Chapter 17 #2
The masked leader drew a long, wicked knife, pressing the tip against Dmitri’s throat. A thin line of blood welled instantly, gleaming in the harsh light.
“You have three seconds,” the man said. “Or we choose for you.”
Dmitri’s chest heaved, every inhale ragged, pain etched deep in every line of his battered face. Yet his gaze never wavered from mine.
“One...”
Dmitri’s mouth opened. Nothing. The knife pressed harder; blood trickled down his neck, warm and slick against his skin.
“Two...”
“I choose her!” he rasped, voice hoarse, jagged, torn from somewhere deep within his soul. He jerked his chin toward Seraphina.
My jaw dropped. Air fled my lungs in a strangled, silent scream.
He chose her? Seraphina—the woman he despised, the architect of this nightmare—over me?
The betrayal hit like molten metal, searing through my chest, scorching every fiber of my being.
My hands twisted uselessly against the ropes, the coarse fibers cutting into my skin as if to remind me of my helplessness.
The Albanian couple advanced, their presence suffocating.
The man circled me deliberately, each step measured, predatory. His deep voice carried over the cavernous warehouse. “Fresh fish,” he murmured in broken English, a smirk curving his lips. “She’ll fetch a high price... or keep us entertained.”
The woman’s head tilted, the slit of her eyes assessing me like a buyer at a market. Her hands rested on her abaya, calm and deliberate, the contrast between her stillness and my rising panic maddening.
The masked leader’s rough hands suddenly clamped around Dmitri’s hair, yanking him backward.
I could almost feel the cruel tug at his scalp, the sharp pain radiating through him—and the terrifying thought that he was leaving me.
My body writhed, every muscle coiled and straining against the restraints, desperate, powerless.
“Dmitri!” I screamed, my voice cracking, shattering the warehouse silence. “Dmitri, look at me! You can’t do this—don’t leave me!”
His eyes—so full of pain, so impossibly heavy—remained locked on me as the masked leader yanked him toward the door by his hair.
Every inch of his body screamed in agony, hands trembling with the effort, yet he did not resist. He did not fight—he couldn’t, or perhaps he chose not to. And still... still, his gaze refused to leave mine.
Pain carved lines across his face, raw and relentless, until a single tear slipped down, tracing a path through the blood and grime.
Our eyes met, and time seemed to stretch between us.
In that gaze, I saw everything he could not say: torment, apology, the unbearable weight of failure, love laced with regret, and the faintest, most terrifying whisper of goodbye.
My chest ached as though it might shatter, and in that moment, I realized some losses are felt long before they arrive.
“You can’t leave me!” I shrieked, voice raw, primal. “Dmitri, you bastard! You can’t—” My shoulders heaved, ribs aching from the effort, and the ropes bit deeper into my wrists.
Pain lanced through my arms, but still I reached, desperate for him to hear me.
But his gaze—piercing, tortured, fixated on mine—remained. Until the shadows swallowed him.
Then he was gone.
The warehouse doors slammed shut behind him with a finality that reverberated through the cavernous space, a deafening echo of hopelessness.
Silence fell, thick and suffocating.
Only the trail of his blood remained—a dark, twisting line across the cracked concrete, leading away into nothingness, a reminder of my helplessness and his sacrifice.
I sagged against the chair, hot tears streaking my cheeks, mingling with sweat and grime.
The ropes had burned grooves into my wrists; my body trembled with shock, exhaustion, and rage. My mind raced, a chaotic storm of disbelief and fury. How could he leave me? How could he—after everything we’d survived, everything we’d shared—choose her over me?
The Albanian man crouched near me, his fingers brushing my shoulder as if testing the texture of my fear. “Quiet now,” he said softly, the threat in his tone more terrifying than the knives sheathed at his belt. “The sooner you calm down, the sooner you might enjoy... your new life.”
My teeth clenched, fury coiling like a serpent in my chest.
Seraphina’s sobs broke loose beside me—ragged, hysterical, choking sounds that scraped against my nerves—but I barely registered them.
My mind was already splintering, thoughts shattering into jagged pieces that refused to fit together.
Heavy footsteps approached her chair.
I turned just in time to see a masked man cut through the ropes binding her wrists. The fibers snapped free with a dry, final sound. Another blade slid through the restraints at her ankles.
Free.
Seraphina gasped as circulation rushed back into her limbs. She sagged forward, crying harder now—not the terror of moments ago, but relief. Trembling hands clutched at her torn dress as they hauled her upright.
“No—wait—” I croaked, my voice barely a sound. My throat felt flayed raw.
She turned.
For a heartbeat, our eyes met.
Her face was blotched and tear-streaked, mascara smeared like war paint.
Shock flickered across her expression when she saw me still bound, still helpless. Then—something else slid into place. Relief. Gratitude. And beneath it... triumph she didn’t even bother to hide.
“They’re letting me go,” she whispered, almost disbelieving. Her gaze darted toward the door Dmitri had vanished through. “He chose me.”
The words crushed what little air remained in my lungs.
She hesitated, lips trembling, then took a shaky step backward as the men urged her forward. “I—I didn’t ask for this,” she said, but her voice lacked conviction. “I didn’t know they’d—”
“Stop,” I whispered.
She stopped speaking.
The guard tightened his grip on her arm. “Shall we escort you to your man’s house, Miss Seraphina?” he said, his tone deceptively polite.
What the hell? The guard... he’s speaking to her with respect? After everything, after all the threats, the cruelty... now this?
As they pulled her away, Seraphina looked back one last time. Not with guilt. Not with sorrow.
With awe.
As if she still couldn’t quite believe she had won.
The warehouse doors groaned open, light flooding in briefly, blindingly—and then they closed again.
She was gone.
Free.
The silence that followed was absolute.
Something inside me caved in completely.
Vanya.
My breath hitched violently at the thought of him. My sweet boy with his lopsided smile and clever questions. Who would tuck him in tonight? Who would kiss his curls and tell him stories? Who would explain why Mommy never came home?
Would he wait for me by the door?
Would he stop asking after a while?
Would he grow up believing I left him—chose not to return?
The thought hollowed me out more thoroughly than fear ever could.
And me—what would become of me?
Shipped across borders like cargo. Locked in some concrete room in the mountains. Stripped of my name, my past, my body. Passed from man to man until pain was the only language left. Until Penelope meant nothing. Until Pen vanished. Until Maliya became a ghost in every sense of the word.
A sob tore out of me, raw and broken.
Why?
Why had he chosen her?
He hated Seraphina. He’d said it. Sworn it. Promised war before ever touching her again. So why?
Strategy? Mercy? A lie meant to buy time?
Or had I—after all this time, all that history—meant so little that sacrificing me was easier?
The Albanian woman approached, her presence soundless, her black robes whispering as she moved. She crouched in front of me, eyes dark and unreadable behind the veil.
Her gloved fingers brushed my chin, lifting my face despite my resistance.
“Don’t fight, little one,” she said in broken English, her voice soft, almost kind. “It’s time to go... to your new home.”
Her hand dropped.
She straightened and turned away, already finished with me.
I closed my eyes.
Tears slipped free, hot and relentless, soaking into my hair, my skin, the ropes biting into my wrists. My body shook, exhaustion and terror finally overwhelming whatever strength I had left.
And for the first time in years, I prayed.
Not for rescue.
Not for miracles.
Not even for Dmitri.
I prayed for it to end quickly.
Because whatever waited for me in Albania—
I wasn’t sure I was strong enough to survive it.