Freedom is fifty meters away. Through the gardens, over the wall at the weak point I identified, into the street beyond where I can disappear into Moscow’s waking crowds.
I can actually make it.
The thought is intoxicating. Three weeks of captivity, of forced marriage, of being reduced to breeding potential and strategic asset—all of it ending in the next few minutes.
Guilt flickers somewhere in my chest, guilt I refuse to examine. Guilt about leaving without explanation, about the panic Aleksandr will feel when he discovers I’m gone.
No.I crush that thought immediately. He doesn’t deserve my guilt. Doesn’t deserve anything from me except the satisfaction of knowing I escaped his control.
I run.
Not sprinting—that would attract attention. But fast, purposeful, using garden cover to stay hidden from the main house windows.
The wall is ahead. Ten meters. Five.
I reach it and start climbing, fingers finding purchase in old stone, feet bracing against weathered mortar. My muscles burn, but I don’t stop. Can’t stop. Not when freedom is literally within reach.
I make it over the top, drop into the alley beyond. Land badly, ankle twisting, but the pain is distant. Adrenaline mutes everything except the desperate need to get away.
The street is two blocks ahead. I can see early-morning traffic, people heading to work, the blessed anonymity of a city waking up.
Almost there. Almost free.
The black van appears from nowhere.
It cuts me off at the intersection, tires squealing, blocking my path completely. Doors open before it fully stops. Men pour out—four, five, too many to fight.
I try to run back the way I came. Strong hands close around my arms, yanking me backward with brutal force.
“No!” I scream, struggling, trying to twist free. “Let go!”
Someone laughs. “Look at this. The Sharov wife, running away like a scared little mouse.”
A fist slams into my ribs. Pain explodes through my chest, knocking the breath from my lungs. I gasp, try to scream again, but a cloth is shoved over my mouth before sound can escape.
Chemical smell. Sharp, medicinal. My vision swims.
“Struggling just makes it worse, little wife,” a voice says, mocking. The accent is thick, Russian, dripping with amusement at my terror. “Save your energy. You’ll need it.”
Hands grip me everywhere—arms, waist, legs—lifting me off the ground like I weigh nothing. I thrash anyway, desperate, terrified, but my limbs are already going numb from whatever was on that cloth.
“Did you really think you could just walk away.” Another laugh. “From Aleksandr Sharov? From the Bratva? You’re stupider than we thought.”
One of them grabs my left hand, twisting it so the ring catches light. “Look at this. His mark, right there on her finger. Wonder how badly he’ll bleed when he realizes we have her.”
“Probably a lot,” someone else says. “Man’s obsessed with this one. Been protecting her like she’s made of glass.”
“Not glass,” the first voice corrects. “Gold. She’s his investment. His future. Now she’s ours.”
They throw me into the back of the van. My body hits metal flooring hard, head cracking against something solid. Stars burst across my vision.
Doors slam. The engine roars to life.
Through the haze of whatever drug they used, I hear fragments of conversation.
“Artyom will be pleased.”
“…finally got leverage over Sharov.”
