24. DARIA
Chapter twenty-four
T he next morning, when Svetlana entered my room carrying a tray full of breakfast foods, she was silent, her movements careful. She set the tray next to me on the bed and moved to open the curtains. Under her breath, she whispered, “The Devil watches.”
I didn’t move, but my pulse ticked up at hearing her use my term of contempt for the man. She must have been suffering under my father’s abuse all these years. Perhaps I’d found an unexpected ally.
She turned toward the bed, fluffing the pillows as if mindlessly tending to the room. When she reached for one of the decorative pillows, her hair slipped around her cheeks, shielding her face.
“There are cameras everywhere,” she whispered in warning. “Even the bathroom.”
I had expected as much. My father was a paranoid psychopath.
Every movement I made, every breath I took, every word I uttered was being recorded, monitored, analyzed.
I kept my face neutral and nodded once, shifting on the bed as if uninterested in her presence. “I’d love something to read,” I murmured, pulling the tray closer.
The scent of fresh bread, honey-drizzled porridge, and bacon and eggs filled the space between us, making my stomach grumble. This was nutritious food I very much needed.
I picked up the small glass of juice and sipped, rolling the taste of cranberry over my tongue.
Beside the plate, a small collection of vitamins sat neatly in a porcelain dish.
I glanced at Svetlana.
She was doing everything she could to help me heal. She wasn’t just feeding me; she was fortifying me.
I set the juice down and picked up a piece of warm bread, tearing off a bite and popping it into my mouth. “Thank you,” I said casually.
Svetlana simply nodded. “I’ll be back later for the tray.”
She turned to the bookshelf, running her fingers along the spines of fairy tales and Russian children’s classics—remnants of a past that no longer belonged to me. Her hand hovered over one, and she pressed her lips into a faint line.
“You don’t have much in here for an adult,” she murmured, plucking a book from the shelf and turning it over in her hands. She studied the faded cover of Ruslan and Ludmila , a classic Russian epic about a knight rescuing a princess, before setting it on the nightstand.
I glanced at the book, then at her.
“You’re right,” I said, picking it up and flipping it open to a random page. “I prefer more realistic stories where the most unsuspecting person becomes the hero.”
Her gaze flicked over to me, and she smirked. “Yes, especially when the bad guys never see it coming because they assumed the hero to be a nobody.”
I nodded. “Especially when it’s a woman—because we both know how often men underestimate the power of women.”
She turned toward the door, brushing nonexistent dust from the front of her apron. “I’ll bring you something more interesting to read later.”
A moment later, there was a clacking of boots against the wooden floor. I’d not even registered the noise of the door being unlocked. I looked up at the man who had just entered—the prikazchik.
Svetlana jumped back; he’d startled her too.
He was a sour-looking old man, his thin face etched with deep lines of disapproval, and his beady eyes scanned the room like a predator searching for weakness. He carried himself with the authority of someone who had ruled this house longer than I had been alive—a man who had stood beside my father as his loyal hound.
Svetlana turned her attention to him, her face carefully blank.
I sat up straighter, pushing the tray of food aside. I knew why he was here.
He was here to inspect me for Malinov.
He stopped at the foot of my bed, crossing his arms behind his back. “On your feet.”
I hesitated for half a second.
“Now.”
Clenching my jaw, I pulled the covers back, swung my legs over the side of the bed, and stood.
He raked his gaze over me with the cold detachment of a man assessing cattle at a market.
“Strip.”
Svetlana didn’t flinch, didn’t move to interfere—though her hands curled into fists at her sides.
My blood burned with rage, but I didn’t react. Not outwardly.
I had endured far worse humiliation than this.
Slowly, I pulled my shirt over my head and dropped it onto the bed. The bruises across my ribs, my stomach, and my back were ugly reminders of my father’s rage and the torture I had barely survived. The prikazchik probably took some sadistic satisfaction in seeing them.
He clicked his tongue. “You’re too thin and covered from head to toe in ugly marks.”
He walked a slow circle around me, his calculating leer sweeping over my body like I wasn’t even human.
“She must look perfect for Mr. Malinov,” he muttered to Svetlana. “You have ten days to fatten her up and fix her.”
Svetlana nodded stiffly. “I will make it happen.”
Stepping closer to me, he lifted a bony hand and prodded one of the deeper bruises on my side. I didn’t so much as flinch, though it took everything in me not to snap his wrist.
He huffed in approval.
“Good. She still knows how to behave.” He turned to Svetlana. “See that she eats. Bathe her in oils. Cover the marks if they don’t fade. Mr. Malinov doesn’t want a battered woman on his arm.”
A sneer twisted his lips as he shook his head and muttered, “What a shame, such beauty wasted on one with such a temper.”
Then, without another word, he turned and walked out.
The moment the door shut behind him, I grabbed my shirt and yanked it back over my head.
Svetlana exhaled a pent-up breath, the tension draining from her.
“Try to eat,” she murmured.
I didn’t respond.
As she left the room, all I could do was sit there at the edge of the bed and grip the sheets, swallowing my fury.
This wasn’t about humiliation.
This was about control.
They thought they had broken me.
They thought I was nothing but a docile, obedient possession—ready to be gifted like a prize.
Let them believe it.
I scooched back on the bed and pulled the tray to me. There was no way I’d let them ruin my appetite. Eating was my ticket to gaining strength and saving my damn self. I launched into the porridge, savoring its earthy taste.
I had ten days to plot my escape. I needed information. I needed weapons. And I needed to make sure no one suspected that I was going to bolt.
That night, I found a note from Svetlana tucked into the pocket of my robe: Your father has all your IDs and passport. I will get them back. Be patient.
To conceal the paper’s true purpose from those watching me, I gripped it between my fingers as if it were a tissue, pressing it to my lips and wiping them. Then I tore it in half and blew my nose on the pieces before going to the bathroom and flushing them down the toilet.
Patience .
I had lived my life playing a long game, waiting for the moment to strike.
This would be no different. But maybe I wouldn’t have to do this alone.
During the next several days of my captivity, I focused on rebuilding my strength.
I forced myself to stretch, ignoring the pull of bruised muscles. Slow, controlled push-ups, squats, and core work left me wincing, but I pushed through. Pain meant nothing. Weakness was not an option. I was determined to get my body in decent enough shape that it wouldn’t fail me when the time came.
Svetlana continued to bring me good food and medicine, ensuring I healed more thoroughly than my captors likely intended. But more than that, she brought me something unexpected—American romance books.
She’d removed the covers, leaving only the main pages, so the books looked like nothing more than old reading material, nothing remarkable to the ever-watching cameras. If anyone noticed the titles, they might confiscate them—or worse, punish Svetlana for smuggling them in.
I had never read this genre before. Here in Russia, romance books—especially those from the West—were tightly regulated, censored, or outright banned. Anything too explicit was classified as pornographic under Russian law, and bookstores risked heavy fines or forced closures if they carried anything that violated the Federal Law on the Protection of Children from Harmful Information.
Even online content wasn’t safe. Western retailers selling digital romance novels with explicit content were often blocked or restricted by the government. Websites were filtered, search results manipulated, and even translated versions of these books were heavily edited or never published at all. Any mention of same-sex relationships was erased entirely under the “gay propaganda” law, and even heterosexual romance was expected to conform to traditional values—duty over passion, obedience over desire.
I had never given it much thought before. Sex was not a topic of open discussion here. Desire—especially a woman’s—was something to be controlled, not indulged.
But now, as I flipped through the pages, I found myself laughing at the way these American authors described sexuality. It was so shameless, so bold—as if it were the most natural thing in the world. The heroines were fierce, reckless, demanding of their pleasure. The heroes? Passionate, devoted, and entirely consumed by the women they wanted. It was over-the-top. Unrealistic.
Or was it…?
It explained a lot.
It explained Braxton.
Not just the way he kissed me like he wanted to devour me, but also the way he touched me afterward, like I was something to be cherished. Like I mattered.
It explained why he’d insisted on holding my hand.
I exhaled sharply, shaking my head as I turned another page. Thoughts of Braxton were strictly off-limits.
Settling in on the bed, I continued to read, and for the first time in days, I felt lighter.
I wasn’t just plotting, fighting, surviving—I was smiling.