22. DARIA
Chapter twenty-two
I woke to the dim glow of the late-afternoon sun spilling through lacy curtains. The room was silent.
Disoriented, I blinked up at the ceiling, my mind scrambling for clarity. My limbs throbbed, my throat burned, and my stomach—an empty pit—gnawed at itself.
I rolled over, and pain lanced through my ribs, stealing my breath.
No, it wasn’t a nightmare. I was here in the Devil’s house.
The weight of the last few days crashed over me like a landslide. The torture. The drugs. The fucking betrayal.
I pushed myself upright, letting out a groan with every movement. Someone had dressed me in a sleep shirt with buttons up the front, but I had no memory of anything after hitting the bed. My muscles trembled, my head swam, but I forced my feet to the floor.
I needed to clear my head so that I could plot my escape. The clock was ticking.
Staggering toward the vanity in the en suite, I gripped its edges, my knuckles turning white as I steadied myself.
Then, I looked up.
I stood in front of the mirror, staring at the reflection of a woman I barely recognized.
Hollow eyes, bruised cheekbones, a swollen and cut lip. Skin marred with dark smudges of pain. Everything hurt.
I dragged a hand over my face.
How had I gotten so old? So hardened? I was only thirty-one, and yet I felt ancient.
My gaze drifted beyond my reflection to the room itself. My childhood bedroom hadn’t changed.
White canopy bed with pale pink silk sheets. Bookshelves filled with fairy tales my mother used to read to me. Delicate ballerina figurines she’d gifted me, lined up in a perfect row on my dresser—frozen in eternal pirouettes. Everything was still here, untouched, as if time had never moved forward.
I swallowed hard, crossing the room and trailing my fingers over the objects as memories flooded in.
My mother’s voice, soft and full of love, reading the children’s storybook version of Swan Lake to me at bedtime. Her hands, warm and gentle, tucking me under the blankets. The scent of her perfume, light and floral, lingering in the air as she kissed my forehead goodnight while I drifted off to dream of her dancing the story on the stage. Little did I know at the time, the Swan Lake ballet was a haunting tale of love, betrayal, and destiny, often interpreted as a metaphor for sacrifice and unattainable love.
I blinked, my throat tightening as my hand landed on something unexpected.
A small, delicate box.
I hesitated before lifting the lid. Inside lay my mother’s pearl necklace—creamy white, smooth beneath my fingertips.
My breath hitched. I hadn’t seen them since the Devil murdered her. I thought he had gotten rid of all her things. He must have missed this necklace.
My fingers closed around the pearls. I would take them with me when I left. Because I would be leaving, and then I would escape Malinov’s clutches.
A quiet knock at the door made me turn. There must be surveillance in the room. I’d have to assume there were watchful eyes everywhere.
The maid, an older woman with kind eyes and a lined face, stepped inside, her posture stiff but unhurried as she joined me in the en suite.
She set about drawing a bath, speaking in hushed tones. “The household director will check in on you to ensure that we do everything in our power to help you heal up before you leave. Mr. Malinov is planning an engagement party two weeks from now in his home. He wants to show off his latest fiancée.” She sounded apologetic and spoke as though she was carefully choosing her words.
My lip curled in disgust. Of course. The prikazchik, my father’s extremely loyal senior household servant—an old-school, controlling brute who managed the estate like a prison warden—would ensure I was properly prepared for Malinov.
Fury coiled inside me—a black, writhing thing. I had been beaten, humiliated, stripped of everything—my name, my autonomy, and my future. But I was not broken.
The maid, however, was watching me, so I kept my emotions in check. I refused to give her anything she could relay to those who might use it against me in their mind games.
“Please come soak,” she said. “A nice hot bath with epsom salts will help make you feel better.”
I unbuttoned the shirt and let it fall. When I turned to the full-length mirror, I paused, somewhat startled.
My entire torso was mottled with dark bruises, the outlines of knuckles and bootprints blackening my ribs and spine. My arms and legs bore similar marks, each one a testament to my father’s rage and the torture I’d endured.
I looked dreadful.
The maid gasped softly behind me.
Turning, I caught a flicker of horror in her expression before she quickly masked it.
I lifted my chin. “What’s your name?”
Her lips parted slightly, and she hesitated before answering. “Svetlana.”
She looked away, grabbing a fresh towel. “He used to beat you as a child,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, “but never this badly.”
I stared at her. Her hands trembled slightly as she wrung the towel in her fingers. Something in my chest cracked.
She set the towel down beside the tub and turned to leave.
I didn’t say anything more, just watched as she closed the door behind her.
After moving to face the tub, I dipped a foot into the nearly scalding water, biting back a hiss. Slowly, I pushed past the sting, easing myself down inch by inch. The water was almost too hot, but I forced myself deeper, letting the heat seep into my aching muscles.
I soaked in the tub for a long time. Soon, the soreness left by days of grueling travel, torture, and confinement began to ease. The water dulled the pain of my injuries, offering me a rare moment of relief. For the first time in days, I was warm and submerged in something that didn’t reek of rot, blood, or fear.
I let my head rest against the edge of the tub, closing my eyes, savoring this fleeting moment of normalcy. For now, at least, I wasn’t shackled or under someone else’s control. It was almost enough to fool myself into thinking I was free.
But I wasn’t.
A slow breath left my lips, rippling the water.
Eventually, the heat began to fade, and I forced myself to leave the tub. I turned on the shower, letting the steaming spray wash away the last remnants of grime as I worked the scented soap over my skin. While I ran my fingers through my short hair, a stray thought surfaced—I could finally let it grow again. I was no longer bound to the Kremlin, no longer required to keep my hair short for practicality, for combat.
Once, I’d enjoyed sitting in front of the mirror, brushing my hair, spending hours experimenting with different styles, twisting it into intricate braids, sleek buns, anything that came to mind. There was a time when I’d cared about those things, about how my hair framed my face, how it swayed with every movement. That felt like a lifetime ago.
Would it still grow the same? Or had too many years passed, too much damage been done, leaving even my hair unwilling to return to what it had once been?
I shook the thought away, finished rinsing, and turned off the water. With slow movements, I dried my skin, wincing as I pressed the towel against my bruises. Before wrapping the towel around my body, I carefully ran it over my hair to remove most of the moisture.
Crossing the room, I opened the closet. To my surprise, my boots sat on the floor next to a row of neatly hung clothing. Looking closer, I found there were new clothes in my size. Quickly I grabbed an oversized T-shirt, some sweatpants, and a pair of thick fuzzy socks.
Filling the closet hadn’t been my father’s doing. He wouldn’t lift a finger to make my stay more tolerable, which meant Svetlana must have placed them here while I was unconscious.
I dressed, relishing the softness of the fabric against my battered skin. As I pulled the shirt over my head, I thought back to Svetlana’s reaction when she’d seen my bruised body in the mirror, the horror she had failed to conceal. There was something familiar about her, something that scratched at the edges of my memory, but I couldn’t quite place her.
Had she known my mother?
Before I could think about it further, the door creaked open, and Svetlana entered, carrying a silver tray.
My brows shot up in surprise.
This was definitely not prison food. Not the cold gruel and stale black bread they’d tossed into my cell almost two days before. This was actual food.
There was a steaming bowl of borscht—rich and deep red, with thick slices of dark rye bread and butter; a small plate of pelmeni, the smell of garlic and dill rising in the air; and at the center, a delicate porcelain dish holding two ptichye moloko—soft, chocolate-covered marshmallow cakes. A cup of tea sat on the edge of the tray, fragrant and dark.
My stomach twisted—partly in hunger, partly in disbelief.
Svetlana set the tray on the small table beside the bed and lingered for a moment, watching me. I studied her closely, registering a flickering mixture of guilt and curiosity in her eyes.
“Did you know my mother?” I asked softly.
She stiffened slightly but nodded. “Yes,” she admitted. “She hired me…just weeks before she was killed.”
My throat tightened.
“She was kind,” she continued. “Kinder than anyone in this house, and she loved you fiercely.” She hesitated before adding, “It wasn’t long after she was gone that your father sent you away. To that…school.” She pressed her lips together. “He would brag about it, how you were becoming the perfect weapon.”
I scoffed, raking a hand through my damp hair. “Yes, well. Look at me now.” My tone was dripping with sarcasm. “Doesn’t seem like he got his money’s worth, does it? I’m not much of a weapon if I can’t even defend myself.”
Svetlana swallowed, her eyes darting to the bruises on my skin. “I shouldn’t have spoken out of turn,” she murmured, lowering her gaze.
“No, you’re right. All he ever cared about was me being the most skilled, the top of my class. I was just letting my frustration out.” I shook my head, letting out a dry chuckle. “He’s no longer proud of my abilities. He’s disowning me, you know.”
She was quiet for a long moment before finally meeting my eyes.
“I never forgot your mother,” she barely whispered. “Or you. He’s such a horrible man.”
Something lodged itself in my chest. The significance of her words lingered between us. The apprehension in her posture was apparent, the way she seemed caught between duty and something deeper—something caring.
To put her at ease, I sighed and gestured toward the tray. “The food is a wonderful surprise. I haven’t had a decent meal in over a week.” I picked up a piece of fresh bread, tearing into the soft center and popping it into my mouth. “Mmm, I’d almost forgotten what real food tasted like.”
The corners of her mouth lifted in a faint smile. A satisfied glint flickered in her eyes before she gave me an approving nod and smoothed the front of her apron.
Then my eyes shifted to the small, delicate cakes beside the tea. “Where did you find these ptichye moloko? I haven’t had them in years.”
She shifted on her feet. “I remembered you liked them as a little girl.”
I smiled. “I do,” I murmured. “I always have. Thank you…for helping me.”
She dropped her gaze, turning toward the door. Her fingers tightened on the handle, and then she froze for a second, clearing her throat. “I could be in great trouble if anyone knew I brought the treats.”
“I won’t tell,” I whispered.
“They’ve given me strict orders to only provide you with what is absolutely necessary and to…lock you in,” she said hesitantly.
“I understand.”
Then, without looking back, she slipped out of the room. She closed the door, and a second later, the lock clicked into place.
The moment she left, I dug into the food.
God, I was starving. The borscht and pelmeni were rich and filling. But it was the ptichye moloko that nearly undid me. The first bite melted on my tongue, sweet and soft.
My mother used to make these. I closed my eyes for half a second, then shoved the memory away.
I needed food. Because, if I was going to survive this, I needed to be strong enough to escape.
I woke late the next day, disoriented. For a moment, I forgot where I was. Then I saw the tray of food on the dresser.
I sat up, wincing, my muscles stiff and my ribs protesting the movement. Before I could even swing my legs over the side of the bed, the door opened and Svetlana stepped in, holding another tray.
She blinked. “You’ve been asleep for almost twenty-four hours.”
I frowned, rubbing the back of my neck. “I slept like the dead.”
She winced at my word choice, then set the new tray down on the bed and moved to take the old one.
I stretched, immediately regretting it as pain lanced through my body. I let out a low groan and cursed under my breath.
Damn Boy Scout.
Svetlana’s head snapped toward me, her brows rising. “Who are you cursing?”
I exhaled through my nose. “No one.”
She narrowed her eyes and tipped her head slightly, but whatever she was thinking, she kept it to herself. I met her gaze, saying coolly, “Never trust a man, Svetlana.”
Wordlessly, she stared at me for a moment, something unreadable flashing across her face.
“I’ve placed some fresh towels in the en suite,” she said finally, taking the untouched tray and moving toward the door.
A few seconds later, the lock clicked behind her.
I sighed, grabbing the new tray and pulling it into my lap. On it was a steaming bowl of porridge with lingonberries and honey drizzled over it, some fresh bread, and a small plate of blini topped with berries and cream. Yum!
I would spend my days here eating, resting, and plotting, because I was done being a prisoner.
My father thought he had won.
Malinov thought he had a new toy.
And Braxton?
I curled my fingers into a fist.
He would pay.
The moment I was free, I would track him down. And then I would make him suffer until he begged for death.