8. BRAXTON
Chapter eight
W e sat across from each other at the kitchen table. Her face was unreadable, her ice-cold, light-blue eyes darting between me and her glass of water.
I pulled the pistol from my waistband and set it on the table next to hers. Leaning forward, I propped one elbow on the table while I rested my other hand—the one tethered to hers by the damn handcuffs—next to my bowl. She was still eating, acting like this was just another day, like we weren’t running for our lives. I shoved another bite of oatmeal into my mouth, took a long drink of water, and studied her.
“Okay,” I said finally, meeting her unblinking gaze. “It’s obvious you’re not just some Russian operative. There’s more going on here, and I’m not stupid. I get that you let me take you hostage back there—hell, you practically handed me the gun. So…” I took a long, deep breath, pinning her with my gaze. “Who the fuck are you?”
I didn’t really expect her to respond. She hadn’t so far, and I was already getting used to talking to a brick wall. But I waited anyway, watching her closely. Her eyes glanced at the gun I’d just set down, and I thought, for half a second, that she might speak. But no. She just sat there and stared at me.
Her silence pushed my patience to the limit, and all the pent-up anger I’d been keeping under wraps broke free. “You know, it’s not just the prison, or even the fact that I’m chained to someone who clearly has a hell of a lot more going on than she’s admitting that pisses me off. No, it’s more than that. It’s this whole damn situation. This fucking war. Who knows what your part in it is? It’s not just that I’ve gotten myself caught up in this nightmare, it’s what I’ve witnessed that makes me really pissed off. It’s the endless cycle of suffering—how this nightmare the Ukrainians are trapped in is just another chapter in a long, bloody history of Russian dictators screwing over their own people and anyone else who gets in their way. The pain, the destruction—it all stems from their greed and thirst for power.”
I pointed a finger at her. “Do you even think about the history of the regime you’re a part of? Marxism, Leninism, Stalinism—whatever damn ‘ism’ it is, it’s all the same poison. Lenin started it, promising the workers freedom and equality if they took out the tsar and ended the monarchy, but what did he actually do? He kicked off decades of repression, secret police, and starvation. And Stalin? Don’t get me started on that bastard. The man turned oppression into an art form. The gulags, the purges, the forced famines to starve his own people into submission… How many millions of lives did he destroy to build his Soviet empire? Too many to count, and for what? To concentrate all the power and wealth at the top while everyone else toils in misery. It’s the same damn story over and over—just different players.”
I scoffed, leaning back in my chair but not taking my eyes off the woman whose name I still didn’t know. “And now we’ve got your man, Putin, who’s taken all that Soviet authoritarianism and communist corruption, wrapped it in a new flag, and polished it up with the kind of propaganda even Stalin would’ve envied. Orthodox Christianity? Please, give me a fucking break. He’s twisted it into a tool of control, a way to brainwash the masses into thinking his regime is divinely ordained. The media? It’s not journalism anymore—it’s a megaphone for his lies. And the KGB tactics? Those didn’t die with the USSR; they just got an upgrade and a new name. Poisoning dissidents, throwing opponents out of windows, invading Ukraine, and trying to pass it off as some holy war for Russian glory—it’s the same shit, different century.”
I sat back, running a hand through my hair, my voice growing louder. “And what’s it all for? To prop up billionaire oligarchs, to curry favor with the Russian mafia, to line the pockets of the top one percent while the rest of the country struggles to make a decent life for themselves. And it’s not just the Russian people he’s crushing. He’s exporting this madness—this cancer—to anyone who gets in his way. Ukraine dared to want democracy, dared to want freedom, and now? Look where that’s gotten them—cities reduced to rubble, children buried under the debris, and brave men and women fighting tooth and nail for the right to decide their own fate and preserve their way of life.”
The muscles in my jaw tightened as I slammed my fist on the table, the impact rattling the glasses. “And here you are, sitting across from me, silent as a damn tomb. Do you even care about what’s happening to your fellow Russians, much less the Ukrainians, or are you just another cog in the machine? Another faceless operative helping Putin grind down everyone who stands against him?”
My heart pounded with the force of my rant, my frustration bleeding into the silence. I didn’t even know why I was pushing so hard. Maybe I needed to know she wasn’t just a monster in human skin. Maybe I wanted to believe there was more to her than this icy exterior. I leaned back, shaking my head. “Because I’ll tell you what—I may not know your story, but I sure as hell know the story of the regime you’re part of. And it’s nothing but blood, lies, and greed. So go ahead, sit there and pretend like this isn’t your problem. But if you’re helping that bastard destroy lives, then you’re just as bad as him.”
I couldn’t stop myself; the words continued to pour out—more for me than her—as my anger boiled over. “You just shot a kid, for God’s sake! Barely old enough to shave, and you didn’t even blink. And you didn’t just leave one of your own men behind; you blew him up while he was still alive. What is wrong with you? Is that normal for you? Kill whoever’s in the way and move on?”
Rising from my seat, I leaned forward until my face was mere inches from hers. I didn’t know what had driven me to this level of anger or why I was shouting all these accusations at her. Maybe it was the exhaustion, the lingering hunger, or my sheer frustration with the situation I’d been thrown into. Or maybe it was the fact that her silence made me feel free to say whatever the hell came to mind. Who knew?
“That’s the problem with people like you—Russian Special Forces. The FSB probably raised you, taught you to see people as expendable. Just like every other high-ranking Russian officer.”
She stiffened in her chair, her eyes narrowing to slits. For the first time since we’d met, her icy exterior cracked. Finally, she opened her mouth to respond, but when she spoke, it wasn’t in Russian.
“You want me to talk?” she spat in perfect English—with a Midwestern American accent and all. “Fine. Let’s talk, Boy Scout. You’re an arrogant, hypocritical asshole if you ask me. Don’t you dare talk to me about morality. Let me guess—you’ve never stepped foot outside your precious borders before this little adventure, have you? And yet, here you are, spewing your holier-than-thou bullshit. Do you think your pristine hands are clean because you haven’t pulled a trigger yet?”
Her words stunned me for half a second and I dropped back down onto my chair. “What the—? So you do speak English!”
She huffed out a bitter laugh. “Yes! Of course I do.” She leaned back in her chair, hauling me forward by the wrist. “You made your own assumptions, and it wasn’t my job to correct you. God, you Americans with your one language and your inability to grasp that the rest of the world doesn’t revolve around you! Most of us grow up speaking two, three, four languages just to survive, but you? You attack anyone in your country who dares to speak something other than English! And now you expect me to cater to you, to explain myself to you? I owe you nothing.”
“You’ve been playing me this whole time,” I growled. “Letting me talk, letting me think you couldn’t understand a damn word. Manipulative as hell—”
“Manipulative?” She shot to her feet, her face twisted in fury. “Don’t flatter yourself. If I wanted to manipulate you, you wouldn’t even know it. I kept my mouth shut because I didn’t trust you. And judging by your little tirade just now, I was right not to. You’re nothing but a na?ve, self-righteous fool. Typical American, thinking you can waltz into someone else’s war and play the hero. Do you have any idea how ridiculous you sound, lecturing me about decency? Your country’s decency? Shall we talk about Vietnam? Iraq? Afghanistan? Guantánamo Bay?”
“That’s not the same!” I shouted back, the heat in my chest rising.
“Of course it’s not the same,” she said with a mocking sneer. “Because when America does it, it’s liberation , isn’t it? And when Europe turns a blind eye to war crimes in Syria, it’s diplomacy .”
I launched myself from my chair, the force sending it skidding back. She glared up at me, our hands hanging awkwardly between us. “You want to talk about decency?” I growled. “You’re the one shooting people like it’s nothing. That guard back there—he wasn’t even aiming at us. You didn’t have to shoot him—twice.”
She jabbed a finger into my chest. “That guard wasn’t a child. He was a soldier. A soldier who would’ve sounded the alarm and gotten us both shot or dragged back to that hellhole within minutes. A soldier who shouldn’t have questioned a lieutenant colonel in the Special Intelligence Division. But of course you wouldn’t understand that, would you? Because you’ve lived your whole life in a bubble.”
I grabbed her wrist, yanking her toward me, and she froze. “Don’t you dare lecture me on what I don’t understand!” I roared.
Her chest heaved, and for a moment, we were locked in a silent standoff. Her lips pinched together, her eyes blazing with anger.
“You thought playing humanitarian would make you a savior?” she hissed after a few tense heartbeats, jerking free of my grip. “You don’t have a clue what this war is about or who I am. Why are you even here? What are you trying to prove?”
Her words hit a little too close to home, since I’d already been doubting my quick decision to follow Nik across the world. “I came because…” I paused, searching for the right words. “Because I wanted to understand. I wanted to see the truth with my own eyes. Not through some screen or filtered news story. I needed to know what was really happening here and outside of my bubble . To…to be a better man. A better person. I didn’t want to sit back, clueless and safe, being spoon-fed my ideologies by lying cons.”
She shook her head, screwing up her face like she’d just bitten into a lemon. “And now that you’ve seen it? What? You’ll go home and post about it on social media? Join the list of your fellow citizens who think sending thoughts and prayers will stop Russian bombs?”
“That’s not fair,” I fired back. “I’m trying to do the right thing—help somehow.”
“Help?” she barked. “You think this is help? Do you know how many Ukrainians are dead because your government and Europe tied their hands behind their backs? Do you know what it’s like to fight a war where the enemy is my own people attacking innocents with tanks, drones, and missiles while they’re stuck waiting for scraps of aid?”
She rose up on her toes so that we were eye to eye. “Ukrainians gave up the third largest nuclear arsenal in the world because the US and Europe promised to protect them and allow them into NATO! And what did they get? Sanctions and a pat on the head instead. The delay in allowing them to join NATO has kept Ukraine at a tragic disadvantage. Meanwhile, Ukraine’s soldiers defend their soil with unrelenting courage, and their people refuse to bow to oppression! The Ukrainians could’ve ended this war long ago if they had what they needed. But no, the US and Europe can’t send long-range missiles or advanced jets because it might provoke Russia .”
She squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head and drawing her brows tightly together. “Not to mention the hundreds of thousands of my fellow Russians that have died or been injured. They didn’t deserve this war either.”
Her words were a punch to the gut. “It’s not that simple.”
“Oh, but it is.” She scowled. “You think I enjoy shooting guys like that guard? I do what I have to because no one else will. Because this war is on the shoulders of your country and Europe almost as much as it is on Russia. And I…I took a stand. To do what’s right . Not what was in my own self-interest—I can tell you that much!”
I rubbed the back of my neck, my mind racing. Everything about this war was so fucked up. She was right—this was a complicated situation, and she was just one person caught up in it all. Hell, at this point, I wasn’t even sure whose side she was on. She wasn’t defending Putin’s regime; that much was clear. If anything, it sounded like she was supporting the Ukrainians. Could that be right? Maybe I needed to step back and reevaluate.
“I barely knew where Ukraine was on a map before I came here,” I admitted, my voice quieter now. “I knew what I saw on TV. What I read online. But none of it seemed real until I saw it with my own eyes. And now I can’t stop thinking—how much of what we know is even true? How much of the news is bought and paid for?”
She took a step back from me, relaxing her jaw a bit, but she didn’t respond.
“Do the Russian people even know?” I pressed on. “Do they know how much of their money—money from oil, minerals, and whatever else—goes to pay for propaganda about this war and to corrupt other country’s elections? I just read about how there was a media company in Nashville, Tennessee, of all places—Tenet Media—that allegedly took tens of millions from Russian operatives to push Putin’s lies and get him what he wanted: a president who’d do his bidding. And that’s just one example.”
Her face softened for a moment, and I caught an almost imperceptible flash of approval in her eyes. Then she hardened again. “Everyone is complicit. People hear what they want to hear,” she said quietly. “But you don’t get to judge me. Not when you’ve barely scratched the surface of who I am and what this war really means.”
I studied her intently, a piece of the puzzle finally falling into place. Her anger, her words—they didn’t fit the mold of a Russian operative. I narrowed my eyes. “You’re not on their side, are you? You’re fighting for Ukraine.”
Her gaze snapped to mine, ice-cold, but there was a flash of something—panic? No. Annoyance. “You know nothing,” she bit out.
“Then explain it to me. Because from where I’m standing, none of this makes sense. You’re Russian—at least, I’m pretty sure you are. You haven’t denied it. And I’m guessing you’re tied to someone powerful, someone with money. So what are you doing helping the Ukrainians?”
“You think I woke up one day and just…decided to play both sides in this war? That this is some grand plan of mine? I didn’t ask for any of this.”
She crossed her arms, tugging my hand up to her chest. Rolling her eyes, she slung her hands back down and huffed out in frustration. “When I was six, my father—one of the oligarchs you speak of—murdered my mother. One moment, she was alive—smiling, dancing, loving—and the next she was gone. Just like that.” Her voice wavered, but only for a second. “After that, I learned fast that survival means doing whatever it takes—being who they want you to be so they don’t destroy you too. That’s the world I grew up in.”
I could only stare at her. I was starting to understand her a little bit. It wasn’t just this war she was fighting; it was a whole lifetime of battles.
“So yeah,” she continued, her voice softer now, “I’m not some coldhearted killer who loves this shit. But I’ve had to become someone who could survive it. And if that means you and everyone else see me as the villain, so be it. At least now I’m finally fighting for something that matters.”
She stopped, snapping her mouth closed suddenly, as if realizing she’d said too much, and gave me a fierce look, daring me to respond. But for the first time, I didn’t have anything to say.
I was stunned.
How could I respond to all that? She’d opened a door into her past, and while it explained so much, it also left me grasping for a way to move forward without dismissing what she’d shared. But I also didn’t want to push for more than she’d offered, because we were virtually strangers.
“Hmm, and to think we don’t even know each other’s names,” I said, shaking my head at how mind-blowing all this was. “But then again, I’m betting you know mine, don’t you?”
She let out a dry, humorless chuckle. “Of course I know your name. It’s plastered all over the personal belongings you dragged into a war zone—phone, wallet, passport, papers about your volunteer work. Honestly, you couldn’t have made it easier for someone like me.”
I froze. “Shit.”
She untucked her shirt, awkwardly reached up behind her back, and pulled out a bundle of items—my things. Shooting me a smirk, she dropped them onto the table. “You’re lucky I found them instead of the prison guards. I didn’t want them to know who you were or anything about you—now or when you’re back home.”
I stared at the items, stunned. My passport, my wallet, even the crumpled receipts I’d brought with me—they were all there. “Why didn’t you say anything? Why didn’t you just talk to me before?”
“Because I was trying to keep you alive,” she snapped. “And because I didn’t want you to know who I really am, for your own safety.” She paused, pursing her lips in frustration. “Now you know more than you should, and thanks to you getting captured, I just blew my cover and put a giant target on my back.”
All I could do was stare at her, stunned, as I realized the disastrous situation she was now in—because of me. “You’re a double agent, yet you helped me—an American in the wrong place at the wrong time,” I said softly.
“I made a mistake,” she said thoughtfully. “I shouldn’t have helped you, much less let you rile me up. I don’t know why I did. Maybe…” She hesitated, her eyes dropping for a moment before meeting my gaze again. “Maybe it’s because you remind me of why I decided to stop working for the Kremlin. Maybe because I couldn’t let them have such a bright-eyed idealist like you… They would have tortured you, you know.”
Her revelations had silenced me again. I swallowed hard, not knowing what to say, so I reached out, cupping her cheek in my hand before I even realized what I was doing. “Thank you,” I said simply, “for keeping me safe.”
She stiffened under my touch, her eyes widening in confusion. For a moment, the air between us crackled.
Then she stepped back, breaking the contact. “Don’t thank me,” she said flatly. “You’re still a liability, and we’re not out of danger yet. Those weren’t fireworks flying over our heads last night.” She reached for the Glock resting on the kitchen table and smirked. Then, without warning, she grabbed the chain between us and tugged, dragging me toward the back door. “Come on, Braxton Wyatt Thorin,” she said with a forced casualness as our arms stretched out between us. “I’m Daria Melnichenko, by the way,” she threw over her shoulder, almost as if it were an afterthought.
“Daria,” I repeated. She twisted to look at me briefly, then turned away again, frowning as if the sound of her name unsettled her. There was more to this woman than I could possibly imagine.