Chapter 7 Svetlana
SVETLANA
The safe house isn't what I expected.
It's not another hunting cabin, some ramshackle shelter barely holding together. It's a proper house—small, but solid. There’s a stone foundation, a reinforced door, windows with actual curtains. There's a generator humming somewhere, providing electricity and heat.
This is a place meant for exactly what we’re doing. And while the fact that we’ve found another shelter is comforting, it also makes my skin crawl. It feels almost planned. Like Kazimir might have known I was there. Like maybe something else is going on.
"Inside," Kazimir says, his hand on my lower back, guiding me through the door. I'm too exhausted to pull away and too cold to care about the touch. He’s touched me multiple times today—his hand in mine, his arm around me, holding me up, pulling me along, trying to comfort me.
A part of me has liked it more than I should.
The interior of the safe house is surprisingly cozy.
There’s a main living room with a small kitchenette off of it, and doors leading to what I assume are a bedroom and bathroom.
There’s a comfortable-looking couch, a sideboard with dishes, cupboards that, when Kazimir crosses the room to them, I see are stocked with shelf-stable foods.
It’s clean and organized, like it was just waiting for us to be here. And he knew where it was.
Has he been planning something? The thought comes to me again, making my stomach knot with a feeling of low dread.
"Sit," Kazimir says, gesturing to the couch. "I need to make some calls."
I sink onto the cushions, my body screaming in protest. My feet feel as if they’re broken, my leg muscles on the verge of seizing up from the running and the cold. My hands are scraped raw. Everything hurts.
But my mind won't stop racing.
Kazimir moves to the far side of the room, pulling out a satellite phone. He turns his back to me, speaking in low tones. I catch fragments—some in Russian, some in English. His voice is tense and urgent.
I can't hear everything, or even understand most of it—I was taught Russian growing up, but I’ve lost most of it—and I have a feeling that’s by design. He doesn't want me to know what he's saying, or who he's talking to.
My chest tightens.
I watch him pace, one hand running through his hair as he talks. He's agitated. Stressed. The conversation isn't going well, it seems.
"—not what we agreed—" I catch that much in Russian before he switches to English, his accent thickening. "I don't care what Ilya thinks. The situation has changed."
Ilya.
My blood turns to ice.
He's talking about Ilya. To someone who knows Ilya.
Oh God.
"—need extraction for two—" More English, too fast for me to follow completely. "—forty-eight hours, maybe less—"
He's arranging something. Transportation? A handoff?
My mind spirals. Kazimir said he was going to get us out of here, but what if…
What if this whole thing was a setup? What if Kazimir didn't rescue me—what if he just moved me from one cage to another?
What if he's negotiating a price right now, selling me to the highest bidder?
What if he found out that Iosef had me, and rather than wanting to rescue me, he saw an opportunity?
What if Ilya wants a different kind of revenge, and Kazimir is manifesting that for him?
I think of the last time I saw my father, the cold fury in his eyes when he told me I was dead to him. When he said I'd brought shame to the family name.
He didn't mean it metaphorically. He had every intention that I’d die where he sent me, eventually. Whenever the men who bought me got tired of me.
Kazimir's voice drops even lower, and I strain to hear. "—can't guarantee her cooperation—"
Her. He's talking about me.
My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat.
Everyone abandoned me before. Ilya, who claimed to love me. My father, who was supposed to protect me. Every single person who could have helped me looked the other way.
Why would Kazimir be any different? Because he said so this time? Because he looked at me with those pale eyes and promised he wouldn't let anything happen to me?
Words are cheap. I’ve learned that the hard way, and more than once.
I look around the room, searching for exits, weapons, anything I can use to get out of here before Kazimir can turn me over to someone else who will hurt me. My gaze lands on the table near the kitchenette.
Kazimir’s gun is lying on the counter. He set it down when we came in, too focused on getting to the phone. It's just sitting there, within reach.
My pulse quickens.
I could take it. I could leave. I could—
What? Run back into the woods? I barely survived the last few hours. I'm injured, exhausted, and half-frozen. I’m in no shape to do anything like that. And Iosef’s men are out there somewhere.
But at least I'd be making my own choices. At least I'd die on my own terms instead of being handed over like property.
Again.
So long as I don’t get caught.
Kazimir is still on the phone, his back to me. He's arguing with someone now, his voice sharp. "—told you, it's not negotiable—"
I stand slowly, testing my ability to move now that I’ve thawed out a bit. Pain shoots up my legs, but I grit my teeth and move toward the table, slowly, one step at a time.
Kazimir doesn't turn around.
My hand closes around the grip of the gun. It's heavier than I expected, the cold metal strange against my palm. I've never fired a gun before. But I’ve watched Kazimir—I’ve seen how he holds it, how he pulls the trigger. How hard can it be?
I back toward the door, keeping my eyes on Kazimir.
He's still talking, still pacing, completely unaware. I feel my lip curl as I look at him. He doesn’t think I’m strong enough to try to escape.
He isn’t even bothering to watch me because he can’t fathom that I’d try.
He left his gun unattended because it was unthinkable that I’d take it.
He thinks I’m weak and broken and useless.
An easy mark for him to use. A stupid woman who would believe him when he’s never given her a reason to before.
I was desperate enough to fall for it. But I’m not going to let him sell me to someone else, or exact Ilya’s revenge for things that were never really my fault to begin with.
My hand finds the doorknob behind me, and I turn it slowly, carefully, praying it doesn't creak.
It doesn't.
The door opens, and cold air rushes in. Kazimir's head snaps up, his eyes widening as he turns and sees me there, framed in the doorway. His eyes go wide as he sees the gun in my hand.
"Svetlana!"
It’s too late. I bolt out of the door, slamming it behind me, and I run.
—
The woods swallow me whole.
I don't have a plan or supplies, or even the proper shoes. The boots are too big, and even the layers of socks can’t completely make up for that. But I have a gun, and I have rage, and right now that feels like enough.
The cold hits me immediately, biting through the layers I'm wearing. My legs scream with every step, my body begging me to stop, to give up, to put an end to this. But I don't stop. I can't stop.
Those men—Iosef's men—they're still out here. Still hunting me, still thinking they can take me, use me, break me as they did over and over before. And if Kazimir sells me to someone, they’ll do the same thing.
The memories slam into me all over again as I move through the trees. Iosef's hands on my throat. The cold concrete floor. The darkness. The pain. The way they laughed when I begged. The way they took so much pleasure in hurting me. The way they got off on it, over and over and over.
The way they made me feel like nothing. Like I was already dead.
My grip tightens on the gun until my knuckles go white. I want to hurt them. I want to make them feel what I felt. I want them to know what it's like to be hunted, to be helpless, to be afraid.
I want them to bleed.
The thought should horrify me. The old Svetlana—the one who went to charity galas and smiled for the cameras—would be appalled.
But I can’t remember her any longer. I barely remember what that life was like. I think that woman, the one with a closet full of designer clothes and photographers hungering for her picture and a life of luxury stretching out in front of her, might have died in those cells.
This version of me wants blood.
I move deeper into the woods, trying to orient myself.
The snow is trampled here, boot prints everywhere—theirs and ours, all mixed together in a chaotic pattern.
I follow the clearest trail, the one that leads back the way we came.
My breath comes in short, sharp gasps that fog in the frigid air.
My feet and legs are going numb, which is almost a mercy.
The pain is still there, a distant throb, but the cold is dulling it.
Adrenaline surges through my veins, making my hands shake. I force them steady, adjusting my grip on the gun. I've watched Kazimir handle it. I've seen how he holds it, how he aims, how his finger rests on the trigger. I can do this.
I have to do this.
Because if I don't—if I let them take me back, let them hurt me, let someone else hurt me—then Iosef wins. My father wins. They all win. And I'll never be anything more than a victim.
The trees thin slightly ahead, and I slow down, moving more carefully. My heart is pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears. But over the sound, I hear voices.
Male voices, speaking Russian in low tones, and closer than I’d like for them to be.
Or maybe exactly where I want them.
I drop into a crouch behind a thick pine, pressing my back against the rough bark. The gun feels impossibly heavy in my hands now. I’m glad I didn’t take my gloves off, or my fingers would be too numb to grip it.
"—fucking freezing out here—"
"—should've caught them by now—"
"—Iosef's going to have our asses if we don't find her—"