21. DARIA
Chapter twenty-one
O leg reached out and yanked the chain of my handcuffs, dragging me toward him with a violent jerk. My shackled ankles made it impossible for me to move quickly.
“Let’s go, suka,” he barked, moving behind me and pressing his meaty hand between my shoulder blades to shove me forward.
I straightened my spine, biting back a grimace at the sharp ache radiating through my ribs. I would not show weakness. Not here. Not now.
“Dr. Goryachov is looking forward to meeting you,” Oleg said.
A sick chill threaded through my veins.
Dr. Goryachov—or Dr. Gore, as he was known in the circles of Russia’s most sadistic and depraved Special Intelligence Forces.
He was not a doctor of healing. He was a specialist in breaking people.
The kind of man whose name sent even the most hardened killers into a cold sweat. The kind of man who thrived on psychological torment—the slow, methodical unraveling of a person’s mind—stripping them down layer by layer until nothing remained but obedience.
Oleg’s grip on my chain tightened as he dragged me toward the elevator. My father didn’t spare me another glance. The bastard didn’t need to. He knew exactly what he’d done.
The elevator doors slid open with a quiet chime, revealing a mirrored interior that reflected my bruised, battered face back at me. I stepped inside with Oleg and caught one last glimpse of my father reclining in his chair, swirling his drink, before the doors snapped closed.
He was indifferent, as if I weren’t even his daughter.
The elevator hummed softly as it descended.
One floor.
Two.
Three.
The doors slid open, revealing a cavernous basement, the kind of place that only existed in nightmares. This was a place I’d never been allowed to see before.
Along the wall to my right, there were holding cells, each one reinforced with thick metal bars. A weapons rack stood to the left, stocked with firearms, blades, and instruments designed for inflicting various kinds of pain.
And further in—
A dentist’s chair.
A surgical table with a man standing beside it.
Dr. Goryachov—clad in a pristine white coat—had his back to us and his hands clasped neatly behind him as if he were nothing more than a physician preparing for an examination.
But the room told another story.
Everything smelled of bleach and…something darker. Something unmistakable.
Blood.
I didn’t think—I just moved.
I took an instinctual step backward, my heel pressing against the threshold of the elevator.
Oleg laughed.
I turned, ready to fight, to run, to do whatever the hell I had to do, but Oleg was waiting for it.
He caught my chain, wrenching me forward with so much force I stumbled into him. He grinned down at me, eyes bright with anticipation.
“Oh, you’re gonna be fun,” he mused, dragging me deeper inside the basement.
Dr. Goryachov still hadn’t turned around, but his voice was smooth and calm when he said, “Strap her down.”
I didn’t hesitate. I jerked back against Oleg’s grip, twisting as I swung my elbow into his gut. He grunted but didn’t let go. I brought my knee up fast, aiming for his groin and connecting with it.
Then there was a sharp pinprick of fire at the base of my throat.
I gasped, my eyes snapping to the doctor just as he withdrew the needle.
Fuck !
I wrenched away, my limbs responding more slowly than I wanted. My vision blurred, and Oleg caught me from behind, locking his arm around my waist as I sagged forward.
I tried to swing again, but my arms weren’t listening.
My legs buckled as paralysis set in.
The weight of my body became unbearable, my muscles going limp, the signals between my brain and my limbs severing one by one.
I fought.
I willed my body to move, to work, but it was useless.
Everything was shutting down. The only thing still working was my mind.
I was aware of everything.
Oleg grabbed me under my arms and knees and heaved me onto the steel table. My spine was pressed against the cold metal as he latched thick leather restraints around my ankles.
Once those were secure, he removed my handcuffs and wrenched my arms to my sides, strapping them down to the table as well.
I couldn’t move.
My lungs barely worked, and each breath was becoming more difficult as my diaphragm struggled.
The doctor tsked , finally stepping into view.
“You fought,” he mused, peering down at me. His expression was mildly disapproving, like I was nothing more than a disobedient child.
I wanted to snarl at him, to spit in his face, but I couldn’t even do that.
Not with the drug shutting me down.
“Now I have to provide supportive measures.” He sighed.
He tilted my chin up, pressing two fingers under my jaw, checking my pulse. His touch lingered, trailing lower, skimming over my collarbone and pausing on my sternum.
“Breathing is intact but shallow. I’ll have to intervene,” he said, shaking his head. “You’re lucky. It was a small dose. If it had been more, your diaphragm might have stopped working entirely.”
He reached for something on the tray beside him. My stomach turned. I recognized what it was.
A laryngeal mask airway device.
Panic seized my chest, but my body refused to obey; I couldn’t jerk away, couldn’t stop him.
His gloved fingers pried my jaw open, angling my head back. My throat burned as he forced the device past my lips, guiding it down my airway in a smooth, practiced motion.
A deep, suffocating pressure settled in my throat when the device nestled over my larynx. Dr. Gore then pulled a syringe from the tray and inflated the cuff, sealing the airway. It was now a secure passage, ensuring I could neither choke nor resist.
There was a soft hiss followed by a mechanical hum when he connected the LMA tubing to a portable ventilator and adjusted the settings. The machine took over instantly, delivering measured breaths in a steady, controlled rhythm.
Now he had his hands free. Free to do whatever he wanted.
I wanted to gag, to wrench away from the suffocating intrusion, but the drug left me helpless. Each artificial breath was a violation, a reminder that I had lost complete control over my own body.
His gaze flicked to the portable monitor beside him, which was currently dark. He reached for a bundle of electrode leads, peeling back the adhesive strips.
“Can’t have you slipping away on me,” he said, pressing the first electrode onto my chest, just below my collarbone. His touch was clinical, methodical, as he placed another on my ribs, then one on my abdomen.
He attached the final lead and flipped the monitor on. The screen came to life, and a rhythmic beeping that mirrored my racing heartbeat filled the room.
“Ah, see? Your heart is pounding. That’s good. I want you awake for this. I want you to feel every second of it.”
My panic surged, but there was nothing I could do.
I was his prisoner. His specimen. His entertainment.
And the real nightmare was only beginning.
Dr. Goryachov leaned in, his face hovering just above mine.
“You feel it, don’t you?” he murmured. “The helplessness. The fear. It’s a dreadful thing, being at the mercy of others.”
His fingers brushed against my cheek.
“But don’t worry,” he whispered. “By the time I’m finished, you’ll know exactly what true powerlessness feels like. An early preparation for Mr. Malinov.”
I tried to scream.
Tried to move.
Tried to do anything.
But all I could do was watch.
“Remove her clothes,” Dr. Gore ordered.
Oleg let out a low, eager chuckle, his fingers tracing over one of my bound wrists as he reached for something on the tray beside him.
I knew what was coming. Men always did this. It wasn’t the nakedness that bothered me, though they all thought it was. They thought stripping a woman down was the worst thing they could do.
It wasn’t.
What came next—that was what mattered.
I could survive anything. Broken bones. Burns. The bite of steel. The crack of whips. The slow suffocation of drowning. I had endured it all.
But if they broke my mind, I was done.
That was what terrified me.
My father had told me I’d been sold to Yakov Malinov. That meant I had to stay alive. But in what condition? Malinov wanted an obedient plaything. A concubine, not a corpse.
What if they did something worse than kill me?
A lobotomy. Electric pulses to erase memories. Mind-altering drugs that changed the brain’s chemistry.
I had seen what the Kremlin had done to others, witnessed the empty, vacant faces of those who had once been brilliant operatives, reduced to husks of who they used to be, the dull, slack-jawed smiles of those who had once held steel in their spines.
No.
I wouldn’t let them take my mind from me.
The metallic snip of scissors rang through the air.
Oleg grabbed the fabric of my prison pants at the ankle and slid one of the blades beneath it.
Slowly, he dragged the shears along my shin. Then, with deliberate menace, he traced the blade up my inner thigh.
I focused on my training.
Compartmentalize. Build walls. Shift the pain into another space.
The pants split open, the dull side of the blade gliding up my thigh, the tip stopping just at the center of my body. The steel hovered there under Oleg’s hungry gaze.
He waited—savoring the moment.
“Too bad Mr. Malinov bought you and wants you unharmed,” Oleg scoffed, his fingers grazing the inside of my thigh and then sliding up my slit. “But then again, why should he have all the fun?”
He shot a glance over at Dr. Gore, then turned his focus back to my center. He chuckled as he licked his lips. Then the steel blade moved again. With another deliberate cut, he split the fabric of the other leg and sliced up the center and through the waistband.
He ripped the pants out from under me with one harsh tug.
I couldn’t react. The paralysis owned me.
I stared at the ceiling, keeping my mind detached, in a different space.
Dr. Gore stepped into my periphery. His breathing was heavier now, and he had the faintest tremor in his fingers as he adjusted his pristine white coat.
He was watching with predatory interest.
Enjoying every minute of this humiliation.
Sick bastard.
Oleg grabbed the hem of my shirt next, slicing through it. The cold air hit my bare skin, the sensation heightened by the drug’s numbing grip.
The doctor leaned over my face, his pupils blown wide.
A voyeur.
Oleg, on the other hand, was a sadist.
His fingers trailed over my stomach, then moved higher, dragging the blade of the scissors in a slow arc over the swell of my breast. There was a sharp sting. He applied just enough pressure to let me feel it. Not enough to break the skin.
I knew what was happening. Knew what the doctor had given me.
Curare.
The realization sent a fresh wave of terror clawing through my mind. My body remained useless. The paralytic had taken full hold now, locking every muscle in place. Ventilation controlled my breathing. I couldn’t lift a finger, couldn’t even twitch in response to the slow, taunting scrape of the steel against my flesh. But I felt everything.
The sharp pressure of the blade against my skin made my nerve endings scream in warning. I couldn’t jerk away. Couldn’t flinch. Couldn’t even shudder. I was a helpless prisoner inside my own skin—fully aware, fully present, but trapped in absolute stillness.
Oleg knew it too.
He traced his fingers over the curve of my breast, pausing just long enough to let his nails drag over my nipples. He pinched one hard and smirked. “What a lovely tight peak.” He slowly rolled the other between his fingers, taking pleasure in my body’s response before leaning over and sucking it into his mouth.
The doctor stood silent, watching Oleg’s tongue.
Heat surged through me, but not from arousal. From rage. Helpless, burning rage. If I could’ve moved, I would’ve killed Oleg. I would’ve ripped the scissors from his hands and gutted him from neck to navel. But the drug had stolen even my fury’s expression.
My lungs shuddered with the next forced breath. The supportive breaths were just enough to keep me aware of every touch, every single cruel stroke of his hands.
I had been tortured before. Beaten. Electrocuted. Broken. But never like this. Never in a way that robbed me of my ability to fight back.
Oleg took his time, dragging the blade lower again, circling my navel and applying enough pressure to ensure pain. I couldn’t even grind my teeth in response.
Curare wasn’t just a tool for immobilization. It was a way to render a person completely vulnerable, make them into a living corpse—able to feel pain, forced to endure every ounce of suffering but unable to resist it. And that knowledge, the helpless certainty of what was coming, was worse than the cut of the blade itself.
“You have such nice tits,” Oleg mused. “Would be a shame if something happened to them.”
I reinforced my mental walls. Protect. Separate.
Oleg pressed his fingers against my clit while he drew the blade from one of my hip bones to the other. My body would have arched off the table if it could have. Instead, I lay still, frozen, helpless, burning alive inside my own mind.
“You think the American touched her there?” the doctor asked, his voice pitched high in curiosity. “She did risk everything for him. A woman doesn’t do that unless she has been…satisfied.”
Oleg circled my clit and pressed harder, leaning down, his breath hot against my hip. “What do you think, Doctor? Think she moaned for him? Think he made her beg?”
He continued with his violation of my body, and the doctor watched.
Compartmentalize. Break the pain into pieces. Separate. Separate. Separate.
After Oleg had used his fingers in the vilest of ways, he was finally done. My skin burned where he had touched me—a filth that would never wash away, a memory that would never be erased. He had only used his fingers. The doctor hadn’t allowed anything else.
That should have been a relief, but it wasn’t.
The way my body had reacted—betraying me despite how much my mind fought against the involuntary responses—I would never forget it. And the way Oleg had whispered praises and humiliations in the same breath, like I was some fucking prize to be admired and degraded in the same moment, made my stomach churn.
I would slit his throat from ear to ear when I got the chance.
And I would get the chance.
“You’re a lucky whore,” Dr. Gore said. “You’ve got a new owner who will ensure you know your place, and you will never have to wonder what it’s like to be at any other man’s mercy but his. He’ll train you. And you will obey.”
Oleg finally removed his hands and stepped back.
The men moved behind me so that I could no longer see either of them as they prepared for whatever they were going to do next.
I lay there, my body sluggish, my limbs trembling, my muscles twitching. I flexed my fingers, testing them. My throat ached, and it was as dry as sandpaper, but I could move. That meant I could speak.
Dr. Goryachov walked back into view and noticed my movements.
“Ah,” he said, his lips curling into a disturbing smile. “Welcome back.”
He curled his gloved fingers around the airway tube, gripping it like a man savoring the moment before tearing the wings off a butterfly. He gave a slow, deliberate twist, loosening the seal, then—with a single, sharp yank—pulled it free.
A violent gag tore through me. My body seized as bile surged up my throat. I turned my head just in time to empty the pitiful contents of my stomach onto the floor, each retch sending fresh pain through my battered ribs.
“Fucking disgusting,” Oleg sneered.
Dr. Goryachov tsked , his nostrils flaring in annoyance. His hand struck my face so fast I barely registered the movement before my head jerked sideways.
“Clean that up,” he snapped at Oleg. “I don’t want to smell her filth while I work.”
Oleg muttered something crude under his breath but grabbed a cloth.
I swallowed past the lingering acid in my throat, blinking up at the doctor. My body was still coming out from under the paralysis, but my mind—it was intact. They hadn’t broken me. Not yet.
Dr. Goryachov folded his hands behind his back, tilting his head like I was some fascinating specimen under glass. “The sooner you answer my questions, the sooner we can wrap up this little session.”
I stared at him defiantly. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
His lips twitched. “Tell me, Daria”—he took a step closer—“why did you choose to help a man with close ties to the Volkovs, your father’s greatest enemy?”
I didn’t even try to speak.
He sighed, feigning disappointment. “Have it your way. You will tell me everything. It’s only a matter of how much damage to your brain you’re willing to endure before you do.”
The doctor rolled a machine next to me and began attaching electrodes to my skin.
To my wrists.
The soles of my feet.
The inside of my thighs.
Everything was methodical.
The doctor then turned to the machine, adjusting the dials.
“You must know,” he murmured, “curare doesn’t last long. Soon, your muscles will fully be yours again.”
He tapped the side of the machine, taking on an air of clinical detachment.
“And when that happens, the real fun begins. I’ll be able to see your reactions.”
My muscles tingled as my body continued to return to me.
“I will know all your secrets,” the doctor promised. “I’m very good at my job.”
Dr. Gore’s fingers curled around my throat.
The machine hummed.
“I will break you,” he whispered.
Like hell you will.
The first jolt ripped through my body like an iron rod driven straight into my spine.
Every nerve lit up, electric fire tearing through me in violent waves. The muscles in my arms and legs spasmed.
The burn sank deep, curling through my bones, setting every cell in my body ablaze. I tried to shut my mind off, to ride out the pain, but it was impossible. It wasn’t something I could control. It owned me.
My body shuddered violently as it strained against the straps, sweat pouring down my face, trickling from my temple into my ear. My lungs refused to expand, my ribs clenching tight as if my own body were strangling me.
“Ah,” Dr. Gore murmured, adjusting the voltage dial. “The human body is a fascinating thing. With just the right amount of current, the pain becomes unbearable but is not enough to stop your heart. You’ll stay right here with us, my dear. I’ll make sure of it.”
I gasped when the current was cut off. My body sagged against the table, my head lolling to the side as I struggled for air. My skin was wet, clammy, my muscles twitching involuntarily.
Oleg chuckled. “Not much of a fighter now, are you?”
I barely heard him over the hammering of my pulse.
Think, Daria.
My training fought to take hold, clawing through the agony.
Compartmentalize. Divide the pain into pieces. Break it apart.
I couldn’t let them have me. Not my mind. Not my secrets.
Dr. Gore reached forward and patted the side of my cheek. “Your American, did he tell you who he was?”
I swallowed the bile that was rising in my throat again. My tongue was thick in my mouth, the curare fully relenting its hold. I forced my lips apart.
“I—I didn’t know anything.” I coughed.
The doctor sighed as if I were a disappointment. “I don’t believe you.”
Another surge.
My spine arched, my heels dug into the table, and my entire body went rigid with pure, unrelenting agony.
I bit my tongue, and the taste of blood mixed with the bile in my mouth.
Heat radiated from my skin. My body trembled so much it seemed I would come apart at the seams.
Say something. Give them something.
“Okay,” I rasped when the electricity was cut off again. “Okay.”
Dr. Goryachov leaned forward, his thin lips curling into a smirk. “That’s more like it.”
I took a shuddering breath. I had to be careful, had to feed him just enough to keep him on the hook without giving him anything real.
Lie within the truth. Make it plausible.
“He—he didn’t say anything about Volkov.” I blinked hard, feigning exhaustion, playing weak. “I just thought—thought he was a stupid American in the wrong place. I helped him because…” I let my voice trail off, making it sound like I was struggling.
The doctor narrowed his eyes.
“Because?”
I dropped my head against the table, turning my face away as if I were ashamed. “Because he was kind.”
Oleg let out a low laugh. “She’s fucking pathetic.”
Dr. Goryachov tapped his fingers on the metal table. “I still don’t believe you.”
I barely had time to inhale before another jolt cracked through my body.
The pain was sharper now, more precise. It had a rhythm, a purpose, like the bastard was fine-tuning an instrument.
Tears burned my eyes, but I refused to let them fall.
I lost track of time.
Covered in sweat, I shook. Over and over again, my muscles spasmed out of control, every fiber of my being burned with a deep, unrelenting torment.
Finally, the doctor sighed. “You’re stubborn; I’ll give you that.”
My body sagged in relief when he shut the machine off. I was shaking, covered in sweat, and barely had the strength to lift my head.
“Unfortunately,” he continued, stepping away, “electricity only gets me so far.”
My pulse stuttered. I forced myself to look past the haze, past the nausea, past the tremors racking my body, and stay focused on denying the men what they wanted—information.
Dr. Goryachov turned to the metal tray of syringes and vials sitting on a rolling table nearby.
The beeping on the heart monitor ratcheted up.
A soft chuckle left his lips. “Ah, I see you understand.”
Oleg smirked from where he stood, arms folded, watching like a spectator at a coliseum.
Dr. Goryachov picked up a vial, tilting it so the clear liquid caught the dim light. “Scopolamine,” he said. “A favorite of mine.” He pulled a syringe from a sterile packet, slid the needle into the vial, and drew the liquid in. “Some call it Devil’s Breath . I find that rather poetic.”
I clenched my jaw.
“You see,” he continued conversationally, tapping the syringe to clear the air bubbles, “truth serums are not what they show in the movies. They don’t work like magic. This little drug is fascinating. It doesn’t force the truth. It merely…makes one compliant. Suggestible.” He turned his sharp gaze on me. “It erodes the barriers that keep your secrets safe, allowing you to speak freely.”
“I wonder,” Oleg murmured, sweeping his gaze over my battered body, “how much more can you take?”
He smirked as he took hold of my arm, yanking it straight against the table.
I forced myself not to fight as Dr. Gore injected the poison into my arm. The medicine made its way through my veins like liquid fire, a slow, creeping warmth that coiled through my body like smoke.
“Now,” he murmured, placing the syringe back on the tray, “let’s talk.”
I breathed through the haze creeping over my mind, forcing myself to focus. The drug wouldn’t make me tell the truth—not necessarily—but it could make me share things I shouldn’t. And that was just as dangerous. I had to play this carefully.
The doctor leaned over me, watching, waiting.
After a few minutes, he demanded, “Tell me how you and the American with close ties to the Pakhan of the Volkovi Notchi became close. So close that you risked your life and blew your cover to save him. And for fuck’s sake, don’t tell me it was because he was kind .”
My lips parted, and a giggle bubbled up from my chest. The drug had made me feel drunk and playful. God, I needed this. As long as I could keep my thoughts to myself, I was going to love the way this drug relaxed me. The monitor confirmed that my heart rate had lowered to a calm pace.
“This stuff isn’t bad at all,” I said, chuckling. “Maybe you should sell it and make a mint.”
Dr. Gore’s annoyed grimace told me he had lost patience with me, but I had no control over how I was reacting.
I exhaled slowly, and trying to keep the laughter out of my voice, I said, “Like I told the prison interrogators and you gentlemen, I had no idea he had any ties to Nikolai Volkov.” I bit my lip. “What do you want me to do? Fabricate something just so you can get off on it? I didn’t learn anything about the Volkovi Notchi that my father doesn’t already know.”
But Dr. Gore wanted more.
And men like him didn’t like being denied.
He hummed. “Let’s move on. How about your Ukrainian handlers then? Who did you report to?”
I let my eyelids droop, rolling my head slightly to the side. “Dead.” My voice was lethargic, distant. “They were all killed the very night I met Mr. Boy Scout.”
He clicked his tongue. “How convenient.”
I released a slow exhale. “The only other Russian double agent I knew of…” I swallowed, blinking sluggishly. “Died when I blew him up the next morning. Sad really. He was a sweetheart. Too young to be just another statistic in Putin’s vanity war. Why do weak men like you worship such a tiny little roach?” I started laughing and couldn’t stop myself. I’d met the man. He was like five feet tall and had beady little eyes.
A pause.
Dr. Goryachov studied me, his fingers stroking his jaw.
“Are there other Russians working for Ukraine?” he asked, his voice clipped and angry. I’d struck a nerve.
“There may be others,” I murmured. “But I don’t know who. The Ukrainians…they are always careful.” I made my breath stutter, letting my body sag slightly against the restraints. “This. This exact thing… They planned for it. Ukrainians are smart. They don’t fuck around.”
I caught a flicker of frustration in his gaze.
Good.
It meant I was winning.
His jaw tightened. “What else are you hiding?”
I willed my muscles to stay loose, relaxing my body as if the drug had fully taken hold. But my mind—it was still mine.
“I don’t…” I frowned, feigning confusion. “What else?”
His eyes darkened.
I couldn’t let him dig deeper.
I couldn’t let him find the things I wouldn’t even let myself admit—the things that would truly break me.
I couldn’t tell him about why I’d helped Braxton.
Couldn’t tell him how he had listened to me.
How I had told him things I’d never told anyone.
How I’d felt safe with him.
I couldn’t let him use that against me.
I wouldn’t give them my father’s secrets either—wouldn’t tell them about the moles inside the Volkovi Notchi.
I forced my head to loll back and fluttered my eyes. “I don’t know…” I whispered, slurring my words. “I don’t…”
Dr. Goryachov’s scowl deepened.
He picked up another syringe.
The second dose hit me harder.
The edges of reality blurred, slipping away like water through my fingers. My limbs felt detached, and my mind began to float, becoming distant.
I heard myself mumbling. Meaningless words slipped past my lips, my thoughts scattering like dust.
The doctor sighed, shaking his head.
“She’s done.” His voice came from far away. “Mr. Melnichenko is going to be pissed.”
“Let him deal with her,” Oleg growled.
My eyelids fluttered closed, this time of their own accord.
The restraints fell from my ankles and wrists. I was drifting in and out when Oleg lifted me, my limbs uncooperative, dead weight in his grasp. The world tilted as he carried me, but I made no effort to fight. My muscles would have refused to cooperate anyway.
Everything wavered at the edges, my consciousness floating somewhere between oblivion and reality.
Hands.
Dragging me.
A door creaking open.
A muttered curse.
I barely registered the shift as my body was dumped onto something soft—a bed.
The scent of orange oil and aged wood curled around me, familiar yet suffocating. My childhood bedroom. My prison.
Sleep pulled me under before I could resist.