over.
The way they made me feel like nothing. Like I was already dead.
My grip tightens on the gun until my knuckles go white. I want to hurt them. I want to make them feel what I felt. I want them to know what it's like to be hunted, to be helpless, to be afraid.
I want them to bleed.
The thought should horrify me. The old Svetlana—the one who went to charity galas and smiled for the cameras—would be appalled.
But I can’t remember her any longer. I barely remember what that life was like. I think that woman, the one with a closet full of designer clothes and photographers hungering for her picture and a life of luxury stretching out in front of her, might have died in those cells.
This version of me wants blood.
I move deeper into the woods, trying to orient myself. The snow is trampled here, boot prints everywhere—theirs and ours, all mixed together in a chaotic pattern. I follow the clearest trail, the one that leads back the way we came. My breath comes in short, sharp gasps that fog in the frigid air. My feet and legs are going numb, which is almost a mercy. The pain is still there, a distant throb, but the cold is dulling it.
Adrenaline surges through my veins, making my hands shake. I force them steady, adjusting my grip on the gun. I've watched Kazimir handle it. I've seen how he holds it, how he aims, how his finger rests on the trigger. I can do this.
I have to do this.
Because if I don't—if I let them take me back, let them hurt me, let someone else hurt me—then Iosef wins. My father wins. They all win. And I'll never be anything more than a victim.
The trees thin slightly ahead, and I slow down, moving more carefully. My heart is pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears. But over the sound, I hear voices.
Male voices, speaking Russian in low tones, and closer than I’d like for them to be.
Or maybe exactly where I want them.
