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1
LUNA
I’ve never felt safer.
I roll over and Yakov is lying on his side, smiling at me. It’s rare to see his full smile. The one that crinkles his eyes and makes my heart beat faster.
“You’ve been asleep for hours,” he whispers.
“How would you know? Have you been watching me?”
“Always.” He curls an arm around my stomach and tucks me into his embrace.
“You’re freezing!” I yelp. I try to scramble away from him, but he holds me tight against him. My body recoils at his touch even as goosebumps bloom across my skin. “Are you sick? Your hands are like ice cubes!”
"Everything is fine, Luna."
"I don't feel fine." I roll over, but the bed is empty now. I’m shivering, my teeth chattering as I call out for him. “Yakov? … Yakov?”
I wake myself up, Yakov’s name clawing its way out of my dry throat. My lips are stuck to my teeth and my tongue feels like a stone in my mouth. I’ve never been so thirsty in my entire life.
I must be sick. That’s why Yakov is taking care of me. Lying awake next to me.
Except… Yakov isn’t next to me.
I run my hands down my arms. My skin is rough with goosebumps and I’m naked except for my underwear.
My body protests as I sit up. My head swims and blackness creeps in on the edges of my vision. What is happening?
Then the room solidifies and I see the cement walls. The stained mattress under my pale legs. The barred cell door. The last few hours—days? weeks?—come back to me in a rush.
Mariya falling back into the grass, shot.
The hood they yanked over my eyes.
The zip-tie cutting into my wrists as I flopped around helplessly on the floor of a van.
Akim Gustev smiling at me.
More goosebumps prickle my skin at the memory of his dark black eyes and thin smile. I’m going to die in here. But first, I’m going to suffer.
My stomach lurches, but strength I didn’t know I had left propels me to the end of the bed. I lean over the rusted metal frame and retch. The last little bit of moisture left in my body rolls down my cheeks in the form of tears as my stomach tries again and again to empty itself.
But it’s already empty. It has been for a long time.
How long have I been here without food? Without water? I’m dehydrated and starving, but the fog in my head is from a lot more than that.
When my stomach settles, I flop back against the cement wall and think. I have a shifting, hazy memory of waking up to a needle in my arm…
The man holding the syringe was speaking Russian. He laughed as I slapped weakly at his hand. Then—darkness.
How many times have they drugged me since? How long have I been unconscious? What did they do to me while I was out? What if?—
Breathe.
I curl my arms around my middle and drop my forehead to my knees. Breathe. That’s it. Breathe. That’s the only thing that brings me peace—focusing on one breath in, one breath out, again and again. Eventually, the goosebumps ease and my heartbeat slows.
But I’m still curled up and still shivering when a door squeals and loud voices echo off of the cement.
