19. DARIA
Chapter nineteen
A clatter jolted me from the semiconscious daze I’d slipped into. My body tensed as the sound of metal scraping against concrete echoed in the tiny cell.
A dented, rusted tray skidded to a stop near my cot. Food, if you could call it that, had been shoved in through the slot at the bottom of the door. Cold porridge, a chunk of black bread, and a metal cup of water. Standard Russian prison fare. Barely edible, but enough to keep a prisoner from starving.
I stared at it for a long time. Food meant they weren’t planning to kill me just yet.
I forced myself up, ignoring the burning ache in my muscles, the ghost of electricity still crawling beneath my skin. My fingers were stiff, my knuckles raw and split from struggling against the restraints. Still, I needed sustenance. I picked up the bread first, tearing off a piece with my teeth. It was dry, coarse, and almost stale. I chased it down with a sip of water, swallowing past my sore throat.
I would survive one step at a time.
An hour or so passed in the suffocatingly small, nasty cell while I drifted in and out of sleep. Then—another sound.
The door opened and shut again within mere seconds. Something soft and heavy landed on the floor.
Clothes.
I pushed off the cot and moved toward the pile, kneeling to inspect the rough, worn fabric. Gray men’s trousers, a gray button-up shirt, black socks. Not fatigues, of course. The bastards weren’t about to give me anything decent—I was a traitor now. But it was better than being naked.
And—thank God—my own worn leather combat boots had been included.
I quickly tugged on the clothes. They were too big; the pants hung loose at the waist, so I rolled them down to tighten them. The shirt smelled like old sweat and mildew, but at least it was something. I jammed my feet into the socks and set the boots next to me on the cot.
Turning slightly, I angled my body so my back faced the cell door. Stealthily, I pressed my fingers into my left boot, feeling along the side of the insole until I hit the familiar edge. My Ukrainian ID was still there.
Relief swam through me; if I could hold on to it, then I’d have a chance of finding a place to live after I escaped my current predicament. I slid my feet into the boots and laced them up. Pacing the room, I rubbed my arms to increase the circulation and almost felt human again.
Heavy footsteps approached. I stepped back from the door as the locks disengaged with a harsh clang. The door burst open, and two men walked in.
“Hands and forehead on the wall,” one barked.
I turned to the wall just as rough hands grabbed me, wrenching my arms behind my back. With a quick movement, the cuff I’d been wearing since Braxton snapped it closed on my wrist, fell away. And just as quickly new ones were snapped around both wrists—handcuffs so tight they bit into my skin. Ankle shackles came next, heavy and thick, the short chain limiting my stride. Then, without warning, a black hood was thrown over my head, plunging me into suffocating darkness.
I forced my breathing to remain steady. I knew this tactic—psychological warfare. Sensory deprivation, restriction of movement, and the stripping away of control were all utilized to disorient and instill fear.
It wouldn’t work on me.
A shove between my shoulder blades sent me forward. I attempted to shuffle along, but the shackles made movement awkward, and I stumbled. Hands yanked me back up before I hit the ground. The guards were determined to drag me along, whether I kept pace or not.
Outside, the humidity was thick. Rain came down in sheets, quickly soaking me through.
Another shove, and my hips hit a sharp metal edge. Then a wide hand grabbed me between my legs, heaved me up, and tossed me forward onto my knees.
A hand lifted me up by the armpit and thrust me onto a hard, cold bench. Using his knee, the guard knocked my legs apart and fastened my handcuffs to the edge in between.
A Voronok—a fucking prisoner transport.
Even without being able to see it, I recognized the setup immediately. These armored trucks had small compartments for individual prisoners. The bare interior and unforgiving steel benches lacked seat belts, let alone air conditioning. It was nothing more than a metal box designed to haul prisoners around.
The door slammed shut, and a bolt locked into place. Seconds later, the engine rumbled to life.
I braced myself as the vehicle lurched forward, rolling over uneven terrain for a few moments before hitting pavement. The vibrations of the truck rattled through my bones.
For hours, I sat in that suffocating steel coffin, my breath damp against the inside of the hood. My shoulders ached from the awkward position I was forced to remain in, and the cuffs dug into my skin with every jolt.
Still, I stayed quiet. They wanted fear? They’d get none from me.
Instead, I focused on listening to the outside world, feeling the rhythm of the road, and marking time in my head.
Soon I picked up a rumble—distant at first, but growing louder.
Trains.
I could hear them. Where the hell were they taking me?
The Voronok came to a stop, its brakes hissing. A moment later, the doors swung open, and I was hauled out. They dragged me along the uneven, slick ground. I continued to stumble and would have face-planted several times if not for their firm grip on me.
Despite this, they kept pulling me forward at a punishing pace. My legs, hindered by the shackles, were barely able to keep up. Then another hand gripped my arm and dragged me sideways. A man lifted me in his arms and unceremoniously dumped me onto a hard floor. It had to be a train car.
The door screeched shut behind me, sealing me in.
I stayed still for a long time, listening. No movement. No other bodies shifting in the darkness.
I was alone.
Slowly, I scooted back, feeling my way to the side of the car and then along the wall until I reached a corner. I braced against it, grateful for something—anything—with which to anchor myself.
Then, carefully, I maneuvered my bound legs up to my chest, curling my spine until I could thread my arms under, pulling my cuffed hands from behind my back to the front of my body. It was clumsy and awkward with the shackles in the way, but I managed.
I yanked the hood off, inhaling the stale air, my damp hair clinging to my face. Blinking, I adjusted to the dim light seeping through the small slats of the car. I’d been right. It was empty, just another metal box.
I had no idea where they were taking me, but I did know one thing. They should have killed me when they had the chance. I was so pissed off at everyone and everything. There would be no stopping my retribution!
The train lurched forward, rocking as it picked up speed. I slumped back against the wall, closing my eyes and taking a deep breath, trying to let exhaustion take me.
For now, I’d let them believe they had me. But I’d get out of this, one way or another.
The ride was long. Longer than I’d expected. Longer than I wanted with an empty belly. Hunger gnawed at my stomach, and my body ached from hours spent curled up on the cold, unforgiving floor of the train car.
I was fairly certain I wasn’t being taken to another prison. No, this was something else entirely.
The train’s rhythmic clatter faded into white noise, lulling me into a fitful sleep.
The screech of metal grinding against metal jolted me awake. The train lurched, slowing, the momentum shifting as the brakes engaged. I forced myself upright, ignoring the stiffness in my limbs as my heart pounded against my ribs. This was it. Wherever I was going, I had arrived.
I yanked the hood back over my head just as the heavy doors slid open, letting in a blast of fresh air. Boots crunched against gravel, accompanied by men’s voices barking orders in clipped, authoritative tones. I recognized the scent immediately—diesel fumes, oil, and burning brakes—an industrial train yard.
Someone climbed into the car and shuffled toward me. A rough hand grabbed my arm, pulling me up. My legs nearly buckled beneath me, the pins and needles of hours of poor circulation shooting through my calves. As soon as I forced myself to stand firm, I was being shoved forward.
I barely had time to register the emptiness in front of me before I was falling.
A jolt of panic seized me, my breath catching. Then arms caught me.
For a moment, I was held forcibly by strong hands. My stomach lurched as I was hoisted up and slung over a man’s broad shoulder like a sack of grain. The bastard didn’t even grunt from the effort.
My captor carried me swiftly for a few paces, his boots crunching against gravel. My body bounced as he stepped over the tracks, the distant hum of train engines rumbling around us.
I was dumped into a vehicle that smelled distinctly of leather, my butt colliding with a smooth, soft seat. The impact sent another jolt of pain through my bruised ribs, but I didn’t make a sound. I wouldn’t give them that satisfaction.
Bodies slid in on either side of me, boxing me in. The scent of cheap cologne filled my nose as the front doors opened and two more men settled into their seats.
The engine purred to life.
The silence stretched thick and heavy, save for the hum of tires rolling over pavement.
“Fucking hell,” one of them muttered. “She stinks.”
A few chuckles followed, but no one else spoke.
I didn’t care what they thought of me. They were just a bunch of lackeys.
I had no idea where they were taking me, but at least the car was comfortable, the seat beneath me soft enough to give my battered body some relief.
The drive was a couple of hours long. My head swayed against the seat, exhaustion pulling me under. I let it. I needed every ounce of strength I could get for whatever was coming next.
When the car finally rolled to a stop and the engine was cut off, the doors opened, and I was pulled roughly from the seat.
Once again, I was led along blindly. My boots scraped against cobblestones, and then I went up a set of steps. Somewhere in front of me, a heavy door swung open.
Then I caught it.
A scent so ingrained in my memory that recognition slammed into me like a fist to the gut.
Orange oil wood polish, faint cigar smoke, and an unmistakably expensive cologne.
My stomach churned.
I knew exactly where I was before they even hauled me inside.
The Devil’s home.
The house I’d grown up in. The house my mother had once filled with warmth. The house where her laughter had echoed through the halls before it had been ripped away, just like she had.
I braced myself.
This was going to be bad.
I’d barely taken one step in the house before a fist crashed into my ribs.
My palms hit the marble floor with a hard crack, and I gasped.
A boot slammed into my stomach, rolling me onto my back. Someone ripped off the black hood, and the first thing I saw was his face.
Alexey Melnichenko.
My father.
His fury burned through his usually cool exterior, his gaze locked onto me—lethal as a loaded gun. There was a tic in his jaw as he took a slow step forward, looming over me.
“You fucking embarrassment,” he seethed, his voice a venomous thing.
I didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
He reached down and grabbed a handful of my hair, hauling me up to my feet. I didn’t fight when the back of his hand whipped across my cheek so hard my vision blurred. My head snapped sideways, my ears ringing, a metallic tang flooding my mouth as I tasted blood.
Then another hit.
And another.
A fist to my ribs. A slap that sent me reeling. A ring slicing into my lip.
Still, I said nothing.
The Devil stepped back, shaking his hand out as if my blood had soiled him.
His chest rose and fell with slow, controlled breaths, but I was all too aware that his anger hadn’t cooled. If anything, it had intensified, twisted into something more cruel, more deliberate.
“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” he asked, his voice like ice.
I lifted my head, meeting his stare.
His lips curled.
“If it weren’t for me,” he sneered, “the Kremlin would have had you tortured and executed already.”
I clenched my teeth, breathing shallowly through the pain in my ribs.
He scoffed. “You think you’re important? You. Are. Nothing. You were never anything but an extension of my power, and you threw it away like a stupid little girl with a bleeding heart.”
I exhaled slowly, remaining silent.
His eyes darkened.
“Do you have any idea how much I had to cover up?” he continued, his voice rising. “If the world found out my own daughter was helping the Ukrainians, do you know what that would do to my reputation? To the Kremlin?”
Resolutely, I maintained eye contact, my body still, my mind whirring.
The Devil smirked. “Oh, you have no idea. Putin is barely holding on. His army is bleeding out faster than he can replace it. His equipment is outdated, rusting, falling apart beneath him. The only thing keeping him in power is the blackmail he’s holding over those American politicians.”
His gaze flicked over me, his face contorting in disgust.
“But you?” he growled with disdain. “You ruined yourself for what? To help our enemy. To save a pathetic volunteer? An idiot American who didn’t know his place?”
My throat tightened.
The Devil huffed, shaking his head. “You’re lucky I’m handling this personally. I convinced the Kremlin that if the truth about you got out, it would shatter the illusion of this war. They agreed to let me deal with my own blood.”
A cruel smile crossed his face.
“So I did.”
My stomach twisted.
He stepped closer, tilting his head. “You’ve been sold.”
The words slithered through me like poison.
My breath hitched.
“Yakov Malinov has wanted you since you were a little girl,” he murmured, watching me closely for a reaction. “Now, you’re his. His personal concubine. He’ll expect offspring, of course. And after that, well…” He shrugged. “I don’t give a fuck what he does with you.”
I stiffened my back, unwilling to show this man an ounce of fear.
“I would’ve preferred to put you in the dirt next to your mother,” he said almost casually. “But this…this will be far worse for you.”
I swallowed bile, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response.
The Devil smirked.
“He’ll give you his name. He wants you to be presentable to society, so he’s marrying you. And I’ll ensure my name is erased from your history.”
He leaned forward, his lips curling into something vile.
“I hear he has a dark appetite,” he whispered. “A taste for pain. For suffering. He enjoys drawing it out. I imagine he’ll take you in ways you never thought possible, and when he’s finished with you, it’ll take days for you to die.”
I was already aware of Malinov’s sadistic reputation and what he did to women. He was a monster. Cruel. Old. Powerful in all the worst ways.
I’d rather be dead.
The Devil straightened, his lips curling into a maniacal sneer. “Malinov and I have agreed that if you step one toe out of line or have any suspicious contact with anyone, he’ll cut out your tongue and chain you in a cell for as long as he has use of you. Once you’re gone, you will never step foot in this house again. You’re his.”
Good.
I’d never wanted to come here in the first place.
His expression turned businesslike.
“You’ll be locked in your room until the contract is finalized,” he said. “You look like a beaten whore. Malinov will want you in one piece before he collects his property. There should be enough time to recover and look decent.”
Property, humph.
I forced my breathing to stay even.
“If you try to escape,” he continued, “I will personally put a bullet between your eyes.”
My jaw locked.
“I have no patience for traitors,” he hissed.
With that, he turned to the side and motioned to a man standing nearby.
“Oleg, let the doctor know it’s time for his interrogation,” he ordered. When he’s finished, get her to her room and let me know so I can send someone to start cleaning her up. She needs to be presentable for her new owner in fifteen days, so no more marks on her. You hear me.”
“Yes, sir.”
I didn’t resist when Oleg took my arm.
Didn’t argue.
Didn’t speak.
Because I wasn’t stupid.
For now, I would obey.
I would let them believe they’d broken me.
Because this wasn’t over.
Not by a long shot.