34. DARIA
Chapter thirty-four
T he door slammed behind me.
I twisted the lock, then staggered to the toilet. My stomach clenched, heaving up the vile gelatinous fish aspic that Malinov had forced me to eat. With each heave, acid burned my throat.
Svetlana was dead. She’d paid the ultimate sacrifice to help me. The only person who had shown me kindness since this ordeal started, gone—left bleeding out in that hellhole in the basement, her death meaningless, nothing more than a warning to me.
I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, pressing my forehead onto the cool tile wall. No more playing along. No more waiting for the perfect opportunity that would never come.
I was getting out. Now.
The encapsulated poison lodged inside me didn’t matter. If I had to cut my own goddamn arm off once I was free, so be it. Better that than letting Malinov put his hands on me again. Better to die on my own terms than live as his possession.
I straightened, forcing down the bile that threatened to rise again. My stomach churned—not from the foul aspic but from the gut punch of watching Svetlana die because of me. I braced myself against the sink, gripping the counter, forcing steady breaths as I let the cold water run. Cupping a handful, I rinsed my mouth, took a few sips, and splashed my face. The shock of it did nothing to quiet the sick feeling clawing through me.
I pressed my palms against the counter, studying the window beside the sink. It wasn’t huge, but I could fit through it. The two-story drop was another problem. Maybe there was something I could climb down. If not, I’d drop and roll. I’d survived worse.
The frame was secured with screws. A problem—but not an impossible one.
I reached down, sliding my fingers into the bodice of my dress, feeling for the blade sewn into a small pocket in the ribbing. My breath hitched when I found it. I pulled it free. Malinov had discovered the combat knife Svetlana gave me, but he hadn’t found the smaller blade or the other items. Small miracles.
A shudder rolled through me at the memory of my other knife, the one that had been used to slash Svetlana’s throat.
My grip on the blade trembled—not from fear. From rage.
It was the kind of rage that settled into the bones, clarified the mind, and sharpened the precision of movement.
I kicked off my heels and lifted myself onto the counter, my dress catching on the ledge as I crouched. The slit up my leg allowed for decent maneuverability, but the fabric still dragged. I reached up, angling the blade toward the first screw in the window frame.
The lock behind me clicked.
Every one of my muscles snapped tight. I pivoted, blade ready, as the door inched open. Someone had come to check on me. Maybe Malinov himself.
But it wasn’t him.
It was a ghost.
Braxton.
My mind stalled, refusing to process the image of the man standing in the doorway. He wasn’t supposed to be here. He was supposed to be gone—back in America, living his easy life, oblivious to the wreckage he’d left behind.
Yet here he was, a tux hugging his frame, looking like he had just walked out of a high-roller casino. All the anger and hurt I’d been holding onto flared in an instant.
I launched myself at him, slicing the blade through the air, aiming for his throat.
Braxton barely dodged. He twisted at the last second, and the tip of the knife skimmed past his skin. His hand shot up, clamping around my wrist, but I wrenched free, circling him, ready to strike again.
“Daria, wait—” he whispered harshly.
I slashed again.
He sidestepped, catching my forearm this time, his grip firm enough to keep the knife from hitting its target.
“Let go of me,” I spat, breathing hard.
“Listen to me,” he hissed. “You can kill me later. Right now, both of our lives depend on getting out of this party alive. I’m your only option.”
I yanked free and took a step back, the blade still raised. The gall he had to say that!
“You expect me to believe a damn word that comes out of your mouth?” My grip tightened around the handle, my knuckles turning white. “You—of all people?”
“I never meant for this to happen,” he said, holding his arms down at his sides, palms open, like he was trying not to spook a cornered animal. Shrewd of him, because that was exactly what I was. “I swear to you, Daria, I had no idea Nik was tracking us—no clue he’d make a trade to hand you over to the very men who would harm you.”
“Yeah, well, I could’ve told you that would happen if you had been the least bit honest with me. But no. You’re a lying sack of shit, just like all of them,” I snarled, trying to keep the volume of my voice in check.
“No,” Braxton said quickly, shaking his head. “I never lied to y—”
“Oh, no,” I snapped, not letting him finish whatever he was about to say. “Don’t you fucking think for a second that I’m going to take that sanctimonious bullshit from you! Not telling me you had ties to the Volkovi Notchi—Nikolai fucking Volkov—is a lie by omission. And you damn well know it.”
I took a step forward, the blade flashing as it caught the chandelier’s glow. “Lies of omission are the worst kind of lies, Braxton. They’re manipulative, calculated. You sat there, listening to me pour my guts out, and you let me trust you. God, I was stupid.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. That’s not it at all. I didn’t even know who you really were at first. I was just—” He paused, shooting a nervous glance toward the door. “I was just trying to survive, same as you.”
I let out a bitter laugh. “Survive?” My stomach twisted with fury. “You have no idea what survival means.” I took another step forward, closing the space between us. “And you have no idea what I had to endure after you got me caught.”
His face darkened, guilt flashing in his eyes for a split second before he reined it in. “Since the moment we met, we’ve been running for our lives,” he hissed, leaning in toward me. “I didn’t have time to explain. Hell, I barely had time to think. One minute you were a Russian lieutenant colonel, then a double agent working for Ukraine, then a goddamn mafia boss’s daughter—”
I lunged, forcing him to back up.
“You’re just like my father,” I spat, venomous accusation seeping into every word. “You’re entangled with the same violent scum—drug traffickers, arms dealers, murderers. You act like you’re better than them, but you’re not. You are one of Nikolai Volkov’s closest associates. He’s a man who orchestrated the murder of his own mother, father, and aunt just to take control of the Volkovi Notchi. Do you even know the kind of people you work with?”
“Stop,” Braxton snapped. “Just—calm down.”
And then he crossed his arms over his chest as if we had all day to stand here and argue. His composure made me want to slice my frustration out on him.
“You can hate me. You can want me dead. I get it,” he said. “I deserve it. But right now, you need to listen. You know me being here puts my life on the line. I didn’t come here to hurt you—I came here to get you the hell out.”
I stared at him, my chest heaving, the knife still poised to attack.
“I didn’t tell you about Nikolai, because I knew you hated the Volkovs. And my relationship with him—it’s not what you think it is. It’s complicated. And if I had told you the truth, would you have trusted me? Or would you have left me to die in that prison?”
I chewed on my bottom lip.
His point was valid. I would have left him.
But it didn’t matter.
“You think showing up here to rescue the damsel in distress excuses what you did?” I asked, circling him, the silk of my gown whispering against the marble floor. “You think I give a damn about your reasons?”
His chest rose, fell. “No.”
I smiled, slow and cruel. “Good. Because you shouldn’t.”
I retightened my grip on the knife.
“You’re a liar,” I said, stalking him like a predator. “And you know what’s worse than a liar, Braxton?” I growled. “A coward who thinks withholding the truth is somehow more noble than telling the lie outright.”
His jaw flexed, but he said nothing.
Smart man.
I kept the knife raised, my heart pounding out a brutal rhythm against my ribs. I wanted to gut him. I wanted to see him bleed. What I didn’t want was to hear him try to justify the unjustifiable—to explain how the hours of agony, the searing pain, and the humiliation I’d endured were somehow worth it.
I huffed out a breath. How could I let him stand there and continue breathing after he’d handed me over to monsters? How could he look me in the eye and pretend there was an explanation—any explanation—that could make this anything but a betrayal worse than death?
The utterly dumbfounded look on his face nearly undid me. Like he’d actually thought I wouldn’t be angry. Like he wasn’t the reason my world had been set on fire.
I wasn’t just angry—I was fucking livid.
“I trusted you,” I hissed. “I burned my cover for you. I saved your ass when you were just some helpless American Boy Scout wandering through hell with a goddamn target on your back.”
I took a step closer.
“And for what?!”
His lips parted like he had something to say, then shut. I saw it then—the tidal wave of guilt eclipsing him in its shadow.
Good. Let it fucking drown him.
“Daria, I—”
“Don’t!” I snapped, my voice as sharp as the blade in my hand.
He shouldn’t have come here. He should have stayed far away, let me crawl out of this nightmare the same way I always had to—alone. Because now, I was faced with the same dilemma as before. Should I trust him, or should I kill him? I’d trusted him once, and look where that had gotten me.
Braxton Wyatt Thorin. The man I had thought—just for a second—was different.
“You’re in bed with one of my father’s greatest enemies, a Russian mobster in thick with the Kremlin, and you didn’t think that was something worth mentioning?”
“It’s not like that,” Braxton said defensively. “Daria, I swear to you, it’s not what you think—”
“Then tell me what the fuck it is!” I slashed the knife through the air between us, and he flung his arms wide, dodging. “Because from where I’m standing, you’re just another American who thinks he understands my world when you don’t know a damn thing.”
He flinched.
“You walk into my war—my adopted country’s suffering—and think your good intentions are all you need to make a difference. That you’re just some innocent aid worker with no blood on your hands.” I leaned back, throwing my hands in the air. “That’s not how this works, Braxton. This war is bigger than you. It’s bigger than me. And the second you stepped into it without understanding the consequences, you became just another liability I had to clean up—a stray dog to save.”
I advanced another step, heat crawling up my throat.
His Adam’s apple bobbed, but I didn’t let him speak. My anger was spiraling out of control. “You think your hands are clean because you didn’t pull a trigger? That good intentions pave the way to something better?” A humorless laugh escaped my lips. “No, Braxton. They pave the way to hell. And you dragged me right into it with you.”
Something in his eyes changed then. His chin lifted, tension gripping his frame like a silent warning.
And for a second—just a second—I thought he might fight back.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he did something worse.
He took a step forward, reaching his hand out to cup my cheek.
“Get the fuck away from me,” I warned, jumping back.
“You think I don’t know what I cost you?” he asked, his voice tight. “You think I don’t know that because of me you ended up—tortured?” He leaned in, his gaze burning into mine. “I know what they did to you, Daria. I know what happened. And I would trade my life to take it back. To fix it. But I can’t. The only thing I can do is get you out of here. If you let me.”
I hated him.
I hated that he meant it.
I hated that a part of me wanted to believe him.
But my anger wouldn’t let me relent.
“You don’t get to play the martyr,” I said with a sneer, my voice shaking. “You want to trade your life to take it back? Then do it. Bleed for me, Braxton. Suffer for me the way I suffered because of you. Let me carve the hours of agony into your skin and see if you still want to play the fucking hero.”
His nostrils flared, and the muscles in his forearms jumped like he was forcing himself to stay still. But I saw it—the moment the guilt in his eyes hardened into something else, something forged in its own kind of fire. He squared his shoulders and clenched his fists at his sides. For the first time since he’d stepped through that door, he looked at me like I wasn’t the only one ready to start a war.
“Are you done?”
The sheer audacity of his question sent another wave of rage ripping through me.
I readjusted my grip on the knife, and my body coiled again. “Not even close.”
“Yeah? Well, tough shit.” He took another step forward, as if daring me to hurt him. “Because I’m done standing here while you rip me apart like I did this on purpose. Like I woke up one day and said, ‘ Hey, let me drop into the middle of a fucking war and ruin Daria Melnichenko’s life .’”
I bared my teeth. “You did ruin my life.”
He let out a dark chuckle. “Funny. I was about to say the same damn thing.”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You want to talk about betrayal of trust? Fine. But let’s get something straight.” His chest rose and fell slowly. “I never fucking lied to you. I didn’t get the chance. Every second since I met you has been about staying one step ahead of death.”
I sucked in a sharp breath. “Because of me ?”
“Yeah. You.” He pointed at me, his eyes burning. “The woman who nearly killed me in an abandoned house. The woman who dragged a dying man through a war zone only to blow him up while he was still alive. The woman who took me hostage, shot a young kid not once but twice, and then drove like a lunatic through the woods in utter darkness while missiles flew over our heads. The woman who was chained to me while she shot off a gun next to my face. And that was just in the first forty-eight hours!”
I held his gaze.
“You think I had time to sit down and write out a fucking biography for you?” he asked, his words dripping with sarcasm. “You think I even knew what the hell was happening when you—this Russian Special Intelligence officer—showed up in my life and turned it into a goddamn action movie? Because I didn’t.” He exhaled harshly, shaking his head. “I didn’t even know if I’d make it back to Ukraine alive. And even when I started piecing shit together about the mafia connections, I barely had time to breathe, let alone figure out the best way to tell you something that—let’s be real—you wouldn’t have believed anyway.”
“You don’t get to decide that.”
“Don’t I?” He raked a hand through his hair. “Come on, Daria. Be honest. If, back in that trench, I had told you, ‘ Oh, by the way, I’m friends with the guy whose family has been at war with yours for decades and happens to be an international hacker with zero loyalties to any government—but don’t worry; I swear I’m a good guy ,’ what do you think you would’ve done?”
I gritted my teeth so hard they ached.
“Exactly,” he bit out. “You would have put a bullet between my eyes. And I wouldn’t have blamed you.”
I wanted to argue. I wanted to tell him he was wrong, that I wouldn’t have killed him.
But we both knew I would have.
“You don’t know shit,” I muttered.
Braxton threw up his hands, shaking his head. “No? I know enough. I know you think this world is nothing but monsters and victims. That you’re the only one who’s been burned by the people who were supposed to protect you. That you’re alone.”
I didn’t want to hear this.
But I listened.
“But you’re not alone. There are people out there who want to help you. Who would help you if you let them. You think I wanted any part of this? To be standing here, in some mafia thug’s fucking mansion, trying to convince you I would never intentionally betray you?” He shook his head. “I’ve spent my whole damn life trying to do the right thing. Trying to help people. Trying to fix people. And what did it get me?”
He spread his arms wide.
“This,” he said. “A goddamn nightmare where I have no control, no power, and nothing but fucking hope that I can at least get you out of here alive. And in return, you act like I’m just another enemy, threatening me with a knife and telling me I don’t know shit.”
I hated how his words made something twist in my chest.
“You don’t know what you cost me,” I whispered, glancing down at the blade in my hand.
His expression darkened. “I know exactly what I cost you. And I will never forgive myself for it.”
Silence stretched between us, thick and electric.
He meant it.
Every single word.
And that was a problem.
Because if he was telling the truth, then I wasn’t just angry at him.
I was angry with myself.
For believing in him in the first place—and getting myself into this situation.
For him having to come to my rescue.
For the fact that I was standing here, with every opportunity to drive this knife into his throat, and I couldn’t do it.
I shoved the knife’s handle into the palm of his hand.
Braxton stilled, wrapping his fingers around it as I let go.
Then he shifted his head slightly, listening intently, his eyes going distant.
I narrowed my eyes. “What?”
He frowned, tapping his ear. “It’s Nik. He’s in my earpiece.”
I tensed. “Nikolai Volkov?”
Before I could say anything else, he smirked. “Says he hates to interrupt our little lovers’ spat , but we’ve got a problem. Malinov has noticed you’re missing.”
Ice cascaded down my spine. I wasn’t surprised. It had only been a matter of time before Malinov realized his prize had slipped out of sight, and Braxton and I had been verbally sparring in this fucking bathroom for what felt like forever.
Braxton stepped closer to me, returning my blade. “Nik says we need to move. Fast. And—”
I stood there, waiting impatiently, and shoved my feet into my shoes. “And?”
“And before we do anything, I need to get that fucking poison capsule out of your arm.” His gaze flicked to my arm as his brow furrowed. “Nik’s got an operative in the kitchen with some tools that might help. We need to head there first.”
I glanced at the door, then the window, my pulse racing. Every instinct screamed at me to jump out and run . But my options were limited, and Braxton was the only thing standing between me and Malinov’s retribution.
Slowly, he lifted his hand—palm up. An offering.
A choice.
I closed my eyes for half a second, forcing myself to decide whether I trusted him.
Then I placed my hand in his, and his fingers closed around mine.