Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 74579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
"Take her to the cell," he barks out at a man standing behind him. I look with surprise when I recognize a man in his ranks. There's something about those eyes... he's dressed differently, and something is very off about the way he looks, but I know him. He's the only one whose eyes meet mine.
He isn't one of my father's men.
Who is he?
He steps into line with four men who come to take me. They're taking me to the cell, the place of Maksym's torture.
It's a terrible place laden with cursed memories. But it is the place where I first met Maksym. I refuse to believe there isn't meaning in that.
Maksym escaped.
And so will I.
I don't make eye contact with the man I recognize. If it's at all possible he's with Maksym and Demyan, I don't want to risk outing him.
Can he be?
But soon I can't focus, because fear grips me so hard when they bring me to the cell, this place where I've heard and witnessed unspeakable acts of violence. Fear claws at my chest, vicious and mercilessly.
I can't get away. They're going to do the terrible things to me they did to Maksym... to countless others. And I won't be able to escape.
My father is issuing orders in Russian, following the men as they take me with them. I trip as they lead me to the cell, but they quickly right me, strong arms on all sides holding me in a painful grip. I'm choking in fear, consumed with what they could do to me. This is the place where Maksym lost all hope. I've seen him wake in terror because of what he endured. They'll cuff me in the same cuffs they used on him, still coated in his blood.
Is he alive? Did he survive the gunshot wound? How will I ever find out?
They open the door to the cell and lead me in. Men are already assembled, all wearing the black clothing of The Thieves. It's so dark in here I can't see any of them. I don't want to. I know what their eyes hold. I know the cruelty they're capable of.
I catch the eye of the man I recognize, but his face remains impassive. Maybe he is the spy.
There is no hope for me. No one to come save me, because the one man who would was shot and could very well be dead right now. And even my father's men now have orders to hurt me.
"Find out everything she knows," my father says, meeting my eyes in undisguised hatred. "You're no better than your mother was. You deserve the same fate." He spits on the ground. "Fucking the enemy, Olena? As if I wouldn't find out?"
He shoves me in, and I fall, my knees scraping on the floor of the cell. The skin tears, and stinging pain radiates across my knees.
"I have nothing to tell you!" I yell, hoping to throw off at least some of his men. "They kept me prisoner. You can beat me, you can do whatever you want to me, but you won't be able to find out anything!"
They ignore me, lifting me to my feet and clasping my wrists in the cold, dirty shackles. It's dim in here and dank, the rotten scent of decay making my stomach churn with nausea.
The chain's strung high, so high I'm on my toes, my back stretched and neck craning. Vicious, cruel eyes meet mine as they assemble their tools. I can't look at the gleaming metal and sharpened weapons, torture devices meant to draw the truth out from unwilling victims.
"Remove her clothes," my father says.
I brace myself for the hands that come to me, but when they tear the fabric, I begin to tremble. Will he let his men rape me? He's already crossed a line no father ever should. To him, I'm a traitor. No longer his daughter. In his mind, the two are mutually exclusive.
They cut my top off me with knives because of my shackled wrists. My clothes lay in tatters on the floor around me, and I stand now in nothing but a slim pair of panties. I shake, closing my eyes. What will he force them to do?
The entire cell is filled with armed men. My father crosses the room and comes to me, grabbing my chin so hard between his thumb and forefinger my skin burns.
"Tell me what you know," he says.
I can handle whatever he does to me. I don't care anymore. I know I'm stronger than I ever suspected I could be. I've borne fear and pain and punishment. Whatever they do to me, they can't touch me now.
He can kill me if he wants to. He won't strip me of who I am. What I've forged through trials and pain.
You accept that death is inevitable. It's when you accept that you no longer fear the final blow.