The sex with Kazimir was intense and overwhelming, but it wasn't worse. It wasn't even close to worse. It was better than most consensual sex I’ve had in my life, and that isn’t even the lowest bar to clear any longer.
Now the bar is that he didn't hold me down while I screamed. He didn't laugh when I begged him to stop or pass me to his friends when he was done.
The memories slam into me, and I have to close my eyes against them, my back to Kazimir so he can’t see the look on my face.
The cell. The men. A bedroom. A library. Iosef’s study. The dining room table, once in front of other girls. The way they hurt me. The way they held me down.
"Hold still, printsessa. We're just having some fun."
The pain. The violation. The feeling of being split apart from the inside.
And then—the worst part—the feeling of them finishing inside me. Hot and wet and wrong. Marking me. Claiming me. Leaving their filth inside my body like I was nothing more than a receptacle for their pleasure.
I'd screamed until my voice gave out. Begged until I had no words left. And they'd just laughed. Every single one of them had done it. Had finished inside me like it was their right.
And when Kazimir did it—when I felt him throb and empty himself into me as he shuddered against me, lost in the same pleasure I was feeling—part of me wanted it. I wanted him to replace those memories with something else. Something that was my choice, even if it was a fucked-up choice made in a fucked-up moment.
But I can't tell him that.
I can't tell him that he's actually the first man I ever wanted to do that. That every other time, I'd never let anyone finish inside me. Until then. Until I had no choice. And then him. When I did have a choice, even if it was buried under layers of trauma and desperation and need.
I don’t want him to know he’s meant anything to me, in any way, after what he’s done. He doesn’t deserve it.
"Svetlana." Kazimir's voice cuts through my thoughts. He's moved closer, though he's still keeping his distance. "I didn't mean to?—"
His continued attempts to salve his conscience are pissing me off. "I know what you meant." I pull the shirt on, then the pants. "You meant to be a gentleman. To do the right thing. Well, congratulations. You failed."
"That's not fair."
"Fair?" I laugh again, and this time it sounds slightly unhinged even to my own ears. "You want to talk about fair? Nothing about this is fair, Kazimir. Nothing about any of it."
He doesn't have an answer for that. I stomp away from him, toward the bathroom, and slam the door behind me as I turn the shower on again. A part of me doesn’t want to wash the scent of him off of me, the feeling of him on my skin, but I can’t let myself linger on it. Ineedto wash him away, just like every other man, to free myself from all of it before I go back home.
If we can get through the night.
It’s impossible to sleep. I curl up on the bed and just lie there, tense and waiting for the sound of feet outside, for gunshots, for the sounds of men trying to get into the house. I’m painfully aware of Kazimir in the next room, probably on the couch or watching the door, as I wait for morning.
And hope that by this time tomorrow, I’ll be back in Boston.
—
The extraction teamarrives just after dawn.
I jolt upright when I hear the sound of knocking on the front door, and booted footsteps on the floor inside. But then I hear Kazimir speaking to them in English instead of Russian, hisvoice quiet and calm and controlled, and I let out the breath I was holding.
After a few minutes, Kazimir knocks on my door. “Svetlana, we need to go.”
“I’ll be right there.” I take a slow breath and push the door open, stepping out into the small living room.
There are four men in the house. They barely look at me. One of them hands Kazimir a phone. He takes it, steps outside, and I hear the murmur of his voice through the door.
"Ma'am." One of the men approaches me, his expression professionally neutral. "We need to move. There's a vehicle waiting."
I nod, feeling my stomach twist. I have no reason to think that I can trust these men, beyond the fact that Kazimir called them, but they can’t be worse than Iosef and his men. I follow them, still wearing Kazimir's shirt and the stolen pants, but no one comments.
The men lead me outside. The storm has picked up again, wind howling and snow blowing, though it’s not as bad as it was when Kazimir and I made our escape. I imagine that’s why Iosef and his men weren’t able to track us back to the safe house.
And now there are more men with guns surrounding me. It’s more of a relief than I would have thought. Unless Kazimir has been lying to me all this time, these men won’t give me back. I might be… safe.
