Page 31 of Cruel Submission

I lean forward. Elbows on knees. “Tell me about what happened. When you were taken.”

She closes her eyes. When they open, they’re looking past me at something I can’t see.

“Mirabel and I had a fight.” Her voice goes flat, detached. “Something stupid. A sisters’ fight. I don’t even remember what it was about. I just needed to be away from her, so I went into the forest to cool off.”

The forest. Where Operation Blackout happened. Where we intercepted Gavriil’s convoy.

“I got lost.” She’s talking faster now. “I kept walking, trying to find my way back, but I went deeper instead. Then I saw them.”

“Who?”

“Men. A bald man with tattoos on his head.” Stefan. “And someone else I couldn’t see clearly. And girls—young girls, crying.” She swallows. “I hid. I was frightened. I didn’t want them to see me. Then Gavriil’s men caught me. I remember them saying…” She stops. Forces herself to continue. “They said, ‘She’s exactly the type Gavriil loves.’”

The way she says my father’s name—like she’s spitting poison.

“What happened then?”

“He liked me. Kept me in his house against my will. I was his…” She can’t finish the sentence. “For six years. I lived in luxury, but I was isolated from the world. He watched every step. Used me whenever he wanted. However he wanted. Sometimes he took me on holidays and showed me off, but what nobody saw was how twisted he is behind closed doors.”

Her voice cracks. She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand.

“I never mentioned Mirabel. I made up a completely different background—told him my parents died when I was young, and I had no siblings. He kept me completely isolated. No phone. No internet. Nothing that connected to the outside world. Even when we traveled, I was never left alone. His men were always watching.”

She’s crying now. Silent tears tracking down her cheeks.

I should say something. Offer comfort. But the rage building in my chest is too loud, too consuming. It drowns out everything else.

My father. My blood. The man who taught me to shoot, to strategize, to lead.

He did this.

Kept a woman prisoner for years. Destroyed her. Used her. Treated her like property.

And all these years, he’s treated me like filth because of what happened with Mishka. When he was guilty of things that no normal man should ever do to another human.

Vyrodok!

Fucking degenerate.

I’m on my feet. Debra’s hands fly up—automatic defense—and I stop. Lock down every muscle.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” I keep my voice level even though there’s violence screaming under my skin. “You’re safe here. I promise.”

I leave before she can respond. Before I can’t hold it together anymore.

The hallway is empty. I walk toward my office, measuring each step, counting each breath.

I pass Mishka’s portrait in the main hall. Don’t look at it.

My office door is closed. I open it. Step inside. Close it behind me.

Lock it.

The crystal tumbler is sitting on my desk where I left it last night. I pick it up. Feel the weight of it. The solid heft.

Then I throw it at the wall as hard as I can.

It shatters. Glass rains down onto the carpet.