Chapter 16 Sofiya #2
Between strikes, my mind fractures. This is how it ends.
Not in glory, not completing my revenge, but broken and bleeding in a slaughterhouse while my only friend watches.
Father wins. Anatoly wins. They all win, and I'm just a stupid girl who thought she could challenge men who've been playing this game since before I was born.
Why did Volk abandon me? If he knew, if he cared, wouldn't he be here?
Or did he set this up, trade my location for favor with Father?
That makes more sense than any alternative.
Mercy was a one-time gift, not a promise of protection.
I'd been a fool to think otherwise. To let myself feel anything but hate.
To imagine that his eyes on me in that parking lot meant something beyond hunter recognizing prey.
Anatoly pauses, breathing hard, knuckles split and bloody. My blood. I taste copper, feel blood running down my chin, soaking my shirt. Everything hurts. Ribs aching, maybe broken. There’s something wrong with my left knee, and my face is swelling so badly I can barely see.
"Please." Angel begs, voice broken and desperate. "Please stop. I'll do anything. Just don't hurt her anymore."
"Your turn soon, beautiful," Ivan croons, releasing his hold on me. "Don't worry, we haven't forgotten about you."
Anatoly crouches in front of me where I’ve fallen to my knees, grabs my chin.
"Look at me. Look at me!" I force my eyes open, his face swimming in and out of focus.
"This is what happens when you forget your place.
When you think you matter. You don't. You never did.
You were just a mistake that should have been corrected years ago. "
He produces a knife, and my blood turns to ice despite the fire from my injuries. I know that knife. Or one like it. I remember its bite, the wet sound of my own skin splitting, the screams I couldn't stop.
"Let's give you some new memories," Anatoly purrs, the blade catching the light. "Some fresh scars to match the old ones."
The first cut is shallow, across my collarbone. Testing. The second goes deeper, along my ribs. I bite down on my scream, refusing to give him the satisfaction, but my body betrays me with a whimper.
"There it is," he breathes out, almost reverently. "There's the sound I've been missing. Make it again."
He cuts. I bleed. Angel sobs. Ivan watches with dead eyes. And somewhere in the building, I hear footsteps. Multiple sets. More men arriving. Witnesses or participants, it doesn't matter anymore.
Anatoly’s phone rings, and whatever the caller is saying, it's more important than Angel and me.
They throw me in a cell afterward. A literal cage, maybe eight feet square, concrete floor and metal bars.
Angel lands beside me moments later, her own face marked with fresh bruises.
Clearly Ivan had taken his turn while I'd drifted in and out of consciousness.
The door slams shut, and Anatoly's laugh echoes down the corridor as they leave us alone in the dark.
"I'm sorry," I whisper through split lips. "This is my fault. All of it."
Angel's hand finds mine in the darkness, squeezes gently. "You tried to save me."
"I got you captured in the first place."
"You couldn't have known."
But I should have. I should have anticipated this, kept my distance, and remembered everyone I get close to becomes a weapon used against me.
Mother died because Father suspected her affair.
I nearly died because of their sins. And now Angel suffers because I dared to have a friend, to let someone matter.
The revenge I'd spent ten years planning has cost me more than I ever imagined.
My humanity, my ability to trust, any chance at a normal life.
And for what? I haven't killed any of them.
Haven't even gotten close to Father. All I’ve managed is to add more victims to his list while he remains untouchable.
Volk's face surfaces in my memory, unbidden and unwelcome. The way he'd looked at me in the club, studied my face like a puzzle he was solving. The money he'd handed over, the warning in his words. You look like an avenging angel.
He'd known then. Known and let me walk away. Let me think I still had time, still had a chance.
His betrayal sits in my chest like shattered glass. I'd felt something that night standing in the parking lot watching him watch me. Connection, recognition, the dangerous possibility that maybe, just maybe, I wasn't as alone as I'd thought.
Stupid. So incredibly stupid.
He's Father's second. He's the one who dragged me to my mother's execution, who delivered me to be tortured, and who walked away while I screamed.
One moment of mercy doesn't erase that. Doesn't change what he is, what he represents.
And still, some traitorous part of me had hoped.
Had imagined his absence meant something other than calculation.
That the X tattoo marked guilt instead of pride.
That he'd cared enough to stay away because seeing me hurt him somehow.
Fantasy. Childish, dangerous fantasy that's gotten Angel hurt and probably gotten us both killed.
I close my eyes as tears track through the blood on my face. I'd been so focused on revenge that I'd missed the simple truth: you can't beat monsters by becoming one. And you can't destroy darkness without becoming dark yourself.
"Sofiya?" Angel's voice pulls me back. "Are you still with me?"
"Yeah." I squeeze her hand. "I'm here."
"Good. I need you to listen." She shifts closer, voice dropping to barely a whisper. "When they dragged me past the front office, I saw something. Guard rotation is every four hours. Next change is at midnight."
Hope flickers, small and fragile. "We can use that."
"If we're still alive." She laughs, the sound hollow. "But yeah."
Footsteps echo in the corridor. We both tense, pressing back against the far wall of the cage.
Ivan appears, carrying water bottles and what looks like a first aid kit.
He sets them just inside the bars, not meeting our eyes.
"Anatoly isn’t ready for you to die yet.
" His voice remains flat, mechanical. "If you bleed out before he’s ready, I’ll have to answer for it. ”
"How thoughtful," I rasp.
Ivan finally looks at me, and for just a second, something flickers across his face. Regret? Discomfort? It vanishes too quickly to name. "He's bringing Anatoly back in an hour. Said he wants to watch." He turns to leave.
"Ivan." The name tastes like poison. "You don't have to do this."
He pauses at the door. "Yes, I do." Then he's gone.
Angel tends my wounds using the supplies Ivan left with shaking hands. The cuts aren't deep enough to be fatal, just enough to hurt, to weaken, to remind me of that night. Anatoly's artistic in his cruelty. Always has been.
"We need a plan," she says softly, wrapping gauze around the worst cut. "Because when he comes back—"
"I know." I force my brain to work through the pain and exhaustion. "The garrote. Check my left thigh."
Her fingers find it, still wrapped tight despite everything, and she works it free, thin wire glinting dully.
"It's not much," I admit. "But if we can get close enough—"
"We will." Her voice hardens, taking on an edge I've never heard before. "And when we do, I want Anatoly. I want to watch the light leave his eyes."
I look at her in the darkness, see my own rage reflected back. "If we get out of here, you can have him. But right now we need to stay alive long enough for that guard change."
We huddle together in the cage, two women who've had too much taken, waiting for midnight.
Waiting for one last chance to fight back.
And in the darkness, I make a promise to myself: if I survive this, if by some miracle we both walk out of here, I'm done with revenge.
Done with the consuming fire that's turned me into something I don't recognize.
But first, I have to survive. We both do.
The hour passes like years. Every sound makes us flinch, anticipating Anatoly's return. But he doesn't come. Not yet.
When footsteps finally echo down the corridor at 11:45 p.m, they're different. Heavier. Multiple sets. And underneath them, I hear Anatoly's voice, high and excited, promising Father a show.
Angel's hand finds mine in the darkness. She squeezes once, and I squeeze back. Whatever comes next, we face it together. Even if together means dying in a cage while monsters watch. At least I won't die alone. At least I'll die fighting.
The door opens and light floods the corridor, silhouetting three figures. Anatoly steps forward, wearing a sick grin. Behind him, I see Ivan. And behind Ivan a third man whose face I can't quite make out in the glare. But I'd know that silhouette anywhere.
Volk.