Chapter 10 #2
The old Svetlana might have thought it was a good omen. A harbinger of things getting better from here. And yes, we have made it out, so long as Iosef and his men don’t suddenly appear out of nowhere to drag me back, so long as we have a safe flight home.
But home doesn’t mean the same thing any longer. Boston isn’t the same for me now, either. My father sold me. I don’t know if my apartment is still mine. If my things are still there. If I’ll be safe in the city.
My connections are no longer of use to me; they would just lead my father right to me. I have no idea what I’m going to do or what my life is going to look like… but at least I’ll be free of Iosef, and Pyotr, and Grigory, and the others.
I climb the stairs into the plane, Kazimir behind me, the men following us. The interior is uncomfortable and mostly metal, with seats against the walls and heavy harnesses to buckle us in. It’s no private jet, but as long as it takes me away from here, I don’t care.
I choose a seat near the window and buckle in. Kazimir takes the seat across from me, and for a moment, our eyes meet.
I look away first.
The plane takes off, and I watch Russia fall away beneath us. The forests and snow, the vast emptiness. The country that nearly killed me.
Good fucking riddance.
The flight to Boston is long.
I shift in my seat, trying to find a position that doesn't hurt.
Everything aches. The old scars on my calves and feet send sharp jolts of pain up my legs with every small movement.
The bruises on my ribs make breathing difficult—shallow breaths, nothing too deep, or the pain becomes unbearable.
Everything that I briefly forgot hurt when Kazimir and I were tangled up together is back in full force, all of the things those men did to me mapped out across my skin.
And between my legs, the soreness is a constant, throbbing reminder of what happened in that safe house.
Of what I let happen.
Of what I wanted to happen, even though I shouldn't have.
I press my thighs together and immediately regret it. The movement sends a fresh wave of discomfort through my core, and I have to bite my lip to keep from making a sound.
Kazimir is across from me, his eyes closed, but I don't think he's sleeping. His jaw is too tight, his shoulders too tense. He's just avoiding looking at me.
Good. I don't want him looking at me anyway.
I turn back to the window, watching the landscape below. We're still over Russia, the endless expanse of forest and snow stretching out in all directions beneath the clouds. I can imagine that it looks peaceful from up here. Beautiful, even.
But I know what's down there. I know what happens in those forests, in those isolated compounds where no one can hear you scream.
What I remember most isn’t the pain, though there was plenty of that.
Not even the violation itself, though that was bad enough.
It was the laughter. The way they'd joke with each other while they did it.
The way they'd comment on my body, on my reactions, like I was a piece of meat they were evaluating.
"She's tight," one of them had said once, grunting as he forced himself inside me. "Ilya's loss is our gain." The others had laughed. And when he finished—when he came inside me without asking, without caring, like it was his right—he'd pulled out and slapped my thigh.
"Good girl," he'd said, like I was a dog that had performed a trick.
Then the next one would take his turn.
I'd learned to go somewhere else in my mind when I’d fought as much as I could, and I couldn’t any longer.
To detach. To let them use my body while I floated somewhere above it, watching from a distance.
But I couldn't detach from the feeling of them finishing inside me.
That was the part I couldn't escape. The hot, wet sensation.
The way they'd groan and thrust deeper, making sure I felt every second of it.
The way they'd stay inside me for a moment after, like they were marking their territory.
And then they'd pull out, and I'd feel it dripping down my thighs, and I'd want to die. I'd wanted to die so many times in that cell. But I didn't. I survived.
And then Kazimir came.
And last night, in that safe house, when he was inside me, and I felt him getting close—
I should have stopped him. Should have told him to pull out.
But I didn't. Because part of me wanted it. Wanted him to replace that memory with something else. Something that was my choice, my decision.
Except it wasn't really a choice, was it? Not when I'm this fucked up. Not when I can't tell the difference between desire and desperation.
I close my eyes, trying to push the memories away, but they cling to me like grease on my skin, impossible to scrub away.
The feeling of Kazimir inside me. The way he'd looked at me, his eyes dark with want.
The way he'd come, hot and deep, and for just a moment—just one perfect moment—I'd felt like I was reclaiming something.
But then reality crashed back in. He's not different. He's just another man who took what he wanted and then apologized after.
I open my eyes and find him watching me. Our gazes lock, and for a moment, neither of us looks away.
I can see the guilt in his eyes. The regret. The desire that's still there, simmering under the surface despite everything.
This time, I hold his gaze until he looks away, before turning back to the window. My body aches. God, everything aches. I shift again, trying to ease the pressure on my ribs, and a sharp pain lances through my side. I gasp before I can stop myself.
"Are you okay?" Kazimir's voice cuts through the silence.
I don't answer. I don't even look at him.
"Svetlana—"
"I'm fine," I snap, and I can practically hear him rolling his eyes.
"You're not fine. You're in pain."
"And whose fault is that?" The words come out sharper than I intended, but I don't take them back. The truth is that, of course it isn’t all his fault, even if what happened between us last night definitely exacerbated it.
But being angry at him right now is easy, and it feels good, so I let myself be angry.
He's quiet for a moment. "Do you need anything? Water? Painkillers?"
"I don't need anything from you."
But even as I say it, I realize how thirsty I am. My throat is dry, and my lips are cracked from the cold. I haven't had anything to drink since before we left the safe house. I don’t actually think I’ve drunk anything since that vodka last night.
As if reading my mind, Kazimir stands and moves to the small galley at the back of the plane. I hear him opening something up, and then he returns with a bottle of water. He sets it down next to me, then returns to his seat without a word.
I stare at the water. My pride tells me not to touch it. Not to accept anything from him. But my body overrides my pride.
I reach for the bottle, unscrew the cap, and drink. The water is cold and clean, and it feels like heaven on my raw throat. I drink half the bottle before I stop, gasping. When I look up, Kazimir is watching me again.
"Thank you.” I was raised with manners, even if everything else has been stripped away. He nods but doesn't speak.
I sip the rest slowly, letting the cold soothe my throat.
Outside, the sun is setting. We're over the ocean now. We're leaving Russia behind, heading toward whatever comes next. I try to focus on that, on what I’m going to do. I don’t know if Kazimir is going to help me beyond this, or if I even want him to.
I don’t want to owe him more than I already do.
What I want is to disappear. To become someone else. Someone who wasn't tortured and raped and broken. But I don't know if that's possible. I don't know if you can ever really escape your past, or if it just follows you wherever you go.
My eyes feel heavy. The exhaustion is catching up with me, pulling me down. I let my head rest against the window, the cool glass soothing against my skin. Maybe I'll sleep. Maybe I'll dream of nothing.
Maybe…
—
I'm back in the cell. The door is opening, and I know what's coming. I try to move, try to run, but my body won't respond.
Hands grab me. Pin me down. "No," I try to say, but no sound comes out.
They're laughing. Always laughing. One of them is on top of me now, forcing my legs apart, and I can't stop him, can't fight, can't—
I jerk awake with a gasp, my heart pounding.
For a moment, I don't know where I am. The plane, the hard seats, the roar of the engines—it all feels wrong, unfamiliar.
Then it comes back to me. I'm not in the cell. I'm on a plane. I'm safe. Or as safe as I can be, after everything that’s happened.
I press my hand to my chest, trying to slow my racing heart. My skin is clammy with sweat, my breathing shallow and fast.
"Svetlana."
I look up. Kazimir is leaning forward in his seat, his expression concerned.
"I'm fine," I say automatically.
"You were having a nightmare."
"I said I'm fine,” I hiss, turning away. I don’t want his sympathy or his concern. I want nothing else from him.
He studies me for a moment, then leans back. But he doesn't close his eyes again. He just watches me, worry written all over his features. I hate it. Hate the concern in his eyes, the guilt, the pity.
I don't want his pity.
About an hour before we land, he tries to talk to me again. "We should talk about what you need after we land,” he says flatly. “I can’t do much for you after this. I can’t give you a place to stay or anything like that. But it’s possible that—”
"I don't want your help.” I cross my arms over my waist. “Forget it. I’ll be fine.”
"You need—"
"I don't need anything from you."
"Svetlana, be reasonable. You have no money, no identification, nowhere to go—" He lets out a breath. “Do you still have your apartment? Access to your accounts? Do you know anything about any of that? Will your father still help you after the marriage was called off?”
The mention of my father cuts through me. Kazimir doesn’t know that my father was the one who sold me to Iosef, that my failure to keep Ilya hooked was what destroyed my life. And as far as I’m concerned, he doesn’t need to know.
He doesn’t need to know a single thing more about me.
"I'll figure it out,” I tell him flatly, looking away.
"How?" His voice rises slightly, frustration bleeding through. "You can't just walk out of the hangar and disappear. You need—"
"I said I'll figure it out." I turn back to the window. "Leave me alone, Kazimir."
He hisses out a breath from between his teeth. "Fine. But take this."
I glance over. He's holding out a thick envelope.
"What is it?"
"Cash. Enough to get you started. A hotel room for a few nights, DMV fees for new identification, a commercial flight somewhere else.”
“I can manage all that myself—”
"Take it anyway."
I stare at the envelope in his outstretched hand. Part of me wants to refuse, to throw it back in his face.
But I'm not stupid.
I take the envelope and shove it into my pocket without looking at him. "Thank you," I say, and the words taste like poison.
He nods once, and sits back in his seat.
We don't speak again for the rest of the flight.
—
The plane lands smoothly, taxiing to a private hangar. When the door opens, cold air rushes in, carrying the smell of jet fuel and salt water. I unbuckle and stand, my body protesting every movement.
Kazimir stands too, blocking the aisle. "Svetlana—"
"Move." I try to shoulder my way past him.
"Just listen for a minute—"
"I said move."
He doesn't. He just stands there, looking at me with those pale eyes, and I can see everything he's not saying written on his face.
I hate him for making me want him after everything that happened before. For leaving me and then saving me and then fucking me, and then acting like he might try to save me again.
"Where will you go?" he asks quietly.
"That's none of your business."
"I just want to make sure you're safe—"
"Safe?" I laugh, and it comes out harsh and bitter. "I haven't been safe since the day I met Ilya. Since the day you and your boss decided I was acceptable collateral damage."
"That's not—"
"Move, Kazimir. I'm not going to ask again."
He stares at me for another long moment. Then he steps aside. I push past him, my shoulder brushing his chest, and head for the door. The stairs are steep, and my feet scream in protest with every step. But I don't slow down or look back.
"Svetlana, wait!" I hear him take a step forward, but I keep walking.
"Fuck you." I spit the word over my shoulder as I stride across the tarmac, knowing that I don’t know where I’m headed and not caring. The last thing I’m going to do is ask Kazimir for a ride. All I have left is a shred of my pride, and I’m clinging to it with all that I’m worth.
Which used to be a lot.
"I'm trying to help you!" he yells after me, and it takes everything in me to keep going. My feet and legs already hurt. I need more rest. I need to sleep for a week. I need…
"I don't want your help!" I'm shouting now, and I don't care who hears. "I don't want anything from you!"
"You should be grateful," he says, and his voice has gone cold. "I saved your life. The least you could do is—"
I stop in my tracks and spin around. "Grateful?" The word comes out as harsh as a slap, and I hope it feels like one. "You want me to be grateful?"
"I risked everything to get you out of there—"
"It was the least you could do!" The words come out just shy of a scream, rage and pain bubbling up inside of me as I glare at him from across the space between us. "After you abandoned me the first time! After you and Ilya left me to rot!"
"That wasn't—"
"You knew!" My voice cracks. "You knew what would happen to me, and you left anyway! You chose Ilya over me, and I paid the price!"
"I didn’t know. And I didn't have a choice—"
"There's always a choice!" Tears are streaming down my face now, hot and angry. "You made yours. You chose your loyalty to him over everything else. Over me."
"Svetlana—"
"So don't you dare ask me to be grateful. Don't you dare act like you're some kind of hero. You're just a man who finally did the right thing after it was too late to matter."
He stares at me, his face pale, and I can see the impact of my words hitting him. I’m glad it hurts. I want him to feel even a fraction of what I've felt.
"I hope you have a nice life, Kazimir," I spit out. "I hope you and Ilya are very happy together. I hope you never have to think about me again."
I turn and walk away, and this time, he doesn't follow.