10. Vasiliy
The girl’s teeth are chattering.
It’s incredibly irritating for several reasons. First, the vibrating rhythm is keeping me from the few hours of uninterrupted sleep I’m being afforded. They didn’t fuck me up too badly in the chair today, but my body needs to heal for whatever they have planned next.
Second, no matter how many times I remind myself of the likelihood of her turning out to be a spy or a plant, a genuine tinge of pity has been creeping in around the edges of my mind. I suppose Uncle’s right. I have gone soft if all it takes is a bit of shivering to break down my fortified walls.
Personally, I blame the performance.
Watching her dance felt a little too honest. It’s like when I reach the sweet spot of my interrogations, and the men in my chair crack open like a soft-boiled egg.
I no longer need to voice my questions—I can see the information, along with all the other bullshit that rots in the human mind. Fear. Love. Shame.
When she was dancing on that stage, her shell cracked open behind the tulle and spectacle, and there was only one thing underneath. A rarity. All I could see was anger, the type that burns into every gasp of air. The kind that singes my own lungs more nights than I’d like to admit.
Stop thinking about her.
She is the reason I’m in this mess to begin with. For once, this battle isn’t mine to fight.
A whimper pulls my attention. The room’s so quiet that the soft sound bounces along the walls in a teasing echo.
She’s still curled up on the far side of the cage where she fell asleep less than an hour ago.
It’s a skill to accurately mark the passing of time when you’re disoriented by darkness—one I mastered by the age of twelve.
I wonder how captivity feels for someone who dances under the lights every night for an enraptured audience.
I bet she’s never been shoved into the darkness a day in her life.
It doesn’t matter how she feels.
I can’t afford the consideration, no matter how benign it seems.
I pull a hand over my jaw, and dry blood flakes off my lip, fluttering to the ground. Usually, I’m excellent at maintaining my disinterested mask in unfavorable circumstances. I don’t know why she keeps chipping away at my composure.
Another whimper, this time followed by a high-pitched cry.
I hate the sound. It’s annoying. Distracting.
I tell myself that’s the reason why I climb to my feet and shrug off the stained button-down hanging off my shoulders. I have no idea where my overcoat is—the one I handed to her on the street. Maybe it’s still there, crumpled up on the sidewalk. Maybe Ivan will find it.
Unlikely.
I approach on soft feet, so as not to wake her. She’s completely unaffected by the weight of my shadow. Definitely dead in here. In fact, she’s so busy thrashing in her sleep, she doesn’t even wake as I slide the fabric around her bare arms and wrap her up.
Most of her dark red hair is still pulled back into a ponytail, but a few pieces curl free over her brow. The stark contrast between those rogue curls and her pale, freckled skin draws me closer. Her dark lashes flutter. What do you see when your eyes are closed, moya zlaya?
Suddenly, her mouth pulls open in a silent scream, face contorting into terror. My hand retracts.
I never remember whether you’re supposed to wake people up from their nightmares or let them fight it out on their own. Then again, I’d only be ending one nightmare by waking her with another.
I end up walking back to my spot on the other side of the cell and slumping to the floor. My skin prickles uncomfortably, but I’m not sure I can blame it all on the cold.
At least the chattering has stopped.