Chapter 19
Kira
I'm dreaming of the creek—Maksim's hands on my skin, his mouth on mine, the feeling that maybe we could find our way back to each other—when rough hands grab me.
I jerk awake, trying to scream, but a hand clamps over my mouth before sound can escape. Multiple hands pin my arms, my legs, lifting me from the bed.
Panic floods through me. This is it. Roman's decided I'm more trouble than I'm worth.
I fight anyway. Kick and thrash and try to bite the hand over my mouth. But there are too many of them, and they're too strong.
Something—a bag, rough fabric—goes over my head, plunging me into darkness.
Terror spikes. I can't see. Can't breathe properly through the fabric. Can't tell how many of them there are or where they're taking me.
I try to scream through the hand, try to fight, but it's useless. They carry me like I weigh nothing, through corridors that echo with footsteps.
"Stop fighting," one of them mutters. "You're just making this harder on yourself."
I fight harder.
They laugh. Actually laugh at my desperate struggling.
"Feisty one," another voice. "Boss is gonna enjoy breaking her."
No. No, I'm not going to be broken. Not by Roman. Not by anyone.
I buck and twist, managing to land a solid kick to someone's stomach. They grunt, and their grip loosens fractionally.
"Bitch!" The word is followed by a sharp pain in my ribs—someone hit me.
I cry out. They use my momentary weakness to secure me more firmly.
More walking. Descending stairs—I can feel the change in angle, the way gravity shifts. Going down.
To the basement. To wherever Roman keeps his prisoners.
To where Maksim is.
The thought gives me strength. If they're taking me to him, at least I'll see him one more time before… Before what? Before they kill us both? Before Roman decides how we die? What if they torture him in front of me? I would rather die. I can’t watch that.
We stop. I hear metal scraping—a door opening. Then I'm thrown forward, hands releasing me all at once.
I hit the ground hard, the bag still over my head, disoriented and terrified.
"Enjoy your last night together," one of them says. "Boss says you've got until morning. Then it's over."
The door slams. Locks engage.
I'm scrambling to remove the bag, my hands shaking so badly I can barely grip the fabric. Then other hands are on me. Gentle. Familiar.
"Kira. Kira, stop. It's me. You're okay."
That voice. I know that voice. The bag comes off, and I'm looking up at Maksim.
He's alive.
He's alive.
The sob that tears out of me is ugly and desperate. I throw myself at him. He catches me despite the obvious pain it causes him. His shoulder is bandaged—poorly. There is blood seeping through. He moves like his ribs hurt.
"You're alive." I can't stop saying it. "You're alive. Roman said—he told me he killed you. That you were dead. I didn’t believe it. I felt you.”
"I know. I know." His arms tighten around me, and I feel him shaking too. "I'm okay. I'm here."
I pull back to look at him properly. He's pale, fever-bright eyes, moving carefully like everything hurts. There's dried blood in his hair and bruises blooming across his face.
"You're not okay." I touch his bandaged shoulder gently. "You need medical attention. This is infected—"
"Probably." His smile is grim. "But there's not much we can do about that right now. And if I’m being practical, it doesn’t matter."
I look around for the first time, taking in our surroundings. A cell. Small, concrete, with a single dim bulb. One thin mat on the floor. A bucket in the corner. I know what he’s saying. Why fight an infection when we were going to be killed anyway.
"How long have you been here?"
"Since he shot me. Maybe a day? Two? Hard to tell without windows." He leans back against the wall, wincing. "They're keeping me alive for leverage. In case he needs to threaten you or Anya with my death."
"Anya." The name makes my throat tight. "Roman said—he said he's marrying her instead of me. Next week."
"I know." Maksim's jaw clenches. "The guards made sure to tell me. Said she's more 'manageable' than you."
"We have to stop it." I'm desperate now. "Maksim, we have to get out of here. Warn her. Get her away before—"
"Before what?" His voice is gentle but firm. "Kira, look around. We're locked in a cell. Guarded. You heard them—we've got until morning. Then it's over."
"Over meaning what?"
"Meaning Roman's going to kill us." He says it flatly. "Can't have loose ends. Once he's secured his position through Anya, we become too dangerous to keep alive."
The words should terrify me. Instead, I feel oddly calm. Maybe I've moved past fear into acceptance.
"I'm sorry." Maksim's voice breaks through my thoughts. "For everything. For not believing you. For destroying your organization. For participating in the arrangements that put Anya in danger."
"You believe me now." It's not a question. I can see it in his eyes. "About not betraying you."
"Yes." He looks at me directly. "Viktor came to see me. Told me everything. Your father took money from Roman—gave him information about my schedule, security. But you didn't know. Never knew."
The confirmation of my innocence should feel like victory. Instead, it just feels sad. It all feels so pointless. So much sadness.
If only he would have trusted me enough to believe what I said.
"Roman orchestrated all of it," I say quietly. "Didn't he? Not just the kidnapping. Everything."
"Everything." Maksim nods. "He paid your father. Manufactured the evidence. Used me as a weapon to destroy you. Played us both."
"And we let him." I lean my head on his good shoulder, careful of his injury.
"I was certain it was you." His voice is raw with guilt. "Six years, Kira. I spent six years in hell, and the only thing that kept me alive was the promise of making you pay. And you were innocent the whole time."
"I know." I thread my fingers through his.
"We were both victims." He squeezes my hand. "Roman used your father's desperation and my rage. Manipulated us into destroying each other while he consolidated power."
We sit in silence for a moment, the weight of it all settling between us.
"What can we do?" I ask finally. "There has to be something. Some way to warn Anya. To stop the wedding. To expose Roman."
"I don't know." The admission costs him. "I've been trying to think of something. Anything. But we're locked in a cell. Wounded. Watched. They've made sure we can't escape."
"There has to be a way." I refuse to accept helplessness. "Maksim, we can't just sit here and wait to die. Not with Anya's life at stake."
"I know." His arm goes around me, pulling me closer despite the pain it obviously causes. "I know. But I don't have answers. Not this time."
The despair in his voice mirrors what I'm feeling. For the first time since this nightmare started, we're truly helpless.
"Tell me what happened," I say, needing to focus on something other than our fate. "After he shot you. What did they do?"
"Dragged me down here. Beat me until I passed out. When I woke up, I was in this cell." He touches his bandaged shoulder. "They wrapped this—barely. Just enough to keep me from bleeding out. Then left me."
"No food? Water?"
"Some." He gestures to a mostly empty bottle in the corner. "Not much. They're not trying to keep me comfortable. Just alive enough to be useful."
I examine his shoulder as best I can in the dim light. The bandaging is crude, and blood has soaked through. I can see infection setting in—red streaks radiating from the wound. And it smells.
"This is bad," I say.
“But it doesn't matter. If Roman's planning to kill us tomorrow, infection won't have time to do the job."
The casual acceptance in his voice breaks something in me.
"Don't." I grab his face, forcing him to look at me. "Don't give up."
"Kira, we're locked in a cell! There's no way out! No cavalry coming! It's over!"
"It's not over until we're dead!" I'm shouting now too. "And even then, we go down fighting! We don't just accept—"
"What choice do we have?" He grabs my hands. "Tell me. What's the plan? How do we escape a locked cell when we're wounded and outnumbered?"
I don't have an answer.
The realization makes me deflate. He's right. We're truly trapped.
"I'm sorry." He pulls me close again, and I let him. "I shouldn't have yelled. I just... I can't see a way out this time. And that terrifies me more than dying."
"What terrifies you?" I ask against his chest.
"That Anya will marry Roman. That he'll destroy her. That you and I will die without stopping him." His voice breaks. "That after everything—after all the hate and rage and wasted time—we finally understand each other and it's too late."
Tears stream down my face. Because he's right.
We finally believe each other. Finally see the truth. Finally stop fighting long enough to realize we never stopped loving each other.
And it's too late.
"I love you," I whisper. "I never stopped. Even when you hated me. Even when you were destroying everything I built. I still loved you."
"I know." His arms tighten. "I love you too. Always have. I just forgot for a while. Let rage blind me to what was real."
We hold each other in that terrible cell, and for just a moment, it feels like we're kids again. Planning a future that seemed golden and certain.
Except now we know the truth: the future is neither golden nor certain.
It's dark and uncertain and probably ending tomorrow.
"If we're going to die," I say finally, "I'm glad it's together. I'm glad I get to spend my last hours with you instead of alone."
"We're not dead yet." But even as he says it, I can hear the resignation in his voice.
We settle onto the thin mat, his good arm around me, my head on his chest. Listening to his heartbeat—proof he's alive, for now.
Tomorrow, Roman will come. Will end this.
But tonight, we have each other.