Chapter 39
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Xeniya Morozova
Ten Years Ago
Iwas a ragdoll. Played with and propped up for the pleasure of men. A doll. A pretty broken thing.
I must have still been beautiful, despite being unable to see for myself.
The cult had no mirrors, and even if they did, it wouldn’t have mattered.
All of the men loved to comment on my looks and caress my curves.
They touched my face, neck, breasts, and lips.
They loved to mold me like clay and whisper their pleasure into my ears.
But since losing my northern light, I was a shell. I slept, I ate, I shit, and I repeated the cycle again and again. I endured.
Empty.
Hollow.
A vessel.
Day after day.
The world was a blur, and I didn’t even try to make sense of it. The light was too bright, and shapes had no edges.
I didn’t care. What would be the point of making sense of a senseless world?
“She’s catatonic,” one of the guards said as someone entered my cell. “She’s lost all her spark and all her life.” He let out a long sigh. “The men have been complaining.”
“Yes, I know.”
The voice hit like a dagger, and I scurried into the corner like a rat in a cage.
His voice. The Man in Black.
One of my worst tormentors. The man who stared at me until I couldn’t see anymore. The man who maimed me and broke me. The man who promised to one day kill me.
His cruelty was scarred across my irises. I’d never be able to forget what he did to me. His face haunted my nightmares and lived at the back of my corneas. He was the last man I’d seen. The one who ripped my soul out of my body and left me mangled and forever destroyed.
I’d never forget him.
Fear coiled around my throat like a snake. I wanted to scream and claw my way out of my cage, but I’d never be able to escape.
“Ah, she remembers you,” the guard said. “That’s the first sign of true lucidity in weeks.”
“Yes, My Little Dove will always know me.”
My nostrils flared, and I felt the cold concrete against the palms of my hands.
“Leave us.” His voice was the whisper of the devil.
I wanted to scream no, to run and try to get out, but my body was far too broken to escape or fight or do anything.
I blinked. A haze of black formed in front of me like ink spilling on a table.
“I’ve come to keep a promise, My Little Dove.” His warm hands cupped my face, the calluses on his fingers scratching against my cheeks. “The powers that be have finally approved your termination.”
“Please,” I croaked, my throat dry from disuse. But I didn’t even know what I was begging for. Death? Help? Salvation? I didn’t know. “Please.”
“Shhh,” he whispered into my hair. “Shh, I’m here to end your pain.”
I whimpered as he kissed the top of my head.
His hands left my face, and the weight of his body disappeared from in front of me.
I heard a metallic creak, then the sharp, echoing splashes of water hitting the clawfoot tub. It felt like the echo of thunderclaps. The water slammed against metal, again and again, until the sound dulled to a steady roar. But each drop of that water felt like a death knell in my coffin.
The blackness entered my field of vision again, and he said, “This will only prick a little bit.”
A sharp sting pierced my arm. Pressure followed, and the cold needle slid beneath my skin. The medicine entered my bloodstream like a punch.
I whimpered but didn’t beg anymore. There was no point in begging. I’d learned that long ago.
A slight weakness clawed at the edges of my muscles, but I still managed to keep myself steady as the man’s presence left me. Then I heard a sliding sound, like an avalanche on a mountain, and the crackling of ice as it hit water.
My muscles began to twitch, and I tried to curl my fingers into fists, but nothing happened.
I sucked in a breath and listened as he poured more ice into the water. I pinched my eyes shut for a moment, and then I knew.
He’d given me a paralytic drug, and it would be only moments before I lost control of all my muscles. There would be nothing I could do to stop his plans for me.
Eventually, my knees buckled like a marionette that had all its strings cut at once. I couldn’t catch myself, and I hit the floor with a thud.
“Oh, Little Dove, you’ve fallen.”
I felt the pressure of his hands beneath my knees and around my back. Carefully, he picked me up, walked me to the bath, and slowly placed me in the tub.
The moment my skin hit the water, I sucked in a breath, shock radiating through my bones. The water slid over me, the freezing ice stinging against my skin.
I let out a scream.
My teeth began to rattle, and my whole body shivered. The shaking was violent and unstoppable.
Tears rolled down my face, my limbs utterly useless to help me escape. I couldn’t do anything except feel the cold entering my every pore.
My sheer white dress clung to my pebbled nipples, and I could sense the Man in Black staring at them.
“You’re killing me?” I tried to ask, my tongue thick and heavy from the drugs.
“Yes.”
Short. Simple and horrifying. That horror climbed my ribcage one rib at a time.
“Why?” The word barely passed my lips.
“Because I can.” He stroked my cheek with the back of his fingers. “And because I always keep my promises.”
A trapped, haunted sound bubbled up in my throat.
“I think you shall be the first of my masterpieces. My first mannequin to craft and pose.” He stroked my face again. “And what a beautiful doll you make, My Little Dove. People will talk about your death and how I left your body for centuries to come… my Mona Lisa.”
I pinched my eyes shut as an animal-like keen rattled in my chest. I didn’t want to be a masterpiece. I just wanted peace. Freedom.
I wanted to see my twin again and my sister, who was my other half. I wanted a hug and family and comfort.
I wanted someone to say my name.
I didn’t want to be a toy or a lifeless body used for someone else’s glory.
Because all anyone would ever talk about would be him. Not me. Him.
His sickness.
I tried to open my eyes again, but my eyelids grew heavy and droopy. The blur thickened, and the light dimmed unevenly.
It wasn’t that cold anymore.
Not really.
Not so bad anymore.
The man spoke more words to me, but they blurred together like a modern-art splotch painting. Then I felt pressure at my lips, a tugging and a repeated prickling sensation, but I couldn’t tell you what it was.
I felt the same sensation on my back.
It could have been anything, but I knew it made my breathing harder. Then again, there wasn’t much use for breathing.
Heat pooled in my stomach. So hot. So damn hot, I wanted—no, I needed to take off all of my clothes, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t move.
My nostrils flared, and pain jolted my chest. I didn’t need anyone to tell me what was happening. One last foolish wish flickered inside me: to see his face. I wanted him to tell me it was all a bad dream.
That he still loved me.
Still wanted me.
I wanted Severin Volkov to take it all back.
I wanted him to say my name the way he used to.
But that was a fool’s dream. One last tear slipped free, and a cold hopelessness burrowed into my soul.
Perhaps I should just close my eyes and let it be over. Perhaps I should simply stop fighting.
No one was coming to save me.
I was being frozen to death.
What was left of my vision darkened to a smear. Sound flattened and ebbed. Then there was stillness and silence and one final regret. One last beat of my heart. One last rattle of breath, and then nothing.
Cold. Empty.
Death.